This is every fic I have ever written (and will ever write) on here and the links to them. It will be forever changing. Separated into category of fandom, each fandom will have two subcategories per character (if available): oneshots and multipart. I also have a category for Crossover fics, whether they’re multipart or not. The crossovers will be labeled by the fandoms included. Take note, these are all female characters bc I be ✨🌈lesbian🌈✨ and I write for the women lovers. (A lot of the time I find readers gender to be unspecified and it is noted in summaries and noted before the fic starts) IF a fic is NOT an x reader (not often), it will be labeled as such.
Heres my introduction post if you want to know a tiny bit about me and what I write.
Happy Reading!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the listed characters or fandoms.
I do not write smut.
Crossovers!
TLOU & Supergirl (no ship identified) : Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 (honestly, idk when this is coming) - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Finale
Supergirl:
Kara/Supergirl: Asexual reader - Sad boi song hours - Kara imagine - Winged reader (coming soon)
Alex Danvers: Tattooist -
Lena Luthor: Adopted teen reader - Nightmare
Series!:
The Last of Us:
Abby: Nightmare fic -
Ellie: Comforting Ellie -
Dina: I’m Always Right -
Series!:
Once Upon a Time:
Regina Mills: Diner Dreams - Halloween in Storybrooke
Snow/Mary Margaret: Women with Swords -
Series!:
Avengers:
Headcanon: You got into a fight -
Wanda Maximoff: CONFESS - Shadow - Shadow part 2 -
Natasha Romanoff:
Series!:
Resident Evil (Village):
Lady Alcina Dimitrescu: Beach getaway (coming soon!) -
Bela Dimitrescu:
Cassandra Dimitrescu:
Daniella Dimitrescu:
Donna Beneviento:
Mother Miranda:
Series!:
Here In House Dimitrescu (coming soon!) - Pt2 - Pt 3
Sprawled out on Kara’s couch as you waited for your girlfriend to arrive, you sipped from the bottle of alien beer, studying Kara thoughtfully.
“What do you think held her up?” you mused. “L-Corp disaster? A new assassination attempt? A phone call from her mother?”
“Ooh, what if she found a kitten or something? That’d be a nice change of pace.” Kara’s smile was hopeful, but you both knew it was as likely as Maxwell Lord suddenly becoming an alien—
The door swung open with a shove, bouncing off the wall and you both jumped to your feet, prepared for a fight only to see a fuming Lena storming into the apartment.
“Do you know what drives me fucking insane? When people get off the Tube and just stand there on their phones! Honestly, is it so hard to get out of the way?” Lena ranted, tossing her purse onto Kara’s kitchen island as she scoured Kara’s fridge for something strong that Alex probably left behind at the last game night.
You blinked slowly, staring at your girlfriend in confusion before a soft chuckle escaped. “The Tube, babe? I take it your uh… boarding school days are coming out, huh?” you teased.
She froze, bent over peering in the fridge, before slowly rising and glaring at you with that look—that look—that left your knees feeling like jelly and your heart racing, one brow arched like she was daring you to keep talking.
“Right now is not the time for this. Do you know how long I had to wait for some man to move out of my way? I had to say ‘excuse me’ six times before he got out of my way. So excuse me for calling it the “tube” instead of calling it the bloody awful rail system National City is so proud of.”
Her fury was apparent and really, you should’ve been comforting her and trying to soothe her anger, but as your mouth opened, you blurted—
“Rao, you’re so hot when your accent comes out…”
…there was a very audible “thwack” as Kara’s hand slammed into her forehead and you watched Lena’s brow arch a little higher, not amused by your lack of filter right this moment.
“That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” you mumbled to Kara from the corner of your mouth, eyes wide as you smiled weakly at your less than impressed girlfriend.
A near-death experience in the cold and the snow causes revelations about you to burn through Natasha's mind…
W.C: 3k
TW: swearing and near death experiences!
Natasha rarely failed at a mission, and when she did, it was always salvageable in some way or another. The consequences rarely affected her directly, and if they did, she’d still get through.
This time, however, she could feel the said consequences in the chill creeping up her spine, in the damp seeping into her feet and numbing every extremity. She didn’t have long left. Her energy was waning, and it was becoming difficult to move. Soon, frostbite would take its hold, sacrificing a limb at a time until the blood froze in her veins and her heart stopped pumping.
She’d racked her brains for every ounce of training, mentally replaying each lesson and experience, but found her preparation for this situation sorely lacking. Natasha had done everything she could. She’d done well to even last this long.
And as her internal organs started to shut down, her brain falling into a freezing fog and quelling down the sense of panic at the prospect of death, she would refuse to admit this was a failure. Natasha had lived longer than she’d expected. During her time at the Red Room, every day felt like her last. Following graduation, each mission risked a swift and merciless end. Her recent role as an Avenger only heightened this possibility. No. Natasha hadn’t failed…
Her eyes had been screwed shut for longer than she could remember, and the snow pelting her face had long since lost its effect. As she huddled, knees to her chest to preserve any remaining body heat, the crude attempt at a shelter collapsing all around her, she realised she felt suddenly warm. Burning up. This was it, the final stage of freezing to death. Yet, she ignored all her mind told her to do, remaining as still as the icicles forming all around her.
And then.
“Natasha!”
A voice on the breeze. A hallucination, surely. Some kind of religious relief beckoning her to the afterlife, hopefully.
“Nat!”
It was familiar to her, but her muddled mind couldn’t quite place why. All sense told her not to move, though curiosity peeked through her survival instincts. Natasha cracked open an eye, feeling like it was defrosting despite the cold air now brushing its surface.
A figure moving towards her. Black against the white snow. A blur of motion. But most importantly, real.
The figure approached her at an urgent pace, snow sent flying all around them as they trudged through the knee-high white blanket. The figure crouched down in front of her, hands reaching out to touch her shoulders, imploring her to move. The touch filled her with life, not warmth, but a cold shake that reminded her she was still alive.
Both her eyes were open now, blinking away the doziness.
“Nat, please. Say something. Do something. Anything.”
The figure was out of breath, fear filling their eyes as they regarded her. God, she must’ve looked rough. She wished colour would return to her cheeks so that they would not be so concerned. Willing her lips to move sent sparks of pain scattering across the surface of her skin, but something deep inside her chest told her she had to reply. Had to soothe your worry.
“I…” Her lips numb, her voice cracking.
You stared at her pleadingly, caringly. Natasha wished she could remember the details lingering just out of her periphery. Deep down, she knew who you were, why you were here, but her brain wasn’t functioning properly.
“Thank you.” Was all she managed instead, watching tears pool in the corner of your eyes and hoping the liquid wouldn’t freeze there.
“Come on.” You moved abruptly, further than she had dared to venture.
She was jealous of how easily movement came to you. Her limbs were stiff, forcing her to be still and save energy. But she trusted you, noticing the care with which you laced your arm under her own, hauled her up from the cold, soft ground, and into the harsh beating of the wind. In the distance, a helicopter, its propellers spinning in a blur of grey, whipping the snow into a frenzy. Finally, her instincts kicked in as she lunged towards it.
“One step at a time.” You chided beside her, rushing forward for support. Without you, she would have fallen straight to the ground. If she did, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get up again.
Each slow step forward was painfully cold, each muscle aching from the endless shivering. You were practically holding her up.
“God, I don’t know how you survived this long…” You murmured. “But not long now, not much further.”
And you were right. A few more stumbling steps that felt like a lifetime, and she was crashing against the vehicle, fingers tense against the cool metal surface. You lifted her up, guided her from hands and knees to collapse against a seat- warm and soft. There was a slam that made her jump as you tugged the door shut, and then, a gentle whirring sound as the helicopter kicked into life.
“How the fuck is she alive?” Another voice, a man’s from the pilot’s cockpit, barely audible.
Natasha was unwilling to grace him with an answer, even if she was mildly offended at the disbelief in his voice. It hadn’t been that long, had it? There was a brush against her ears as she realised you were tugging a pair of headphones over her ears, protecting her from the deafening roar as you took off. She wanted to thank you again, but the heat circulating inside stung her, silenced her.
“Just get us out of here!” was your eventual response, shrill through the microphone, laced with frustration.
“Alright. It’s about a half an hour journey back to base.”
True to his word, the ground was growing further away out the window, transforming into a white blur below. Her sanctuary for the last day was disappearing from view, and Natasha found herself suddenly unmoored. Flashes of memories filtered back into her consciousness, each one a new form of nightmare. The HYDRA base they had been investigating out in the wilderness turned out to be a trap. Natasha’s partners on the mission hadn’t gotten away in time, and she had no choice but to flee, pursued by HYDRA agents further and further into the vast wintry desert. There hadn’t been time to note the direction or distance of travel.
Lost soon became an understatement... But now, the scream of the helicopter’s engine rang in her ears, a stark reflection of the other agent’s final moments. It had been hellish. Her chest hung low with a sense of failure.
Yet, one memory brought back a sense of safety: you. Natasha remembered being endlessly grateful that you hadn’t been selected for this mission. She had a bad feeling about it from the start, proven correct in her instincts. Now, sitting beside her, your gaze was fixed on the window, but she could see you chewing your lip anxiously.
Natasha was tired, but most importantly, she was safe. As sleep began to take its hold, she felt herself leaning into your side. You jolted at first, then, feeling her relax against you, encircled an arm around her waist and held her there tightly.
~~~
The crackling of the fireplace was mesmerising, a warmth reflected in the amber of Natasha’s drink, equally as warming when she tossed back another mouthful. Stark had insisted that escaping near death was drink worthy, even if her eyes were threatening to close with every blink. Snow continued to fall outside the large windows, visible now even long after the sun had set.
Being on the inside looking out was a lot more pleasant than freezing to death, she mused.
While conducting a search party for Natasha, SHIELD had taken over a local ski resort. It was a big empty place, and yet it wasn’t cavernous or cold. The wooden structure perpetuated a homely feel, and the marble floors adorned with large Persian rugs suggested it was usually a retreat for the wealthy. A selection of worn leather armchairs and tattered sofas- the kind you simply melted into- were all arranged around the grand fireplace. There was a reception desk in her periphery, marking it as the foyer.
She had been directed to her private room earlier, normally a suite for some ungrateful millionaire. The bed there was much fancier than the freezing cold ground, the large quilted duvet more appealing than the blanket of snow she had suffered the last few days. She would’ve been perfectly content to collapse and recuperate in there. Alas, the entire Avengers team had opted to pause whatever they were doing and join SHIELD in searching for her. Natasha reluctantly admitted she was touched by the thought.
The SHIELD brigade had since packed up following her return to civilisation, efficient as always. Thus, the building was as drained of life as Natasha felt, leaving only herself, Tony, Bruce, Clint and Y/N to make use of the fireplace. Conversation had dwindled a few minutes ago, melting into a comforting exhaustion. The sensation of sitting down after a long day, knowing that you wouldn’t have to get up again... Except it hadn’t just been a long day. It had been ten days. Natasha had lost all pretence of time out there in the wilderness.
A thorough examination by the top SHIELD medics showed the toll it had taken on her body, and she set herself the task of not dwelling on it, so that her mind would not follow suit.
That exclamation of, “How the fuck is she alive?” was beginning to make a lot more sense.
Reminded of the journey back, Natasha glanced to her left. You were sharing the same sofa, leaning on the far-left side, closer to the fire. Your gaze was determinedly fixed on the fireplace, an attempt to seem nonchalant, but Natasha could see how this was merely an act. Your brow was furrowed, hands were clasped so tightly around a glass that she could see the strained outline of your knuckles poking through your skin.
Apparently, having noticed her staring, you cleared your throat.
“I think I’m going to head to bed.” You started gathering yourself together, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
“Alright...” Bruce was the first to answer.
The rest all watched you stand in a pensive silence. You were often the first to join and the last to leave, basking in the rare time you all got sat together. You were usually chatty, reserved, but funny. Tonight you had been mute.
“Night, guys. Don’t stay up too late.” You appeared to sweep across the room with an easy smile, bidding everyone goodnight, but again you remained unfocused. Your smile was forced.
There was a general murmured response, and then you were gone. Footsteps echoed through the main lobby, and somewhere in the distance, the gentle click of a door shutting. The air besides Natasha was cooler now. She shivered, shuffling closer to the fire, feeling the warmth of where you had been sitting.
“You know…” Clint began, then trailed off, a sheepish expression about him. “Y/N was the last one looking for you.” He confessed suddenly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he continued watching the fire dance and crackle.
Natasha’s lips drew into a taut line as she considered his words, the implication behind them.
Tony nodded, prompting Clint to continue.
“Long after we all thought you were dead. You should’ve been dead.” Clint ranted, assuaging his own guilt more than anything. “I mean, all the experts SHIELD brought in were telling us to presume you were dead. The odds of surviving out there… in those conditions… Well, one in a million…” He fell quiet again.
“Point is,” Tony leaned forward in his seat, catching Natasha’s full attention. “Y/N never stopped looking for you. We were all starting to pack up, and meanwhile, she was bribing a SHIELD pilot to fly her out for one more day. I mean, that’s probably why she’s so exhausted now… When have we known Y/N to be the first one to go to bed?”
Despite everything, Natasha smiled at this.
Being rescued was a hazy memory already, filed away into the part of her brain under lock and key- not to be touched unless absolutely necessary. But in the field of static white, she remembered you. The full black tactical suit a stark contrast against the snow. She ached then with the cold, and now at the concern in your expression. To have caused you such fear, that was Natasha’s greatest failure. Not the mission. Not the near-death experience. But the thought of harming you. The regret that she might’ve died without…
Her brain ground to a halt. She wouldn’t let herself get swept away in such imaginings.
The group had fallen silent again, but now, the pressure of several weighted gazes was resting upon her. She knew what realisation they were trying to push her towards. For all Clint’s hints, for Tony’s teasing and Bruce’s confused stares, none of them were subtle people. Surely, for them to not only notice how Natasha felt about you, but also to push her towards some bigger picture meant you must feel the same?
Natasha found herself sweating. The fire was too hot, the sofa beneath her too soft, and her friend’s persistence too much to handle.
“Well, it’s just as hard being the rescued as it is the rescuer.” She joked. No one reacted.
“I’m going to bed, too.” Natasha stood up, her bones aching from the recent strain. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
If anyone bid her goodnight, she didn’t hear it.
Apart from Tony settling back into the armchair with a sigh, and a murmured, “go get ‘em, tiger.”
At first, Natasha truly did mean to head to her bedroom, but her legs didn’t seem to carry her that way. The gentle sound of a door clicking was a subtle cue, but sufficient to make a gamble as to which room you were staying in. She paced down the corridor, purposefully neglecting to switch on any lights until she saw it: a gentle golden glow emanating from the crack beneath one of the doors. Your bedroom.
She halted in front of it. Gulped and tapped her knuckles against the wood. Two sharp, distinct knocks. Her mind hadn’t quite caught up with her actions yet, but it was too late for change, and too early for regret. All she wanted, all she needed, was you.
A second later, and the door creaked open, your face peeking through the gap. Illuminated by the warm bedside lamp, your face was glowing with a frustration that immediately melted to concern upon realising it was Natasha on the other side.
“Are you okay?” You swung the door open the rest of the way, allowing Natasha to notice that you had changed into pyjamas. Her heart involuntarily skipped a beat, and she found herself unable to answer. Her mouth was dry as she traced over the comfortable, informal clothing. It was a glimpse of you she rarely saw. “Nat?” You called, frown lines deepening.
“Uh, yeah.” Natasha shook her head and clasped her hands together in front of her. You observed every moment closely, as a trained agent should, to look for any sign of weakness. Or in this case, any pain that she might show to justify your concern. “I just didn’t want to be alone.” Natasha’s voice was low, her head bowed slightly.
Nerves weren’t something Natasha gave into often. Even on death’s door, she had felt largely calm. But now, with you standing before her, open and warm, it took everything in her not to shake. The air in the corridor was cold, and snow still fell outside.
“Of course,” you jolted into action, stepping aside, “come in.”
Entering your room was easy, one foot over the threshold at a time. Though it did nothing to lessen her nerves. If anything, they were heightened by your proximity. Liking someone wasn’t a sensation Natasha had ever experienced, let alone given in to. It was all unfamiliar territory. Yet, with you, warm familiarity bloomed throughout her body, soothed the aches in her muscles and the chill from her bones.
“Sit down.” You inclined your head towards your bed.
Natasha’s mouth was dry as she followed the instructions, perched tense on the far end. You sat next to her, slowly, softly. Natasha’s eyes darted up to you, oh so close, and if her gaze lingered on your lips for a beat too long, you didn’t mention it.
“I would ask if you’re alright, but I think I know the answer.” You muttered, unwilling to tear your eyes away from Natasha’s.
She smiled. “I’m better now.”
You mirrored the expression, then lowered your hands to the bed and scooted closer to her. Warmth always radiated from human contact, but yours was special.
You seemed to read her mind, your smile widening. “Warm enough?” You asked.
Natasha nodded. “Definitely…” More silence, and then, a gentle confession wormed its way from Natasha’s heart to the very tip of her tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, but the smile didn’t drop from your lips. “That’s alright. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
You raised a hand, and Natasha noted how you trembled, barely dared to breathe as it drew closer to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned in, seeking more of that addictive heat you always radiated. Cold air was replaced by your lips, warm against her own. You huffed out a breath through your nose, a sigh of warm air fanning across her face. She brought her own hand to grasp your waist, fingers running along a sliver of warm skin there. Her stomach was twisting, burning in just the right way as the kiss deepened.
And there, surrounded by your heat, Natasha wondered how she had ever felt cold.
Summary: After you get hurt on a mission is when Yelena realises shes acting weird. Even worse, she likes you
Warnings: Blood, gunshot injuries, grenade
---
The safehouse smelled like antiseptic, burnt coffee, and gun oil.
You were pretty sure that was going to permanently become the scent of your life now.
“Do not move.”
Yelena’s voice came sharp from somewhere near your shoulder. A second later, cold fingers pressed against your side again, and pain split through your ribs hard enough to make you hiss.
“I wasn’t moving,” you muttered.
“You were thinking about moving.”
“I think about lots of things.”
“Yes. Terrible habit.”
You glanced up from the bed you’d been patched onto. Yelena sat on the chair in front of you, one knee propped up, med kit spread around her like she was performing surgery in a war zone instead of a dingy apartment in Latvia.
Her blonde braid hung over one shoulder. There was dried blood on the sleeve of her tactical shirt — yours, probably. A bruise purpled the edge of her jaw.
She looked furious.
Which was confusing.
You’d only joined the Thunderbolts three months ago. You were still the newest one there, still getting weird looks from Walker, still getting evaluated by Bucky every five minutes like he expected you to explode. You and Yelena got along fine — sarcastic comments, occasional shoulder shoves, one memorable argument over instant ramen preparation — but not close-close.
Certainly not close enough for her to practically carry you out of a collapsing building after you got shot.
You still remembered it too clearly.
The mission had gone bad fast. HYDRA remnants, bad intel, too many exits not covered. You’d taken a bullet through the side trying to get Yelena behind cover after a grenade rolled too close.
And afterward—
Yelena kneeling over you in the rubble, eyes wide.
Actually wide.
“Hey,” you’d slurred. “You look… scary.”
“You are bleeding everywhere.”
“Yeah. That usually happens.”
Then she’d cursed in Russian so violently you were fairly certain nearby ghosts got offended.
Now, six hours later, she was still hovering.
It made no sense.
“You are staring,” Yelena said without looking up.
You blinked. “Sorry.”
“No, is okay. I am very pretty.”
Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. “There she is.”
She snorted softly, but it disappeared almost immediately. Her hands slowed while wrapping fresh bandages around your ribs.
Too careful.
Yelena Belova was many things. Efficient. Brutal. Weirdly competitive about hot sauce tolerance.
Careful wasn’t one of them.
“You can go sleep, you know,” you said quietly. “I’m not dying anymore.”
“I know.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
There was a beat.
“…Why?”
That finally made her look at you.
Blue eyes. Exhausted. Annoyed.
Something else underneath.
“I do not know,” she said honestly.
And somehow that was worse.
Because if she’d laughed it off, or brushed you away, or said something casual, maybe your stupid heart would stop doing this awful hopeful thing every time she looked at you.
But this?
This strange intensity?
It felt dangerous.
You looked away first.
“Oh.”
Yelena’s brows pulled together immediately, like she’d heard something wrong in your voice.
The apartment radiator clanged somewhere in the distance.
Yelena finished securing the bandage, but her hands stayed resting lightly against your side. Warm through your shirt.
You tried very hard not to think about it.
Failed horribly.
“You were stupid today,” she said suddenly.
You laughed weakly. “That’s your big emotional speech?”
“You jumped in front of grenade.”
“It wasn’t a grenade.”
“Explosive device. Same thing.”
“You would’ve done the same for me.”
“No.”
You finally looked back at her.
She was already looking at you.
“I would have killed them before they got close,” she corrected.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Right. Of course.”
“But—” she hesitated.
Actually hesitated.
“I did not like seeing you hurt.”
Your chest tightened painfully for reasons that had nothing to do with the bullet wound.
“Oh.”
“There is the sad oh again.”
You swallowed. “Sorry.”
Yelena leaned back slightly, studying you with that unnervingly sharp assassin focus.
“You think I do not care about you.”
You nearly choked on air. “What? No.”
“You are bad liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You avoid eye contact. Very dramatic. Like wounded Victorian child.”
Despite everything, you barked out a laugh.
Yelena looked pleased for approximately half a second before the confusion returned.
“I do not understand this,” she admitted quietly.
Your smile faded.
“Understand what?”
She gestured vaguely between the two of you like the answer should be obvious.
“This.”
Your heart began beating way too hard for someone recovering from blood loss.
“Oh.”
“There it is again.”
“Yelena…”
“I keep wanting to check if you are okay.” Her voice had gone strangely frustrated now. “I keep thinking about stupid things. If you ate. If your stitches reopened. If you are sleeping enough. It is very annoying.”
You stared at her.
Because Yelena sounded genuinely inconvenienced by her own feelings.
“I do not do this with anyone,” she continued. “Not even Alexei, and he cries dramatically if left alone too long.”
A nervous laugh escaped you. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”
“Neither do I.” She frowned harder. “This is why feelings are terrible.”
You looked down at your hands.
Because this was dangerous territory now. The kind where hope could ruin you.
Quietly, you said, “You don’t have to force yourself to feel something just because I got hurt.”
Yelena immediately looked offended.
“I am not forcing anything.”
“I know, but—”
“You think I am pitying you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
You’d spent weeks carefully swallowing this thing down — every smirk she aimed at you, every accidental touch, every late-night conversation in quinjet cargo holds.
You knew better than to fall for someone emotionally unavailable and heavily armed.
But apparently your heart was an idiot.
“You don’t like me like that,” you said finally, trying to sound casual.
Yelena stared at you blankly.
“…Like what?”
Oh god.
Oh, this was humiliating.
You rubbed a hand over your face. “Forget it.”
“No. Explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“Explain or I will wake Walker and tell him you cried during Top Gun.”
“You are a menace.”
“Yes. Explain.”
You groaned softly, then instantly regretted it because ribs.
Yelena immediately leaned forward again. “See? Pain. This is because you avoid communication.”
“You’re literally the worst person to give emotional advice.”
“I did not say I was good at it.”
Another silence.
Then, carefully, you said, “I like you.”
Yelena blinked once.
You kept going before you could lose your nerve.
“And I know you don’t feel the same way, so this whole… whatever this is? It’s confusing me a little.”
For a second, Yelena just stared.
Then:
“Oh.”
You looked at her suspiciously. “That’s my line.”
“No, because now I am having strange realization.”
Your stomach flipped.
Yelena sat there motionless for several long seconds, processing with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
Then she said slowly, “I threatened a nurse because she touched your arm too hard.”
“…You did what?”
“In my defense, she was very rough.”
You stared.
Yelena stared back.
And then, very abruptly, she put both hands over her face.
“Oh my god,” she muttered through her fingers in horrified realization. “I am in love with you.”
The room went dead silent.
You blinked.
“…What?”
She dropped her hands just enough for you to see her expression — equal parts betrayed and disgusted with herself.
“This is terrible.”
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.
Yelena pointed at you accusingly. “Do not laugh. I am having emotional crisis.”
“You just said you love me like you were diagnosed with a disease.”
“Because this is worse. Bullets I understand. This?” She gestured violently at her chest. “Disgusting.”
You were laughing harder now despite the pain, clutching your ribs while Yelena glared at you with absolutely no real heat behind it.
Then her expression softened.
Tiny.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
"I am going to have a talk to Barnes"
And with that she had basically bolted out of the room, which had you overthinking. Did she actually love you? What did she want to talk to Bucky about?
—
It was past midnight when your bedroom door creaked open.
You sat up immediately.
Yelena stood there awkwardly holding a plastic grocery bag.
For an assassin, she was remarkably bad at dramatic entrances.
“Hi,” you said softly.
“Hi.”
She stayed near the door.
Like approaching too quickly might scare you off.
You tried not to read into that.
“I brought…” She frowned into the bag. “These stupid gummy things you like.”
Your lips twitched. “The sour ones?”
“Yes. They smell toxic.”
“You bought me toxic candy. Romance is alive.”
The joke slipped out before you could stop it.
Yelena went still.
“Right,” you said quickly. “Sorry.”
But then—
“I spoke to Barnes.”
“Oh?”
“He said I am idiot.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He also said running away from feelings is ‘emotionally constipated behavior.’”
You snorted.
Yelena rubbed a hand over her face.
“I do not understand this,” she admitted. “I understand guns. And knives. And how to remove spleen through someone’s mouth probably.”
“…Probably?”
“But this?” She gestured angrily to herself. “This is terrible.”
You smiled despite yourself.
She looked at you then.
Really looked.
And all the sharp edges in her expression softened into something terrifyingly vulnerable.
“You almost died,” she said quietly.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
Your smile faded.
“I’m okay.”
“I know.” Her voice dropped lower. “But for five minutes, I thought maybe you would not be.”
The honesty in it hit harder than anything else had tonight.
“And I realized…” She exhaled shakily. “Nothing has ever scared me like that.”
You couldn’t speak.
Yelena stepped closer.
“I do not know how to do this properly,” she confessed. “But I know I want you near me all the time. I know I look for you first in every room. I know hurting you feels like someone is peeling my organs out with spoon.”
“That’s… weirdly sweet.”
“Thank you.”
“And graphic.”
“I am trying.”
You laughed softly.
Then her expression faltered again.
“But if you do not want—”
You cut her off by grabbing the front of her shirt and kissing her.
Yelena made a startled noise against your mouth.
Then immediately kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.
Like she’d been holding it in for months.
When you finally pulled apart, she stared at you with wide blue eyes.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
“Oh, this is why people write songs.”
You burst out laughing, and she joined in.
When the laughter died down, Yelena looked at you like she still didn’t fully understand what she was feeling, only that it scared her.
And maybe that should’ve terrified you too.
Instead, your chest ached warmly. You patted the empty space on the bed next to you.
She climbed into your bed like she belonged there. Carefully avoiding your injuries.
Instinctively.
Without thinking.
You reached out carefully, brushing your fingers against hers.
Yelena looked down at your hand like it was another unexploded bomb.
“…This is still very embarrassing for me,” she warned.
You smiled softly. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“But you love me?”
She sighed heavily, deeply offended by the universe.
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
You laughed again, but she moved in just a bit closer.
Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader
Link to Part One [x]
[A/N] Okay so a few of you weren't happy with Part One's ending 😂 Including my bestie who came to see me that night and was like 'you can't just end it like that!?' So I've written a Part Two, hope you all enjoy 😘
It doesn’t take long for the other Avengers to realise that something happened between you and Yelena. Both of you avoid each other like the plague. If Yelena comes into the gym and finds you’ve already begun your workout she quickly leaves, even if it means she can’t start her own workout until far later in the day. If you’re hungry and find Yelena in the kitchen, you head back to your room and try to ignore your rumbling stomach until you’re sure the coast is clear. One night you even thought ‘fuck it’ and went out for food because you were too hungry to wait.
Ava despairs, “Will you two just kiss and get it over with already? Y/N joined the team months ago and I still haven’t had my girl’s night.”
“Not everything is about you and what you want,” Yelena snaps. “Besides, she doesn’t like me like that.”
“How do you know though? Did she tell you that?”
“Yes.”
Well, you hadn’t exactly said that you didn’t like her but then you hadn’t needed to. Yelena had been able to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t like she blamed you – she often didn’t like herself either. Why would anyone as kind and bubbly as you be interested in someone like her? Besides, you wouldn’t have worked out in the long run. Your sunny personality would begin to irritate Yelena. That’s what she told herself in any case.
Ava raises her eyebrows, not taking Yelena at her word. It had taken her a while to get used to Yelena’s half-truths, and she wasn’t convinced. If you genuinely weren’t interested then Ava knows you would’ve been kind about it, and that you would’ve still wanted to be Yelena’s friend. There was no reason the two of you should be avoiding each other so diligently. It was starting to get on her nerves.
“Why don’t we do something tonight? Just you and me?” Ava suggests.
Yelena agrees without hesitation. She’d known how much Ava had been longing for those ‘girl’s nights’ – Yelena understood better than anyone how it felt to crave normalcy. Although Yelena had spent every night falling asleep in a dormitory filled with other girls, she couldn’t exactly say that she’d ever been to a sleepover or a slumber party as other young girls had done. Instead of popcorn and giggling, there’d been handcuffs and suppressed tears. Not quite the same.
Ava’s experiences hadn’t been quite that bad, but she’d never had a sleepover either. All she wanted was to sit with other girls, apply face masks, paint each other nails, discuss boys – all things Ava probably wouldn't normally do in a million years but did it hurt to want to be a typical teenager for just one night? You could all watch a chick flick; Ava has a list a mile long of movies she wants to watch. And Yelena’s all too aware that she’s the one barring her from making that dream a reality.
“What were you thinking?” Yelena asks. “We could go out-”
“No, I was thinking a night in could be fun. Meet me in my room at seven.”
At seven on the dot Yelena turns up at Ava’s bedroom, wanting to show the other woman that she is still her friend, even if things are strange between you and Yelena right now. Ava answers, running a brush absentmindedly through her hair, “Hey! I’ve picked out a movie. I think I saw some wine in the storage cupboard on the seventh floor. Do you mind grabbing a bottle? I’m nearly ready.”
Yelena nods readily, heading down to the seventh floor. The storage ‘cupboard’ on seventh is like a small room, filled with shelves. Valentina had hired all sorts of people to work within the Avengers Tower, so it was always readily stocked up. Usually with supplies, like first aid or canned food in case of any type of emergency but Yelena supposes there could be a wine bottle down there.
It takes Yelena longer than it should have to figure out what was going on. Perhaps living with people she’d begun to consider family had made her less prone to putting her guard up. Her eyebrows raise when she finds you in the storage cupboard, bent over and shifting through the lower shelves. “What are you doing in here?”
The question comes out of her mouth before she can stop herself. You look up, surprised to see her. “Ava sent me down here.”
Of course. Just as Yelena is about to turn to leave, she feels someone shove her into the cupboard and the door is slammed shut behind her. Both of you hear the click of the lock and you jump to your feet. Before either of you can react, Ava appears in the room, having phased through the door. “Very funny,” Yelena says dryly. “Let us out.”
“No, not until the two of you stop acting weird around each other,” Ava insists. “It’s up to you when you come out. You can stay in here an hour or all night, makes no difference to me.”
“Ava, come on, just let us out,” You say. “This is stupid-”
“No what’s stupid is you two avoiding each other like you’re infectious. Sort it out and I’ll let you out.”
Before either of you can protest further Ava vanishes and Yelena groans, punching the door with a clenched fist. It hurts like Hell given the door is made of steel, but Yelena doesn’t let on. “Can we get out?” You ask anxiously.
“What do you think?” Yelena snaps.
It hadn’t taken Yelena long to do a quick scan of the room. Getting the door open was a non-starter, it locked from the outside with no mechanism to unlock it from the inside – a major safety issue, in hindsight, that she’d have to bring to someone’s attention later on. Even if Yelena had a hairpin on her, there was no way to pick the lock. There was no other exit from the room. You were both stuck here until Ava decided to let you out.
You bang on the door, calling out, “Ava! Let us out! Anyone, let us out!”
“There’s no reason for anyone else to be on the seventh floor,” Yelena says in an infuriatingly calm voice. “No one’s going to hear us. Ava’s probably gone. She’ll be back to check on us later, make sure we’ve… Talked or whatever the Hell it is that she wants.”
“What if something happens to her and no one knows we’re in here? We could be stuck in here for-”
“If something happened to Ava and they realised we were missing; they’d check the cameras. We’re not going to die in here so will you relax?”
An awkward silence falls over the two of you, like a thick fog. Yelena stares at you, her mouth set in a stubborn line. If Ava’s goal is to get you both to talk, then she’s not going to cave first. You’d already heard too much from her, things that you weren’t meant to. It makes Yelena’s cheeks burn as she imagines you overhearing her telling Ava that she has feelings for you. She’s not sure how much you heard but clearly, you’d heard enough. It made Yelena feel too bare, naked, every time she thought about it.
You don’t say anything either which surprises her though she carefully hides it. Even though she’s been avoiding you, Yelena feels like she always hears your voice drifting down the corridors of the Avengers Tower. You’re always laughing and joking with someone, everyone loves you. Now that you’re alone with Yelena, you have nothing to say.
Slowly you sink to the floor and bury your face in your hands. Yelena watches you for a moment before taking a seat herself. The cupboard is small but there’s enough room for you to both comfortably sit without touching.
“If only Ava hadn’t been lying about the wine,” Yelena eventually offers, unsure on why she caved first and spoke.
You look up, glancing at her before giving a tired smile, “I know. If I’d known I could’ve packed us a picnic.”
“Would’ve picked something warmer to wear too.”
Yelena notices that she’s not the only one in her pyjamas – clearly, you’d been taken in by Ava’s suggestion of a night in, just the two of you as well. At least Yelena isn’t the only one who’d been tricked, not that that made her any happier. That awkward silence makes a reappearance as you both look around the small storage unit. It’s been a while since the last stock up. Most things had been cleared out after that mission last week.
“I don’t even really like wine,” You say after a few minutes.
“Honestly? Me neither. I prefer vodka. Though technically I’m trying to stop-” Yelena cuts herself off. She doesn’t want to get into her struggles with alcohol right now. Things are awkward enough as it is.
“I probably shouldn’t drink either; I only end up regretting it the next day.” You glance at her, wringing your hands nervously. “I miss being your friend, Yelena.”
She rolls her eyes, “Don’t say that.”
“Well, I do. I don’t know what I did but-”
“You didn’t do anything. You’re just perfect, aren’t you? You came in here and charmed everyone-”
“Apart from you, apparently.”
Yelena scoffs, mumbling something in Russian. “I just… Fine. This is so dumb, and I’m going to kill Ava later but… I’m embarrassed about what you heard in the gym, okay?”
“I thought you said I didn’t hear anything.”
“Well obviously you did. I don’t know how much or what exactly- But clearly you heard me say something which you weren’t meant to.”
“I know, I felt awful about it,” You say. “For what it’s worth, I left immediately. Once I realised what you were talking about. I didn’t linger; I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hear anything. I’m sorry.”
Your apology only makes her feel worse and she looks up at the ceiling, wishing there was some kind of hatch so she could crawl out of this cupboard, and away from this conversation. Her fingers tap against her knee and she mumbles, “Well, I’m sorry. For making you uncomfortable.”
Your eye-brows furrow. “I never said I was uncomfortable.”
“Well, clearly you were given you came to tell me you weren’t interested and now you avoid me-”
“What are you talking about?”
Yelena is momentarily taken aback at the sheer astonishment in your voice. “When… You came to find me in my room-”
“You really thought- I came to ask you on a date! And then you went all weird, getting snippy with me and telling me that I hadn’t heard anything. Or that if I had it was wrong. And you- Well, you’re scary Yelena! I just decided to leave you to it.”
The cupboard goes quiet again. Yelena avoids your gaze, as she looks back towards the ceiling. “I didn’t want to like girls,” She quietly offers. “Maybe that’s not right but I… In the Red Room, I remember being so ashamed. There weren’t really any men for the girls to fall for and we were taught not to have such feelings but there was this one girl. Older than me, I didn’t see her very often. I would think about her at night-” Yelena cuts herself off quickly, glancing at you out of the corner of your eye.
“Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong when people share stories like that,” You say. “Not that I’m saying- I’m glad you shared that with me, really I am. But being gay wasn’t something I ever tried to push out of my mind or that I ran from. I don’t even really have a coming out story. My Mom asked me when I was going to bring a boy home, I told her if I brought anyone home it would be a girl and she just said okay. Sometimes I forget it’s not the same for everyone else. Then I feel like an imposter because it was so easy for me. Which I know is a privileged position to be in.”
“Did you ever bring a girl home?”
You shake your head, “No. I’ve never dated anyone, boy or girl. I’ve felt attraction obviously. Mostly for celebrities. It’s hard enough, not knowing if people you meet will feel the same way. But realising they might hate me for my feelings… That does make it hard.”
“I never dated either. Even when I… When I was able to confront my feelings and I realised I like girls, and accepted it. I just figured I was too broken to love.”
“We all love you Yelena,” You say. “Alexei, Ava, Bob… Me. We all love you.” Yelena scoffs again, looking away. You wring your hands again before sighing, “I really did come to ask you on a date, Yelena. And even if you don’t want to date me, I don’t want us to avoid each other anymore.”
“I don’t want that either,” Yelena admits.
“Can we start again then?” You ask. “I’d like to take you out. On a proper date.”
Yelena looks at you, meeting your gaze. You’re kind, probably the kindest person that she’s ever met. You shouldn’t get involved with someone like her. Yelena can’t bear this anymore though – avoiding you has been too difficult, and she can’t deny her feelings anymore. “Yeah,” She mumbles. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
You reach out and Yelena’s eye-brows furrow as you take her hand in yours. It feels nice, even though Yelena’s not entirely sure what to do. After a long moment she moves, positioning herself next to you and you both lean your backs against the door, holding onto each other’s hand. “Where are you going to take me?” Yelena asks. “On our date?”
“Coney Island,” You reply without hesitation. “We’re gonna go on the ferris wheel, and I’m gonna hold your hand again.”
Yelena can't help smiling as she imagines it. Had she ever been on a ferris wheel before? She’s not sure that she has. Going on one with you for the first time seems like a good idea and for the first time in a long time, she feels excited. Nervous but very excited. You lean your head on Yelena’s shoulder and she leans her head on yours as you both wait for Ava to come back and let you out, the silence now warm and comfortable. Maybe Yelena will have to buy Ava a drink sometime. Or at the very least, finally give her that girl’s night she’s been longing for.
Hiii! Happy Valentines day, could I do a request for Yelena belova x fem!reader in which reader is new in the Thunderbolts team and she is like sooo sweet with everyone on the team but Yelena is always annoyed about that, especially when she is nice with someone who isn't her and she thinks she is annoyed about all the attention the team gives her but in the end she finds out that she is annoyed that the team gets all reader's attention and not her, I hope I made myself clear
Pd. Love your stories
Attention
Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader
[A/N] Fear this is another request where I went a little rogue 👀 Hope you enjoy my lovely, thank you so much for the request 😘
Yelena can’t honestly say she was thrilled when Valentina had announced there was a going to be a new addition to the New Avengers. She’d been through so much with the current members that she couldn’t imagine someone new joining what she now considered her family. It didn’t help that Valentina had specifically asked Yelena to show you around and help you get settled in “You’re the only one I can ask really,” Valentina had said in that patronising voice of hers. “You know what the others are like. Not that you’re… Anyway, you’ll do.”
She’d tried to pass the task onto Alexei but he’d shaken his head “No, is important for girl on team to be shown around by another girl.”
“That doesn’t make sense-”
“Besides, you need more friends.”
“I have plenty of friends!”
“Like who?”
Yelena had opened and closed her mouth a few times before mumbling “Kate Bishop-”
“When was last time Kate Bishop called, hmm?”
Yelena fumed silently. Alexei knew the radio silence from Kate was bothering her and now he was using it against her. Eventually she’d groaned “Fine. But you can bring her bags up, I don’t know how many she’ll have and I’ll be too busy showing her around.”
You had been a bit of a surprise when Yelena finally met you. You stand awkwardly in the lobby to the tower, with a couple of suitcases and a box by your feet. Once you see Yelena you beam and step forward, giving her a big hug “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you; I’m so excited to be joining the team. I’m Y/N.”
Yelena didn’t hug you back but you weren’t deterred, holding onto her for a moment before letting go. Alexei had appeared behind her and had held out his hand but you’d ignored it, giving him a big hug too. He’d quickly recovered, lifting you off your feet “Nice to meet you! I’m sure my daughter will give you the grand tour-”
“Adopted. I’m adopted,” Yelena says quickly as you’re set back on the ground.
Alexei grabs your stuff, picking both your suitcases up in one hand and your box under his other arm then disappears, leaving you both alone. You smile at her and she quickly looks away “Come on then, I guess I’d better show you around. Introduce you to everyone else.”
Reluctantly Yelena takes you room to room in the tower, showing you everything from the kitchen to the gym to the common room. On the way you come across the other members of the Avengers and you greet them all with the same enthusiasm. Yelena is surprised to see everyone open up to you so easily – she’s not surprised that Ava hugs you back. Yelena has realised over the last year that Ava is a bit of a girl’s girl, always wanting to spend one on one time with her, and she knows Ava has been excited about having another girl on the team. So excited that she’s already been planning girl’s nights, something she says will feel more official now there’s three of you rather than just two.
The boys’ reactions surprise her though. John had been punching in the gym, something Yelena had realised pretty quickly he did when he was in a bad mood… Which was often. For a moment Yelena had thought about warning you to stay back but she’d decided to let you learn yourself. John had been surprisingly receptive though, giving you a small, awkward hug in return and having a short conversation with you. His whole expression seemed to soften as you talked to him and Yelena felt a stab of anger.
Bob had been relatively predictable, getting a bit shy and flustered but had been polite. Then there was only Bucky left and his reaction had irritated Yelena the most. Bucky was notoriously quiet, and Yelena had taken pride in that she was one of the few members who could get Bucky to open up but you seemed to have a way with him too. Bucky wasn’t even a hugger but he’d hugged you back and had spoken quietly to you, welcoming you to the team. You’d even managed to make him laugh, a rare feat even for Yelena. It made her blood boil for reasons she couldn’t explain.
By the time Yelena arrives at your room she’s officially in a bad mood. You don’t seem to notice as you step into the room that is now going to be yours, your stuff already up here from where Alexei had dropped it off “Anyway, this is where you will be sleeping,” Yelena says, standing in the doorway.
“Where’s your room?”
Yelena flashes a tired look at you “Down there,” She responds in a non-committal way.
You nod, stepping into your room and looking around “It’s a lot bigger than I thought it would be.”
“Well the building used to belong to Stark, so…”
“Crazy, the battle of New York ended here all those years ago. Were you here when that happened?”
“No, I was under the influence of a chemical mind-control agent and was going where I was sent and killing who I was told.”
“Oh,” You say awkwardly.
Yelena gives you a forced smile and then leaves without a word. You stand awkwardly in your room, looking around the large space as you try to imagine this being your home. It is your home now. You just need to make it feel that way. With determination you grab your suitcases, unpacking your things. The sooner you’re unpacked the sooner you’ll settle.
A few weeks go by and slowly you begin to settle into life as a New Avenger. No missions yet but training has been intense – you’re working with Ava and you’re finding her easy to get along with. You’ve been sparring with her and she’s not afraid of using her powers “You've got to learn to fight all types of people,” She’d said when you’d accused her of cheating. “Learn to adapt.”
In the evening you’d been pleased to discover they had dinner together, treating it like family time. It didn’t take long for you to become the centre of attention in the group – you were the youngest so the New Avengers almost saw you as the ‘baby’. Alexei was always ruffling your hair and Bucky was always offering you advice, but never in a patronising way. You’d bonded with Bob, sharing an interest in indie movies, and you made a point of meeting up with him at least once a week for movie night. John was coming to you for advice about Olivia, who was finally open to introducing him to his son again.
The only person who wasn’t having much to do with you was Yelena.
It wasn’t for lack of trying on your part. Ava had already suggested her first girls’ nights and you’d met her in the common room, ready for a night of face masks and chick flicks only to find that Yelena had dropped out at the last minute “She said she was tired, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ava had reassured you.
Every attempt you made to bond with Yelena had been blocked. Sometimes she didn’t even join you all for family dinner, even when Alexei tried to convince her. You couldn’t help thinking that you’d done something wrong but when you asked her directly she’d just shrugged and looked away.
One morning you go down to the gym, ready to train with Ava only to find that she’s not there “She’s gone to visit Bill, he’s like a father figure to her,” Bucky explains. “Yelena will probably be down soon though so you can-”
“No! Can’t I train with you?”
Bucky raises his eye-brows “Um, I don’t know if you wanna train with me.”
“Why? Because of the super serum? Ava told me I have to learn to adapt my fighting skills so I think it would be a perfect opportunity actually,” You step onto the mat, raising your fists. “Fight me.”
“I really don’t want to-”
You throw the first punch which Bucky easily blocks “There we go, we’ve already started. Fight me!”
When Yelena makes it to the gym ten minutes later you’re mid-spar with Bucky and she feels a stab of anger and jealousy. She’s just about to make her way to the punching bag to start her own routine when Bucky suddenly pins you and you cry out. Before Yelena realises what she’s doing she runs over, pulling Bucky off you “You should’ve gone easier on her! You could’ve really hurt her!”
Bucky looks down at you, still crumpled on the floor, looking worried “I didn’t mean- I thought she was-”
Yelena curses in Russian, pulling you back up to your feet and marching you out of the gym, her arm around you. You’re so thrown off that you don’t even insist that you’re okay, just letting her lead you towards the medbay. Once inside, Yelena points towards one of the beds, making you sit on the edge as she checks you over “You should’ve waited until I came down. I would’ve sparred with you.”
“Well, you would’ve kicked my ass too,” You mumble. “Besides, I kinda figured…”
“You kinda figured what?”
“That you didn’t like me.”
Yelena’s hands still for a moment as she checks your shoulder which you’d been rubbing before resuming “I don’t dislike you.”
Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just as you open your mouth Yelena beats you to it “Your shoulder looks fine, just take it easy for the rest of the day.”
“I- Okay, thank you.”
You climb down from the bed and are about to leave when Yelena suddenly speaks again, just slightly too loud “Do you wanna do something?”
You hesitate, doing a double-take “Oh… Um… Right now?”
“Yeah. You know I have lived here for over a year and I still haven’t found the best pizza place. Every pizza I’ve had has been average at best.”
“Well… I know a… Pretty decent pizza place. If that’s what you’re in the mood for?”
Yelena smiles “Sure. Let’s go.”
Both of you head to your favourite pizza spot across town. You’re surprised at how easily Yelena chats to you, and soon the two of you are laughing and joking with each other. At first you’d felt awkward, remaining quiet but Yelena had chatted easily to you, getting you out of your shell. Yelena’s a little scary so you’d worried about overselling how good the pizzas were but she agreed they were definitely the best she’d had in New York so far. You began to relax – finally, you’d won over everyone on the team.
Or so you thought. Once you got home John had asked for your help in picking out a present for his son who’s birthday was next week and Yelena’s expression immediately turned sour. You suggested the three of you hanging out for a while but Yelena stalked away without saying anything and your heart sank. You’d thought you’d finally bonded with her, what had you done to upset her again?
This continues over the next week. If Yelena gets you on her own she’s the funny, friendly girl that you’d spent time with in the pizza place but the moment other people are around she turns standoffish again. It’s making you feel anxious but you don’t have the courage to call her out on it.
It’s actually Ava that gets the truth out of Yelena in the end, in a conversation you weren’t meant to hear. You’d decided to go down to the gym to get in some early training – there’d been rumours of a mission you were all being sent on soon and you wanted to be ready when the time came. Failing your first mission was not an option. When you’d arrived you’d realised the gym wasn’t empty as you’d been expecting – most of the Avengers, with the exception of John, were not morning birds so you could usually rely on the gym to be quiet first thing. As you arrive you hear Ava and Yelena’s voices.
Something had stopped you from going fully in. You knew eavesdropping was impolite but it sounded like the two of them were arguing and you were nosy.
“- You keep saying no, are you upset with me or something?”
“No, of course not, I just-”
“Then what’s the problem? You knew how much I was looking forward to having proper girls’ nights with you and Y/N,” Ava huffs, folding her arms. “Do you have a problem with her then?”
Yelena laughs “With Y/N? No.”
“Really? Because you always seem to be glaring at her or sulking whenever she’s around-”
“Don’t do this Ava.”
“Tell me, what’s the problem?”
“I already said, there isn’t a problem. Drop it.”
“Then why can’t you join me and Y/N tonight? Quit with the bullshit Yelena-”
“There is no bullshit; I just can’t stand when her attention is on anyone but me, okay?”
Silence fills the gym, awkward and heavy. Your heart is pounding so loud in your chest that you’re sure they can hear it. Nobody says anything for a long moment and you don’t dare look before you finally hear Yelena’s voice again “I know… I know how that sounds.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you have a little crush on Y/N.”
“It is not a crush, I’m not a child,” Yelena snaps. “I just… I’ve never felt like this before.”
“You should just ask her out. And then come to girls’ night. I won’t hog all her attention, promise.”
You quickly slip out of the gym as silently as possible, realising you shouldn’t be privy to anymore of this conversation. Yelena should’ve been able to confess her feelings to you when she was ready – you should’ve heard it from her direct, not by eavesdropping on a conversation she was having with Ava. Your stomach sinks with guilt but there’s nothing you can do about it now except wait for her to confess.
Except… She doesn’t. Days go by and you begin to doubt you ever heard the conversation in the first place. Yelena continues as normal, going quiet and sulky when you’re in a group, but animated and friendly when you’re both alone. There had been plenty of opportunities for her to confess – the two of you go on a trip to the arcade, for a walk along the Hudson River… But she’d kept quiet.
You’re loathe to bring it up because you’re not entirely sure what your own feelings for Yelena are. It wasn’t even that you’d never dated women; you’d never really dated anyone before. Yelena is cool though and you can’t deny that she’s pretty… There would definitely be worse people to date.
One night you can’t take it anymore and you appear in the doorway to her bedroom – her bedroom is really cool with posters and pictures hung up over the walls. Yelena has slowly been collecting ‘trinkets’, something she’s enjoying since she never really owned much growing up. It’s fun to explore her interests and find out what she really likes after being denied choice for so long.
“Hey,” You say quietly. “Do you have a minute?”
Yelena looks up from her phone for a second “Sure. What’s up?”
You go into her room, closing the door behind you and sitting on the opposite end of her bed “Look, I feel pretty bad about this but… I heard you. In the gym. Talking to Ava.”
Yelena glances at you again before returning her attention to her phone “Yeah?”
Of the reactions you were expecting, complete nonchalance was not one of them “Um… Yeah. And I thought… It’s just that… Well, I thought…”
“I don’t know what you heard in the gym,” Yelena interrupts. “But you were mistaken.”
The words ‘thought we could go on a date’ die on your tongue and you hesitate “I don’t… I don’t think so Lena. I heard you say-”
“You didn’t hear me say anything!” Yelena snaps with such venom that you visibly recoil. “Just forget about it. And don’t eavesdrop in the future, that’s so rude.”
You nod quickly, blinking away tears forming in your eyes “I- Yeah, you’re right, I- I shouldn’t have done that, sorry.” Yelena continues scrolling through her phone, her expression a perfect mask of indifference. You swallow hard “Do you uh… Do you wanna do something? I’m free this afternoon if you wanna-”
“No thank you.”
Fuck.
You nod again, standing up “Okay, I uh… I’ll leave you to it then. Sorry.”
You linger next to the bed for a moment, giving Yelena the opportunity to say something but she remains quiet so you head towards the door, leaving her alone. Now you feel like an idiot. You’d been pretty sure you’d overheard… Never mind. You must’ve been wrong. You must’ve misread the situation.
Inside her room Yelena puts her phone down on her bedside table, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. Her cheeks flush and her stomach swirls as she imagines you overhearing that she has a crush on you. Yelena’s pretty sure now that’s what it is, despite her reprimanding Ava for calling it that. You’d clearly been nervous about letting her down gently so Yelena had taken the control back, shutting you down before you could give her some excuses about how ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ or some similar bullshit.
Yelena rolls onto her side. Maybe she’s just destined to be alone. No one as bubbly and sweet as you would want a girl like her. Yelena allows herself a moment to cry as the familiar truth seeps in. This is just how it is. Easier to accept it than to hope for something that can never be.
Hi I've never sent a request before so forgive me if you're not taking them rn. But I was wondering if maybe you'd be up for writing a comfort fic?
Maybe one about wandanat x a very touch starved reader? It can be a little angsty too. Thank you and I hope you're doing well. I absolutely love your work!
Touch
ScarletWidow x Reader
TW's: Implied abuse
[A/N] You're so sweet, thank you so much! ❤️ At the time you sent this my requests were indeed still open so I hope you enjoy this cute fic 😘
It’s movie night in the Avengers Compound, and you make sure you arrive first so you can sit in the armchair – there’s only one armchair, the rest are couches and the Avengers who arrive last will have to sit on the floor. Last time you’d been late you’d been relegated to the floor, and Peter had sat down just slightly too close to you. After ten minutes of being completely unable to concentrate on the film you’d made your excuses and retreated back to your room. Ever since then, you’d made sure you were the first to arrive so you could steal the solitary armchair.
Soon the room fills with the others as they begin to filter in, and your eyes are immediately drawn to Natasha and Wanda as they come in, holding hands and laughing quietly together about something. You can’t help watching them as Natasha takes a seat at the end of the already crowded couch, pulling Wanda into her lap. Wanda beams as Natasha wraps her arms around her waist, pressing a loving kiss to her cheek.
No one’s ever touched you like that and it makes your cheeks heat up as you imagine yourself in Natasha’s lap, Wanda sat next to you, their hands running over your body in a warm, intimate way. Their gentle kisses against your face, your lips… You have to grip the armrest, quickly turning your attention towards the movie. Even though Natasha and Wanda aren’t sat near you, you’re hyperaware of any movement they make. Wanda looks so comfortable in Natasha’s lap, warm and safe – like she belongs there. It makes your stomach twist with envy and longing.
You’d never really been attracted to anyone before. But when you’d joined the Avengers a few months ago your attraction to Natasha had been instant. You’d told yourself that was normal – surely most people are attracted to Natasha. She’s just so beautiful and badass… You’d never met anyone like her before. Still, it would fade in a few weeks when you got to know her better, when she didn’t seem so mysterious and dazzling. Weeks had turned into months though and you still wanted her.
Finding out she was dating Wanda had felt like a physical punch to the gut. It wasn’t like you were ever going to act on your feelings for Natasha, but finding out that she already had a girlfriend was still painful. Still, you’d hoped the reality check would help weaken your feelings for her – she was taken, end of story. Actually, the opposite had happened – you’d fallen for Wanda too. There was something about the soft, cautious way that she spoke to you, the way she moved when she was practicing her powers… Both of them were so beautiful. No wonder they’d gotten together.
In the background the movie continues, but it’s clear that Natasha and Wanda are more interested in each other than the events unfolding on the screen. Eventually Tony makes a teasing comment about them, and they giggle, completely unphased, too preoccupied with their own world. Natasha kisses Wanda again and you swallow, gripping the armrest harder. If only you hadn’t blown your chance.
You’d finished your workout and were preparing to leave the gym, when you’d felt a tap on your shoulder. You’d practically jumped out of your skin, putting your hand over your shoulder as if your skin had been burnt. Wanda had looked alarmed, holding her hands up defensively, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No!” You’d heard how loud your voice was and cringed, immediately lowering it. “No, it’s okay, I just… Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, um… Natasha and I are going to try out this new ramen place tonight. I saw it online; it looks really cute on instagram. The food looks incredible. We were wondering if that was your thing and if maybe you wanted to join us?”
You glanced over her shoulder where Natasha was talking to Steve, and then looked back at Wanda. Her eyes were on you, her smile soft and expectant. That was the first time that anyone had invited you anywhere in a smaller group. Although you’re friendly with everyone, you hadn’t really properly made friends with anyone on the team yet. You’re invited to movie nights, parties, whole group activities that take place in the compound, and you always make an effort to go, but this is the first time you’ve been invited out in a small group. And by Natasha and Wanda! Your heart soars, your cheeks heating up as you open your mouth to answer.
Sam had bumped your shoulder as he walked past, turning back and calling ‘sorry’ absentmindedly. It was clearly an accident but you still flinched like you’d been shot, and it had thrown you completely off. You’re always hyperaware of where everyone is in the room, how close they are to you, what they’re doing. You’d been distracted by Wanda though and he’d taken you by surprise. The touch felt like fire against your skin, and you had to resist the urge to burst into tears. For Goodness sake, you’re an Avenger; your job is one of the most dangerous in the world. You should be able to cope with someone bumping your shoulder, especially someone as kind and friendly as Sam. But it had made you feel sick with anxiety, no matter how much you tried to squash your feelings down.
Wanda had mistaken your expression and hesitation for rejection, “Don’t worry about it. Maybe next time.”
You’d opened and closed your mouth as she’d walked away; watching helplessly as she’d pressed a kiss to Natasha’s shoulder and then said something to her. Natasha had wrapped an arm around Wanda’s shoulders, both of them heading out of the gym together whilst you’d stood there, rooted to the ground. That had been two months ago. Neither of them had asked you to hang out again.
As soon as the movies over you practically leap up from the armchair and head back to your bedroom, unable to bear being near Natasha and Wanda for a second longer. There’s no way either of them would’ve ever been open to dating you but if you could’ve just been their friend… Maybe they told the others because no one else had asked if you ever wanted to do anything either. Every day you’d overhear the others making plans that sounded fun but you were never included.
You climb into bed still fully clothed, pulling the pillow over your head. Touch has always been an issue for you. Ever since you were a teenager you’d learnt to keep tabs on who was in the room, where they were, making sure no one ever got close to you. If you close your eyes you can still remember being a kid, the feeling of your older brother holding you down as you’d squirmed desperately beneath him. Tormenting you was his favourite hobby and your parents hadn’t protected you, assuming it was usual sibling rivalry. You still haven’t forgiven them for that, and you’re not sure you ever will. You’d run away from home at fifteen, and hadn’t looked back.
It was one of the reasons you’d trained so hard. As a kid, no one had protected you. You’d been too little to protect yourself. You’d sworn to never rely on anyone else’s protection or care ever again.
Time passes as you lie in bed, remembering the way Natasha and Wanda had giggled together, the way Wanda had turned away from you in the gym, and you cry until you feel empty. You don’t feel any better but your tears have completely dried up, there can’t be any left to fall. Sleeping doesn’t always come easily for you, as it doesn’t for most of the Avengers – if you go to the medbay there’s usually someone around who can give you a sleeping pill, or there’s a stock of chamomile tea in the kitchen. You’ve been trying to wean yourself off the sleeping pills so you decide to make yourself a cup of tea, and drink it outside. It’s a warm night and you enjoy being outside, especially at night time.
You’re surprised to find the kitchen lights on. Someone else is clearly in there so you’re about to leave when a voice calls out, “Y/N?”
It’s Natasha, wearing a pair of pyjama shorts and a white tank top, looking absolutely stunning even in such a simple outfit. You feel self-conscious in your own crumpled clothes and you fiddle with your sleeves awkwardly, “Hey… Couldn’t sleep?”
Natasha shakes her head, “I was making a cup of tea. Do you want one?”
You nod, taking a seat at the breakfast bar and watching as she pulls out another mug. Chamomile tea isn’t your favourite drink ever but you’re hoping it’s an acquired taste. Natasha works on the tea in silence, something which you find comforting. Small talk doesn’t always come easily to you and you’re pleased that Natasha doesn’t feel the need to fill the quiet. If Natasha notices that you’ve been crying she doesn’t say anything, just finishes making the tea and then slides your mug towards you.
Both of you take a sip in comfortable silence. Just as you’re about to leave her in peace and follow through on your plan of sitting outside, she speaks up, “We didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” You blink at her, not sure what she means so she continues, “When Wanda invited you out for ramen, we just thought it would be fun. I guess socialising isn’t your thing, we shouldn’t have-”
“I- No, I- I wanted to come, there was just…” You clutch the mug, ignoring the hot sting against your hands. “Is that what everyone thinks? That I don’t want to socialise?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I come to everything anyone invites me to though.”
“Yeah but you don’t really get involved,” Natasha says. “Most people think you don’t want to be there. You always seem to want to be alone, like at movie nights or the parties. Even during training, you do it alone; you never ask to spar with anyone else.”
You look down at the counter, your cheeks heating up again with embarrassment, “It’s not like that.”
Natasha studies you for a moment, looking you up and down. It makes you feel self-conscious, almost like you’re naked in front of her. “What’s it like then?”
“I… It… It’s hard to explain.”
“Okay… Well, if you did want to do something with me and Wanda, we’d be thrilled. We only didn’t ask again because we thought you didn’t want to.”
You nod slowly, “Yeah… Yeah, I’d like to do something.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll let Wanda know. Is there anything that you’d like-”
“You’re really pretty.”
Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire now – where on earth did that come from? God, she’s going to think you’re so weird. Everyone must already think that you have a high opinion of yourself, that you don’t want to spend time with them and now you’ve freaked out the first person who’s actually bothered to get to know you. When you finally raise your eyes to glance nervously at Natasha, you’re surprised to see that she’s smiling as she takes a sip of her tea.
“Thanks. So are you. I’ve always thought so.” Her smile turns almost smug. “So does Wanda.”
It hadn’t occurred to you that Wanda and Natasha must’ve talked about you at some point. They’d probably talked about you when they went for ramen. It makes you equal parts thrilled and horrified. Before you even realise what she’s doing Natasha reaches out and puts her hand on your shoulder. You tense up, meeting her gaze. Most people immediately pull away when you react like that but Natasha gently rubs her thumb over the fabric of your t-shirt, “How does that feel?”
You swallow, not entirely sure what’s happening. It’s been so long since anyone touched you. Every little bump from someone else makes you want to curl up into a ball, so you’ve always kept people at arm’s length. Natasha’s hand on your shoulder is like fire but not in a bad way this time. It’s warm, comforting… Wordlessly, you just nod, hoping that will convey everything you want to say.
“Do you know what really helps when I can’t sleep?” Natasha asks. You look up at her and she smiles, “Cuddles. Wanda’s still awake, I’m going to go back and climb into bed with her. Maybe you could join us?”
It must be a joke. A cruel, nasty joke. But Natasha’s hand moves along your shoulder to cup your cheek and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from moaning. Before you can over think anything you find yourself nodding and Natasha’s smile widens, as she takes your hand in hers and pulls you to your feet.
You’ve never stepped foot in Natasha and Wanda’s shared room before but it’s exactly how you thought it would be. It’s so cozy, dimly lit by fairy lights hung above the bed and along the walls. It actually looks lived in unlike your bedroom, which only holds your clothes – you haven’t even bought your own bed sheets, just using the plain white ones that had been there when you’d arrived. Natasha and Wanda’s bed sheets are red, and look silky. Wanda’s propped up in bed scrolling through her phone and she looks over, raising her eye-brows when she sees you walking behind Natasha almost in a trance as she guides you towards their bed.
“Is everything okay?” Wanda asks.
“Of course, I just thought Y/N might want to join in our cuddling session,” Natasha says. “That’s okay with you, right?”
Wanda nods, pulling back the duvet, “Of course. Climb in.”
It’s as if the two of them have put a spell on you, and you climb into bed, wishing that you’d changed into a pair of comfortable pyjamas like they were both wearing. You don’t have any pairs of pyjamas, always choosing to sleep in your underwear or an old t-shirt. Come to think of it, you can’t think of anything nice that you’ve ever bought for yourself. You don’t own anything that brings you comfort.
Wanda’s arm instantly goes around your waist whilst Natasha climbs in on your other side, wrapping her own arm your midriff. It feels so good that you have to suppress a whimper. Nobody has ever held you like this before. Your parents must’ve hugged you when you were a child but you can’t remember it. You only remember the arguments, the screaming, the pain from when you were a teenager. This is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced and you’re confused, and maybe a little bit frightened, but mostly you’re just… Relieved.
Wanda nuzzles her face into your hair and mumbles, “I’ve wanted to hold you like this since the day I met you.”
“Really?”
“Of course. We both have,” Natasha says, leaning her head on your shoulder. “Neither of us really cared about the ramen place, we just wanted to hang out with you. Get to know you better.”
“But… Why me?”
“Because you’re beautiful and smart and intriguing, and we want to get to know you better,” Wanda replies.
“Try to just relax,” Natasha murmurs. “You’re safe with us. I promise.”
It’s difficult – their touch, though it feels so good, also feels foreign. And part of you feels undeserving of their attention even though you’ve been craving it ever since you met them. You open your mouth to voice your thoughts when you feel Wanda press a feather light kiss to the top of your head. Natasha takes your hand in hers, pressing her own soft kiss to your knuckles. It’s just like your fantasy from earlier, only softer, gentler.
Their warmth washes over you, comforting you in a way that you hadn’t thought was possible. Natasha’s hand moves to cup your cheek again, her thumb stroking lightly over your skin as she presses a kiss to your nose, then to your other cheek. You ache for her to kiss your lips and she does. Natasha first and then Wanda, their soft lips meeting yours. It feels so good; better than you’d ever hoped for.
“We won’t rush you,” Wanda says quietly, her fingers moving slowly beneath your shirt to run soothingly over your bare stomach. “Just relax. We can talk in the morning.”
“You can try and get some sleep if you want,” Natasha says. “You look exhausted. We’ll still be here when you wake up.”
Sleep is the last thing on your mind but against your will you feel your eyelids start to flutter. They suddenly feel so heavy that you can’t possibly keep them open. In the darkness you can still feel their arms around you, the occasional kiss to your skin. It soothes you into a deep, peaceful sleep. Natasha and Wanda exchange a pleased glance. They’d wanted to talk to you for so long. The attraction had been mutual, and they’d been hoping to ask if you wanted to join their relationship but had mistaken your hesitancy for disinterest.
Natasha had sensed there was more to your story in the kitchen. And soon, they’ll both get to the bottom of it. But for now, they do something that no one has ever done for you before. They simply hold you and take care of you. Like they intend to do for many years to come.
Hellooooo dear author! It is i(again), heheheeee🤭...onnnnn with the request:
Natasha x secret wife.. she has tattoos that are her weapons, like a snake on her arm and when she fights or just wanna scare people she just puts her arm out and the snake comes alive, or she has a tattoo of a gun on the side of her thigh where a holster would be at and she just takes it off as if it wasn't a tattoo, or maybe even a black widow spider(for nat) and everyone is just astonished and appalled by it(literally any weapon/animal is fine these were just examples). She's a shield agent but only works when fury really needs it. So maybe the avengers were in a pickle and fury decides to send her and thats when she shows how badssa she is🤣.. so please dear author that is my request.. I literally thought of this when I was falling asleep but was too tired to get up and type it out then took me the whole day tryna remember it and when I finally did i opened my phone so fast and started typing everything out before I forget again😭
Secret Wife
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
[A/N] I love this request so much, the power idea is so cool! ❤️ Late update today guys, I'm sooooooorry! Hopefully you all enjoy this one 😘 Especially you lovely @leenlynn - hope you're doing okay!
“-He’d probably be interested-”
“I know he would be.”
“So ask him out! What, are you scared?”
Natasha rolls her eyes, “Scared of what?”
“Intimacy,” Steve immediately retorts. “You tried to set me up multiple times but now the moment I try and do it for you-”
“I don’t need you to set me up, Steve. Besides,” Natasha flashes him a smirk. “Your taste sucks. I’m not even interested in men.”
Steve’s eye-brows shoot up and he nods, “I guess I should’ve- Maybe- I should’ve-”
“Known? Asked? Don’t worry about it. It’s not really something I advertise.”
Steve grins, “But you told me ‘cos… We’re such good friends?”
Natasha rolls her eyes and smiles as she grabs her duffle bag, and heads out of the gym, “If you say so. Night Steve.”
The two of them were the last ones still training. Natasha didn’t mind working late, and Steve had been having trouble sleeping lately. When she’d heard, she’d offered to have a late night sparring session with him in the hopes it would clear his head a little. Because, as he said, they are good friends. If she’d realised he was going to spend the whole time trying to convince her to ask random men out on dates, she might not have been so forthcoming.
By the time Natasha’s made it back to her apartment she’s thrilled to see your shoes in the hallway. Natasha had only agreed to stay late because she knew you were also working late, otherwise she would’ve been straight home. There’s nothing Natasha loves more after a long day than crashing on the couch with you and watching the latest episode of whatever TV show you’ve told her she just ‘has to watch’. Recently you’ve been watching ‘Lost’ after Natasha confessed she’d never seen it – you’d been gobsmacked.
Natasha finds you in the kitchen and wraps her arms around your waist, “Late night snack?”
You smile, putting your hand over hers, “So busy today that I didn’t even get chance to have lunch. I got takeout if you want some.”
“From our favourite place?”
“Of course.”
Natasha isn’t really sure why she hasn’t just told the rest of the team that she’s married. Clint knew, obviously. It had been a small ceremony with just Clint and Maria in attendance, both of whom had been sworn to secrecy. Just like Clint had a secret family, Natasha had you. You’d met when Natasha was also a SHIELD agent – she’d known she was attracted to you immediately but had taken forever to act upon it. It was a bit pathetic really, Natasha had been pining for you like crazy. After the Red Room it had taken a lot of convincing from Maria for Natasha to even consider she was worthy of your time and affection. After dating for two years, it was you who had proposed.
After the Battle of New York Natasha had devoted her time to being an Avenger, whilst you’d continued at SHIELD, mostly behind a desk these days, only going on missions when Fury was absolutely desperate – which seemed to be happening more often these days. Due to the nature of both your jobs, neither of you wears your wedding rings on your fingers, each opting to wear them on a necklace around your neck instead. Nobody had ever asked Natasha about the ring on her necklace, and nobody had asked if she was seeing anyone. They’d just assumed she was single.
“Fury got you working hard?”
“No more than usual. There’s just a lot going on.” You finish plating up the food, your movement limited by Natasha’s arms around you, but you’re not about to complain. “How was training with Steve?”
“He kept trying to set me up with random men,” Natasha murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “He said me and Grant Ward were both pretty evasive, and that we’d probably be well suited.”
You laugh, “He met Ward, what, like once? He’s so not your type.”
“Thank you!” Natasha follows you through to the living room, sitting down and taking a bite of the noodles from her plate. “I told him I preferred girls so now tomorrow he’ll probably be trying to set me up with Maria.”
You laugh again, taking a bite of your own food, “I hope so. She’ll have an absolute field day with that.”
Natasha rolls her eyes, nudging you with her foot and you grin, nudging her back before starting the next episode of ‘Lost’. It’s late but Natasha doesn’t care, she’s not going to bed until she’s spent some time with you. Once you’re both done eating, she wraps her arms around you, her fingers running over the tattoos on your arms. Your most recent one is finally healed, and it’s Natasha’s favourite so far – a Black Widow spider, in honour of her. You feel her fingers dancing over it and you reach over, using your power to release the spider from your arm. It scuttles up Natasha’s arm, making her laugh before crawling back onto your arm and turning into a tattoo again.
Natasha kisses your cheek, so in love with you that it’s almost ridiculous. Your power had surprised her at first, but she was pretty much used to it now. “How did you even find out your tattoos did that though?” Natasha had asked.
You’d shrugged, pulling your gun tattoo from your thigh to show her, “I just knew. Then I had to think carefully about what tattoos to get.”
“So, what would happen if you lost the gun?”
“I did once. It ends up back on my skin if someone else tries to pick it up.” You’d shrugged. “I don’t know the exact Science. Ask Bruce if you want, he might be able to explain it.”
Natasha hadn’t, but she always assumed there was more to it than you were letting on. She didn’t push you, though your tattoos fascinated her. One year at the SHIELD Christmas party, when you and Natasha were still just dating, it had been held in a fancy hotel. This one guy had kept hitting on you, refusing to leave you alone, even though you were clearly there with Natasha. It was making her blood boil but you’d just wriggled your eye-brows at her until eventually the guy overstepped the mark, putting an arm around you. You’d pulled your snake tattoo off, placing the now live snake on his shoulder. He’d screamed, leaping back in surprise and swiping at the snake which had immediately slithered into his shirt. The guy had practically fallen to the floor, squirming desperately to try and get the snake out. When you finally turned the snake back into your tattoo, he’d cursed at you, and then stormed off. You and Natasha had laughed so hard that tears had streamed down your cheeks.
Natasha wraps her arm around your waist, kissing your cheek again. “What would happen if you got a grenade tattooed? If you threw it and it exploded, would it still end up back on your skin again?”
You think for a moment, “I don’t know actually. Probably, right? Maybe I should get one, see what happens.”
“What if you got a tattoo of my face? Would you be able to pull out a mini version of me?”
“I’d rather not find out, the normal version of you is irritating enough.”
You squeal with laughter as Natasha tickles your stomach, squirming away from her. Natasha wraps her arms around you, pulling you into her lap and kissing your forehead. You grin, leaning your head against her shoulder, and Natasha leans her head against yours. “I love you so much.”
“More than you love Grant Ward, your perfect man?”
“God, shut up.”
You giggle, pressing a kiss to her neck. “Love you too and you know it.”
Natasha kisses the top of your head, before turning her attention back to the TV. This is her idea of a perfect night – just you, good food, and good TV. Every time Natasha’s with you, she wishes she could freeze the moment and stay there forever.
Of course, reality always comes crashing down eventually. Both of you go to bed late, and are woken by the sound of Natasha’s phone ringing before the sun has even risen. She reaches for it blindly, holding to her ear and mumbling sleepily, “What? What do you want?”
A few minutes later she hangs up and you wrap an arm lazily around her waist, “Who was that?”
“Steve,” Natasha mumbles, kissing your forehead. “Big emergency. I gotta go.”
“But you’re so warm.”
“I know. Sooner the job is done though the sooner I can come back and cuddle you.”
“One more kiss. Or you can’t go.”
Natasha smiles, still irritated by the early wake up call, but more than happy to oblige to your demand. She leans forward and presses a gentle, loving kiss to your lips. For a moment she’s tempted to just ignore whatever catastrophe is going on, so she can stay here with you. You’re warm too, and she always feels best when she’s with you. You’re the only person who makes her feel safe, like she can truly relax. The only person she fully trusts. The Avengers will be fine… Right?
Reluctantly, Natasha pulls herself out of bed and gets changed. You prop yourself up onto your elbow, “You always look so good in that outfit.”
“Oh, are you sexualising me now?”
Natasha grins when you throw a pillow at her. Just as she’s about to leave, she bends down and presses a kiss to your lips, “Love you.”
“Love you more. Don’t get killed or I’ll come looking for you in the afterlife and kick your ass.”
Natasha rolls her eyes, unable to resist giving you one more kiss before reluctantly leaving. You always warn her not to die whenever she goes on a mission – she would love to know how you’d react if she ever got seriously hurt one day. Natasha had thought she was protective, but you took it to a whole new level. It was something that Natasha loved about you. It was sweet to know that someone did care about her wellbeing. Sure, the Avengers care to an extent but not like you do. No one has ever cared about her the way you do, and it always warms Natasha’s heart when you warn her not to die or not to get hurt.
It’s a long fight, with no end in sight. At one point Natasha is pretty certain it even looks like they’re going to lose. She hears Steve over the comms calling for yet more back-up – he’d already called out all the Young Avengers who weren’t even technically signed off yet. Everyone’s doing their best but it’s still not enough. Fury’s going to send over some SHIELD agents.
Natasha isn’t surprised that you’re one of the agents that they send – not only are you enhanced, but you’re also one of their best fighters. Fury had been practically heartbroken when you’d told him you wanted to take on a more administrative role rather than field work. You’d had to promise to cover in emergencies, as today was. Another alien invasion – just another day in New York City these days. Truthfully, any opportunity Nick had to send you out, he took it.
You’re sent along with Maria and several other SHIELD agents. Natasha can’t help glancing at you as you pull your gun tattoo from your thigh, firing at the aliens – the benefit of your unique gift is that your weapons never run out of ammo. Natasha would love to learn the Science behind it one day. When an alien gets too close, you pull a shuriken from your other thigh, throwing it at the alien and striking them right in the head. The alien falls down dead, and the shuriken disappears, appearing as a tattoo on your skin once again. You don’t even have to fetch your weapons! You can always rely on them to come back, never getting caught empty-handed. Natasha’s a little jealous.
It’s not like Natasha to get distracted but she’s so fascinated by your power and the way you’re fighting, that for a moment she’s caught off guard. That’s all it takes to get hit by one of the alien’s laser guns and she hits the floor, crying out in pain. It’s not like Natasha hasn’t taken a punch before but that alien technology really packs a hit. It knocks the wind out of her and she’s too stunned to immediately react. An alien approaches her and she braces for impact, when the alien is suddenly taken down. Natasha isn’t too surprised to find that it was you.
You push your gun back into its tattoo form and kneel down next to her, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Natasha says, managing to catch her breath. “I’m fine, we should-”
“No, no, the battles over. We’re okay, it’s okay.”
“Yeah, it’s over,” Steve says, holding out a hand for Natasha. “These SHIELD recruits were a God send.”
You snort and grin, “Understatement. We totally saved your sorry asses.”
Natasha takes his hand, letting him pull her up. Your arms go around her immediately, holding her tightly and kissing her forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay, baby?”
Natasha nods, her arms going around your waist. “I’m fine. More importantly, are you okay?”
“’More importantly?’ You always do this Nat, I swear to God-”
Steve looks between you both with raised eye-brows, and Natasha smiles, “Steve, this is Y/N. She’s… My wife.”
“You’re married?” Steve asks, gobsmacked. “I- So- When you said you like girls-”
“I meant one specific girl. My beautiful Y/N.” Natasha kisses your cheek proudly. “And she was a real badass out there, wasn’t she?”
“Oh for sure,” Tony says, as the rest of the team approaches. “We could use someone like Y/N on our team.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “You were incredible out there. Those tattoos are- Wow.”
“Yeah! Join our team, Y/N!” Wanda says. “You have such cool powers. And it would be so cool to work with Nat’s wife!”
You grin, leaning your head against Natasha’s shoulder, “I don’t know. I kinda like my desk job-”
“Besides, we’d drive each other crazy if we worked together all the time,” Natasha teases, though she’s not sure that’s true. Part of her almost wishes that you would agree to become an Avenger – she would love to see you training with the others, and let you show off your awesome powers in front of everyone. You could get lunch together, and walk around the grounds in your breaks… Natasha’s not so sure it would be all that bad.
“Come on,” Tony says. “What are SHIELD paying you? I’ll match it. No, I’ll double it.”
“I appreciate the offer but it’s not about the money. I’m kind of looking for a quieter life now.”
“Married to Natasha? I doubt you get that,” Wanda teases.
Natasha grins, pressing another kiss to your cheek, so pleased and proud that everyone thinks you’re cool. Obviously Natasha’s always known that you’re cool, but seeing her colleagues so impressed by you makes her even prouder. She’s not even upset that the others know she’s married now – if anything, Natasha’s glad she can finally show you off. Invite you to Avengers events; give you a proper tour of the compound and the tower…
Natasha can’t help kissing your cheek again and the other Avengers exchange glances, none of them used to seeing her so affectionate. Everyone shakes your hand, interested to hear about your power, and they’re all delighted when you take the snake tattoo of your body, letting it slither up their arms. Natasha beams proudly, an arm around your waist the entire time, her fingers tracing over the tattoo you’d got in her honour. She loves you so much – her no longer secret, but always badass wife.
This Used to Be an Even Battlefield (Lena Luthor x Fem!Reader)
Main Masterlist
Lena Luthor Masterlist
Anonymous asked:
Is this where I send in requests? I've never done it before, but I loved/totally recommended your Lena Luthor fics.
Could you do a Lena fic where Reader meets Lena for the first time, and sees that she seems really lonely or sad. Ever since meeting, Reader tries to make her smile by using these really dorky pick up lines. Lena is at first a bit hesitant/cautious, but with time she opens up and becomes a bit shy or flustered.
Eventually, they both fall for eachother, but neither of them confess. Until Lena decides to flirt back and Reader just cannot function.
And...honestly, that's all I got, you can change whatever you like, I just like how you write Lena!
Rain taps softly against the windows of L-Corp, turning the glass walls of Lena Luthor’s office into mirrors streaked with silver.
Below, National city glows underneath the storm—headlights smeared across wet streets, and people hurrying beneath umbrellas.
The city is alive, though in a way Lena feels strangely detached from.
She leans against her desk, one hand wrapped around a glass of scotch she hadn’t touched.
Another failed meeting.
Another donor who’d withdrawn his support after a journalist had dredged up Lex’s name for the ten-thousandth time.
Another reminder for Lena that no matter what she built, no matter how hard she worked, she would always still be in the shadow of her family.
Her assistant, Jess, and left nearly an hour ago after gently suggesting that Lena should go home.
Lena hadn’t moved.
The office is silent, except for the rain and the faint hum of the city below.
Usually, she prefers silence, but tonight, it just feels empty.
Her phone buzzes again.
It’s another article.
LUTHOR LEGACY: CAN PEOPLE REALLY CHANGE?
Lena stares at the notification without opening it.
Then, with a quiet sigh, she sets the untouched drink aside and then reaches for her coat.
Maybe fresh air will help, she thinks.
. . .
The cafe across from L-Corp is still open, despite the late hour.
Lena hesitates outside for a moment before stepping in.
Immediately, heat wraps around her from the scent of espresso and cinnamon. Conversations murmur softly around her. What Lena thinks is Girl in Red hums low through hidden speakers.
No one notices her at first and she moves towards the counter.
“Hi,” a voice comes from behind the espresso machine. The barista staring back at her looks about her age, maybe a little younger. She’s wearing a slightly oversized hoodie beneath her apron. She has tired eyes, but a kind expression. “I’ll be right with ya,” she finishes the cappuccino she’d been working on, and then handing it off to its owner with a smile. “What can I get for you?” she’d stepped back up to the register.
“Just a black coffee, please,” Lena replies.
“Comin’ right up,” she turns towards the coffee machine and starts a new pot of coffee.
Lena watches her for a moment before looking away.
That’s another thing Lena had learned over the years—people noticed when Lena Luthor paid attention to them.
“What’s the name for the order?” the barista asks, pulling a marker from the pocket of her apron.
“Lena.”
There’s a pause, and then recognition flares in her eyes. Lena can see it happen in the slight widening of her eyes. Here it comes, Lena thinks.
But instead of excitement or suspicion, the woman says quiet, “That’s a really pretty name.”
Lena stills.
They were simple, harmless words, but something about the sincerity catches her off guard.
The woman seems to realize what she’d said a few moments later, and seems to visibly die inside.
“Sorry. That sounded smoother in my head,” she apologises.
Lena looks at her for a long moment, “You should stop trusting your instincts.”
The woman laughs unexpectedly, warm and slightly crooked.
Lena accepts the coffee when it’s handed over. Their fingers brush accidentally. The woman jerks back like she touched a live wire. “Sorry.”
Lena studies her for another second before giving a small nod and turning toward the door.
. . .
The next morning, Lena tells herself she’s stopping at this cafe for convenience and nothing more.
Definitely not because she’d caught herself wondering if the woman from last night also worked mornings.
That would be ridiculous, Lena thought.
Still, when she steps inside and sees the same woman behind the counter, something in her chest loosens unexpectedly.
The woman looks up, and her face lights up with recognition, and then restraint.
The woman smiles politely, “Good morning.”
Lena finds herself almost disappointed by that too. “Good morning,” she replies. She considers Lena’s face.
“Well?” Lena sighs softly, though her lips twitch slightly.
The woman brightens cautiously. “Are you made of copper and tellurium?”
Lena stares, “. . . What?”
“Because you’re Cu-Te.”
Against her will, the corners of Lena’s mouth twitches upwards.
The woman notices instantly, her expression softens in quiet triumph.
“You’re terrible at this,” Lena informs her as she takes her coffee.
The woman grins. “I know.”
. . .
Lena did not intend to come back the next day.
But around eleven that morning, halfway through a meeting about renewable energy expansion, she catches herself staring at a presentation slide while thinking about an objectively terrible chemistry pickup line.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
She has billion-dollar contracts waiting for approval, three separate interviews were scheduled, a mountain of emails, and an active PR nightmare involving a senator accusing L-Corp of technological outreach.
And somehow her brain decided on Cu-Te.
Lena presses two fingers against her temple.
Across the conference table, a board member keeps talking, “. . . public trust is still fragile after the—”
“Excuse me,” Lena interrupts smoothly, already standing. The room falls silent. “I need coffee.”
No one questions her.
. . .
The bell above the café door rings softly when Lena walks in.
Warm air brushes against her face almost immediately.
The lunchtime rush is in full swing.
And behind the counter, “There she is.” The words slip out of her mouth before she can stop them, and she freezes.
Lena pauses too.
The woman looks horrified with herself, “I mean—hi. Welcome back.”
“You sound surprised,” Lena says.
The woman blinks. “Well,” she says carefully, “you kind of seem like the type of woman who disappears mysteriously after emotionally devastating someone with a single smile.”
Lena gives her a flat look, “You’re very dramatic.”
“I work for tips,” the woman replies, grinning.
That almost earns another smile.
“Black coffee?” the barista asks.
“Please,” Lena says.
“You know,” the woman says while pouring the coffee, “I never got your opinion on my pickup line rating system.”
“You have a rating system?” Lena asks.
“Obviously,” the barista replies.
Lena accepts the coffee. “And how exactly are they graded?”
“Emotionally impact,” the woman places a hand over her heart.
“I see.”
“For example, yesterday’s was scientifically excellent.”
“It was awful.”
“But memorable.”
Lena hates that she can’t argue with that.
The woman leans lightly against the counter. “I’m trying to work my way up to one that actually makes you laugh.”
A strange warmth settles briefly in her chest before instinct immediately cools it.
“What’s your name?”
The woman straights, slightly surprised, “(Y/n).”
Lena repeats it quietly before she can stop herself, “(Y/n)”.
The woman goes very still.
Something unreadable flashes across her face. Then she recovers quickly. “Well,” she says faintly, “that sounds significantly more attractive when you say it.”
Lena picks up her coffee from the counter she’d set it down on. “You should really stop saying everything that comes into your head.”
“That’s fair.”
And yet Lena notices the smile she’s trying to hide afterward.
. . .
(Y/n) has a new pickup line most mornings.
Lena pretends to hate them.
“Are you a keyboard?” (Y/n) asks one Tuesday morning.
Lena doesn’t even look up from her phone. “No.”
“Because you’re just my type.”
There’s a silence, and then Lena says, “That one was particularly bad.”
(Y/n) gasps dramatically. “You wound me.”
. . .
“Do you like Star Wars?”
Lena sighs softly. “No.”
(Y/n)’s face falls in genuine disappointment. “Oh.”
Lena pauses, “. . . I’ve just never had time to watch it.”
“Perfect. That means I can fix this.”
Lena blinks slowly, “You say that like it’s a crisis.”
“It is a crisis.”
Something dangerously close to amusement flickers across Lena’s face before she suppresses it again.
(Y/n)’s lips twitch slightly.
. . .
The first real crack in Lena’s armor happens on a Thursday.
She walks into the cafe looking exhausted.
The previous night had ended with another argument over the phone involving Lex.
She orders automatically and reaches for her card.
(Y/n) doesn’t take it immediately. Instead, she studies Lena carefully for half a second. “Long day?” she asks softly.
Lena’s instinctive answer rises immediately.
I’m fine.
But she’s tired. Too tired to perform properly. “. . . Something like that.”
(Y/n) nods once.
Then she turns around and grabs something from the pastry case.
When Lena looks down, there’s a blueberry muffin beside her coffee.
“I didn’t order this,”
“You looked upset,” (Y/n) replies.
Lena’s expression cools automatically at the word.
(Y/n) notices the shift immediately and steps back emotionally just as quickly. “Sorry,” she says lightly. “You looked like someone who might overthrow a government if they skipped breakfast.”
The tension eases a fraction.
Then Lena realizes suddenly that (Y/n) was adjusting herself around Lena’s boundaries in real time.
“. . .Thank you,” Lena says finally.
(Y/n) smiles slightly, “There it is.”
Lena’s brows knit faintly. “There what is?”
“You saying thank you instead of glaring at me like I committed a federal crime.”
Despite herself, Lena lets out a breath of laughter.
. . .
After that, things shift.
Lena starts lingering longer after getting her coffee.
A few minutes at first.
And then ten.
Sometimes fifteen.
(Y/n) talks when she’s nervous, Lena discovers.
About programming classes.
Customers.
Books.
Random facts.
Once, for nearly seven uninterrupted minutes, about how octopuses can recognize individual humans.
Lena listens quietly while pretending not to enjoy it.
. . .
“You think I talk too much,” (Y/n) says suddenly one evening.
Lena looks up from her coffee.
The cafe is nearly empty now, soft music humming in the background.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You had the face.”
“I have many faces.”
(Y/n) snorts softly. Then she leans against the counter. “For the record,” she says, quieter now, “you don’t have to keep coming here if you don’t want to.”
Lena stills slightly, “I know.”
“I just—” (Y/n) hesitates. “I don’t want you feeling obligated to humor me.”
Lena can hear the uncertainty in her voice.
“I wouldn’t come if I didn’t want to,” she says before she can reconsider.
(Y/n) goes very quiet.
Lena immediately regrets how honest that sounded.
But then she sees the way (Y/n)’s expression softens.
. . .
The next morning, Lena arrives earlier than usual.
The cafe is mostly empty.
(Y/n) is standing on a chair trying to change something on the menu board.
“Are you dying?” Lena asks from the doorway.
(Y/n) startles violently.
The chair wobbles.
Lena’s heart jumps before she can stop it, “Careful—”
“I’m okay!”
The chair tilts harder.
(Y/n) makes a deeply concerning noise as gravity completely abandons her.
Lena moves before thinking.
By the time the chair clatters sideways, Lena has caught her.
One arm around her waist.
The other gripping her forearm.
Everything stops.
(Y/n) stares at her.
Lena suddenly becomes acutely aware of the warmth pressed against her.
The instinctive way (Y/n)’s hand grabbed her shoulder.
The fact that neither of them are moving.
“You should sue whoever designed that death trap,” Lena says quietly.
(Y/n) continues staring, “. . . I think I just forgot every programming language.”
Lena feels heat rise unexpectedly into her face.
She helps steady her before stepping back immediately.
(Y/n), meanwhile, still looks completely dazed.
Then, because apparently her brain cannot survive emotional tension without self-destructing, she blurts, “Did it hurt?”
Lena blinks once, “Did what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven.”
Then Lena slowly covers her face with one hand, “That was catastrophic.”
(Y/n) groans loudly, “I panicked.”
. . .
Three days after the chair incident, Lena still can’t think about it properly.
Every time she tries, her brain would supply the image of (Y/n) looking up at her all wide-eyed while Lena’s arm was around her waist.
That was profoundly unhelpful during meetings.
Jess notices immediately, of course. “You seem distracted,” she says while handing Lena a tablet between meetings.
“I’m not,” Lena replies automatically.
Jess gives her a look.
Lena pointedly signs the document without elaborating.
Unfortunately, Jess has worked for her too long to be deterred by silence. “Is this about the cafe?”
Lena’s pen pauses for half a second.
“I knew it,” Jess smiles triumphantly.
“There is nothing to know.”
“Mm.”
Lena narrows her eyes. “You’re being smug.”
“I’m being observant.”
Lena returns the tablet with slightly more force than necessary.
Jess smiles faintly before leaving the office.
Lena stares after her. Then she sighs and leans back in her chair.
Because the truly irritating part is that Jess is right. Lena is distracted.
Distracted by the fact that she hasn’t seen (Y/n) in two days.
Not because anything had happened.
But because apparently (Y/n) doesn’t work Tuesdays or Wednesdays.
Lena only knows that because she walked into the café Tuesday morning, saw someone else behind the counter, and felt an immediate, irrational wave of disappointment.
She’d recovered quickly, obviously.
But still, it was annoying.
Worse, she’d caught herself glancing toward the door while waiting for her coffee, like maybe (Y/n) would appear anyway.
She hadn’t.
Which is why Lena finds herself walking into the café again Thursday morning despite having a schedule packed so tightly she realistically should not be here.
The bell above the door rings softly.
Lena feels an unexpected flicker low in her chest. “I was here Tuesday,” she says before thinking.
(Y/n) blinks, “You were?”
“I had a meeting nearby.”
That part is technically true, Lena thinks.
(Y/n)’s expression softens immediately in a way that makes Lena wish she hadn’t admitted it, Because now she looks pleased, “You came in on my days off?” She smiles cheekily, “Who were you lookin’ for?”
“I was getting coffee.”
“Mmhm.”
Lena narrows her eyes. “You’re very smug for someone who fell off a chair this week.”
(Y/n) gasps dramatically. “You said we’d never speak of that again.”
“I said no such thing.”
“That feels legally questionable.”
Against all better judgment, Lena laughs softly.
And there it is again.
That look.
God.
“Your usual?” (Y/n) asks softly.
“What if you made me a drink you like?”
(Y/n)’s expression lights up. “Are you sure?”
Lena watches her for a moment before speaking again. “Yeah.”
Then, because apparently that activates her fight-or-flight response, (Y/n) blurts, “Are you a time traveler?”
Lena closes her eyes briefly, “Oh no.”
“Because I can absolutely see you in my future.”
A customer nearby snorts into their coffee.
(Y/n) immediately hides her face behind her hands, “I’m so sorry. That was horrible.”
Lena should probably encourage some sort of shame here. Instead, she feels laughter pushing at her chest again. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs.
. . .
That evening, Lena comes back again.
(Y/n) looks up from wiping down the counter and freezes, “You came back.”
“I was nearby.”
(Y/n)’s mouth twitches, “Sure.”
Lena narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re getting bold.”
“You laughed at my pickup lines. That’s changed me as a person.”
The cafe is nearly empty now, except for her and Lena, lights low and warm around them.
(Y/n) finishes cleaning the espresso machine before leaning lightly against the counter across from Lena. “You know,” she says carefully, “I’ve been trying very hard not to ask you something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Lena studies her, watching as (Y/n) fidgets with her sleeve.
“You can ask,” Lena says after a moment.
(Y/n) exhales once like she’s gathering courage. “Would you maybe want to have dinner with me sometime?” (Y/n) immediately rushes onward. “As a date,” she says quickly. “Preferably. But if you don’t want that, I can absolutely pretend I meant something casual and non-romantic.”
(Y/n) is trying very hard to seem calm, but Lena can see the nerves underneath it.
“Yes,” Lena hears herself say.
(Y/n) blinks, “. . . Yes?”
“I would like to go to dinner with you.”
For one full second, (Y/n) just stares at her.
Then her entire face lights up so brightly that Lena actually feels her breath catch.
“I thought there was at least a 70% chance I’d pass out before finishing the question,” (Y/n) admits.
“That seems low,” Lena says, and (Y/n) laughs helplessly.
The sound settles warmly into the space between them.
And before Lena can think better of it, she finds herself smiling back openly this time.
(Y/n) goes completely silent.
Lena notices immediately, “What?”
(Y/n) looks almost dazed. “That,” she says softly, “might actually be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Lena feels heat rise unexpectedly into her face.
And to her horror, (Y/n) seems to notice that too.
. . .
The restaurant (Y/n) had chosen was small and quiet.
It’s private enough that Lena immediately understands why she picked it.
It wasn’t flashy or expensive for the sake of being expensive.
Just warm lighting, soft music, and an atmosphere intimate enough to make Lena’s pulse jump the second she walks inside.
Then she sees (Y/n).
And for one horrifying moment, Lena forgets how to breathe properly. Because apparently seeing someone in hoodies and coffee-stained aprons every day had not prepared her for this.
(Y/n) stands awkwardly near the host stand, clearly trying not to fidget. She’s wearing a dark, button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, and her hair is fixed properly.
Pretty. God, she’s pretty.
Then (Y/n) notices her, and immediately looks equally as devastated.
“Well,” she says weakly as Lena approaches. “This feels unfair.”
Lena raises a brow.
“You can’t just show up looking like that,” (Y/n)’s cheeks are dark.
Despite herself, warmth rises into Lena’s cheeks. Interesting. She hadn’t realized she could still blush this much.
“You look lovely,” Lena says carefully.
(Y/n) stares at her like she just hung the moon. “Cool,” she says after a full second. “I’m never recovering from that.”
Lena laughs softly before she can stop herself.
The tension breaks immediately.
Thank god. Because underneath all the flirting and warmth, Lena had been nervous.
Actually, genuinely nervous.
What if things feel different outside the cafe? she’d thought.What if the connection disappears once we’re are alone together like this?
But then dinner starts.
Conversation flows naturally.
(Y/n) talks animatedly with her hands when she gets excited.
Lena catches herself watching her mouth while she speaks.
At one point, (Y/n) accidentally knocks over her water glass while explaining something about her programming class.
“Oh my god.”
Water spills everywhere.
(Y/n) looks genuinely horrified, “I swear I’m usually capable of functioning.”
Lena laughs quietly as she helps move the plates out of the way, “I’m beginning to doubt that.”
“I’m distracted.”
“By what?” The question leaves Lena’s mouth before she thinks better of it.
(Y/n) looks up.
Their eyes meet across the table.
And softly—far softer than the pickup lines—she says, “You.”
Lena looks down briefly toward the tablecloth, suddenly very aware of her heartbeat.
It’s been a long time since someone made her feel like this.
When she looks back up, (Y/n) is watching her carefully.
Nervous now. Like maybe she said too much.
Lena surprises herself again. She reaches across the table, just enough for her fingers to brush lightly against (Y/n)’s wrist.
The contact is brief, but Lena realizes she likes having this effect on (Y/n) far more than she should.
. . .
The truly catastrophic development—for (Y/n)—comes about two months into their relationship.
(Y/n) is sitting on Lena’s couch one evening in worn sweatpants and one of Lena’s oversized sweaters, squinting at her laptop while trying to fix a bug in her code.
Lena walks back into the living room carrying tea, and pauses.
There’s something deeply domestic about the scene.
(Y/n) looks up immediately and smiles, “There you are.”
They were just words, but they hit Lena unexpectedly hard.
There you are.
Lena crosses the room slowly and hands over the mug, and (Y/n) takes it carefully.
Their fingers brush.
Then Lena hears herself say, “You look very pretty in my clothes.”
(Y/n) stares at her.
Lena blinks once, because she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Apparently her brain had simply abandoned her entirely.
Lena feels warmth rise into her cheeks, “I said you look pretty.”
(Y/n) makes a sound that cannot legally be classified as language.
Lena watches, fascinated, as her girlfriend visibly short-circuits.
“You can’t just—” (Y/n) gestures helplessly. “You don’t usually do that.”
“Do what?”
“Flirt with me!”
Lena tilts her head slightly, “I thought you liked when I flirted with you.”
“I do,” (Y/n) says immediately. “That’s the problem.”
Lena laughs softly.
And god—Lena suddenly feels almost dizzy with affection.
. . .
After that, it escalates quickly.
Lena learns something about herself, she enjoys flustering (Y/n).
One afternoon, Lena stops by the café during a lull between meetings.
(Y/n) looks up immediately from behind the counter and brightens so instinctively that Lena’s chest aches, “There’s my favorite customer.”
Lena leans lightly against the counter, “Just customer?”
(Y/n) freezes.
Immediate panic.
Lena watches it happen in real time.
“Oh my god,” (Y/n) whispers. “You’re doing it on purpose now.”
Lena hums thoughtfully. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you say emotionally devastating things in a very calm voice.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Liar, (Y/n) thinks. My beautiful, terrifying liar. (Y/n) narrows her eyes weakly.
Then visibly loses the battle the second Lena smiles.
“You’re evil.”
“And yet,” Lena says softly, “you seem very fond of me.”
(Y/n) covers her face immediately.
Lena, to her own horror, starts laughing hard enough that her shoulders shake.
. . .
(Y/n) is in Lena’s kitchen making grilled cheese at one in the morning because apparently “sadness requires carbohydrates,” and Lena is sitting at the counter still wearing part of her suit after a brutal fourteen-hour day.
The apartment is quiet except for the soft hissing of butter in a pan.
“You know,” (Y/n) says while squinting critically at the stove, “I think rich people underestimate the emotional healing properties of a grilled cheese.”
Lena watches her fondly over the rim of a wine glass, “That’s a fascinating scientific claim.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve nearly burnt the bread.”
“Extra flavor,” (Y/n) counters immediately.
Lena laughs softly.
(Y/n) glances over immediately at the sound.
There it is again. That look.
And with horrifying, breathtaking clarity, she realizes that she could picture this for years to come.
The late nights. The terrible cooking.
And warmth filling spaces in Lena that had been cold for so long that she’d stopped noticing it.
Home, the realization hits Lena so hard that she goes very still.
“Honey, you okay?” (Y/n) asks, noticing immediately that something was off.
Lena looks at her standing there in her socks and one of Lena’s old sweaters, hair messy, cheeks warm from the stove.
“Yes,” she says quietly.
(Y/n)’s expression softens even more—somehthing Lena didn’t know was possible.
(Y/n) turns the stove off before walking over quietly.
Warmth settles beside Lena’s chair.
Gentle fingers slide carefully through hers.
Lena looks up slowly.
(Y/n) is already watching her with that same open expression she’s had from the very beginning.
The vulnerability of it almost steals the breath from Lena’s lungs. So naturally, she deflects. “You know,” she says softly, thumb brushing across (Y/n)’s knuckles, “you’re very pretty when you’re worried about me.”
(Y/n) immediately short-circuits. “There it is,” she mutters weakly.
Lena’s lips twitch upward, “There what is?”
“That thing you do now.”
“What thing?”
“You say what most be the emotionally devastating sentence and then act innocent afterward.”
Lena hums thoughtfully. “I still don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re flirting with me again.”
“Am I?”
(Y/n) stares at her. Then points accusingly, “You know exactly what you’re doing now. This used to be an even battlefield.”
Lena actually smiles at that, “Did you truly think you could spend months flirting with me and not face consequences?”
(Y/n) groans dramatically, dropping her forehead against Lena’s shoulder.
Lena slides a hand automatically into (Y/n)’s hair.
After a moment, (Y/n) looks up.
“You’re smiling again,” (Y/n) says quietly.
Lena hadn’t realized she was, “That seems to happen around you.”
(Y/n)’s entire expression melts instantly, “You can’t keep saying things like that.”
“And yet,” Lena murmurs, “I think I will.”
(Y/n) makes the tiniest wounded noise.
“You enjoy making me flustered.”
Lena takes a slow sip of wine, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You are a menace.”
“And you,” Lena says softly, setting the glass down, “are very easy to fluster.”
(Y/n) looks personally betrayed.
Lena leans closer slightly, “Especially when you blush like that.”
Hi! Can I request a Wanda x masc!female reader where Wanda owns a bookstore and reader is the masc lesbian always loitering in her store. I would love for it to give TOTAL grumpy x sunshine or like suave x nervous wreck energy (I think that’s a thing, but I’m probably not explaining it right lol) thank you! 🧡
you got me (head over heels for you)
˚‧ ɞwanda maximoff x masc lesbian!reader
now playing: ꒰you got me // the aces꒱
˚‧ ɞ𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Wanda isn’t the type to get crushes. But for attractive and charming masc lesbians who loiter in her bookstore, she might just make an exception
˚‧ ɞ𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: FLUFF, MAJOR grumpy x sunshine vibes, reader is a masc lesbian, gay panic, a pietro cameo, wanda not knowing how to flirt back, YEARNING, 2.8k words
˚‧ ɞ𝐚/𝐧: FINALLY managed to write something after nearly three weeks of writers block 🫠 i don’t know quite if my block is cured yet, but managed to get some wanda fluff out of it, so i can’t be that mad. thank you for this request and i hope you enjoy! <3
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Wanda loved her bookstore the same way most people loved their pets: a living thing with a beating heart and feelings that Wanda would protect with her life and maybe even die for. Maybe that sounded dramatic, but she didn’t care.
Wanda loved everything about her bookstore, from the uneven wood floors that creaked in the same places everyday, to the one leaky window that always seemed to drip when it rained no matter how often she got the roof repaired. She loved how the smell of espresso always drifted in from the tiny cafè corner that she’d fought tooth and nail to include when she bought the place two years ago.
Most of all, Wanda loved the people her bookstore attracted.
Her bookstore sat tucked between a vintage record shop and a plant store, and the plaza was just off a college campus. Which meant that Wanda spent most days surrounded by artsy college students with obscure majors and even more obscure fashion choices. Wanda’s seen it all: patchwork sweaters in the middle of July, chunky boots with tiny silver charms tied to the laces, and rings. They all loved oodles and oodles of rings. Wanda always felt like an outlier with her basic outfits, which typically consisted plain long sleeves and a skirt with tights every day.
And yet somehow, everyone was always so painfully polite. Everyone always cleaned up after themselves, they’d tell Wanda “thank you so much” at the end of their transactions. And the tip jar at the cafè counter was always flooded with $1 and $5 dollar bills.
The bookstore has become a strange little haven for people who lingered. Students typing away at essays in the corner, couples sharing headphones in the poetry aisle, someone inevitably curled into the armchair near the window pretending to read whilst actually sneaking a nap in. (Wanda totally got it. Though she’d never enrolled, she could imagine college was exhausting)
But there was one returning customer who was the biggest question mark to Wanda. And when the bell above the door chimes, yanking Wanda from her thoughts, her eyes lift from the register to see that very question mark walking through the door. You.
Something in Wanda’s chest betrayed her instantly, a familiar little flutter she absolutely refused to examine too closely. You stood in the doorway wearing a dark bomber jacket over a white tank top, rings glittering beneath the afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. Your hair looked a little messy, purposefully wind-tossed, and a pair of sunglasses the same color as your jacket are tucked into the collar of your tank top.
You glance up the moment you step inside, smiling the second your eyes lock onto Wanda. It wasn’t even a big smile. Just a small tug at the corner of your mouth, but it was debilitating enough that Wanda immediately looked back down at the open book in front of her like she hadn’t noticed it, or you, at all.
Of course Wanda made it a point to greet every customer who walked through the doors, a rehearsed chirp of, “Hi, welcome in!” ready on her lips. But it’s like you were the one anomaly. Every time she tried to greet you, she’d get tongue-tied, those three stupid words suddenly impossible to say.
Wanda follows you with her eyes as you step into the cafè, and she also notes how the barista Sammy blushes immediately the second you’re at the counter. Wanda supposed you just had that effect on people.
“You know,” Pietro, Wanda’s twin brother who actually was enrolled at the university down the street and, much like the other college kids, also came into Wanda’s bookstore to loiter, suddenly appears to Wanda’s right. “One of these days, you’ll have to swallow your pride and just ask for her number,”
Wanda slammed the book shut in front of her. “I don’t want her number.”
“Right. And I don’t come in here just to eat all the chocolate chip cookies in the cafè,” her brother teases with a roll of his eyes.
Wanda’s brows furrow. “Yes you do, Pietro. You’ve said before that there’s crack in those cookies—“
“I know, Wanda. I was being sarcastic. Thank you for proving my point,” Pietro barks a laugh.
Wanda’s cheeks flare even hotter, making her curse her nervous system. “She’s just another customer,” she argues.
“Just another customer who comes in here five days a week at minimum,” Pietro counters. “Just another customer who buys exactly one coffee and then spends three hours wandering around and pretending not to stare at you,”
Wanda frowns down at the register. “She does not stare at me,” she mumbles. Though what she doesn’t say is that she can’t even count on her two hands just how many times she’s caught you staring. And she definitely can’t count how many times those stares had given her butterflies.
Before Pietro could tell Wanda she was full of shit, your cologne reached the checkout counter before you did, your boots sounding on the hardwood a moment later.
“Afternoon, Maximoff,” you greet Wanda warmly, then nod in Pietro’s direction. “What’s up, Pietro? That sub professor in German 2 today was weird, right?”
“Total weirdo,” Pietro agrees with a shake of his head. Wanda glares daggers at her twin, a look that says ‘you never told me you had a class with her!’ And Pietro smiles back with a shit-eating grin that replies, ‘You never asked’. Wanda continues to glare at Pietro’s retreating back as he walks away.
Wanda turns back to face you to find you already grinning at her. She ignores the way that her stomach flips in response. “It’s 2:30,” are the first brilliant words out of her mouth.
“That it is,” you say before bringing your coffee cup to your lips for a sip. “Aren’t you observant,”
Wanda huffs. “My point is that you typically come around noon,” she says. “What, find a better bookstore than mine?”
Your eyebrows lifted, followed by a slow grin that spreads across your face. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me, Maximoff,”
Heat crawled up Wanda’s next instantly. “I am not keeping tabs on you!” she defended quickly. “I just happen to have memorized the comings and goings of my customers. Plus, I know how much you like to loiter, so you coming in at two-thirty only gives you six hours of loitering instead of eight…” she trails off, wincing. What the hell was she even talking about? Pietro snickers from somewhere inside the stockroom, definitely having heard his sister’s rambling, and Wanda makes a mental note to kill him with her bare hands later.
When Wanda risks a glance back in your direction, your small smirk has transformed into a full-blown grin. “So, you’re saying you missed me?” you ask, leaning your elbows on the counter.
“I am saying no such thing.”
“Mm,” you nodded thoughtfully, clearly not absorbing what Wanda just said. “Interesting.”
Wanda points an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you chuckle.
“That thing where you decide what I mean instead of listening to the words I’m actually saying.”
“Well, in my literature class, the professor is always going on and on about how we should pay attention to hidden meanings, so that’s what I’m doing here,”
Wanda folds her arms across her chest. “Fine, so what exactly is the hidden meaning here?” She challenges.
You don’t answer at first, but your smile goes a little soft, and Wanda’s heart starts to sound like a drum-line in her chest. The atmosphere dissipates completely when Pietro calls from the other room, telling Wanda that a customer on the phone wants to speak to her. When Wanda returns from the phone call however, you’re gone, and she’s completely blindsided by the visceral feeling of disappointment she feels. She also can’t shake the image of that soft smile she’d seen on your face.
***
The next day, you didn’t show up right around noon like you always did. Wanda told herself she’d only noticed your absence because the bookstore was unusually quiet; much less foot traffic than there usually was on a weekday afternoon. But then, you didn’t come in the next day either. Or the day after that.
Every tiny bell chime tugged Wanda’s attention upward before she could stop herself. But it was always just another cool-dressed college kid. Every laugh from outside made something hopeful spark in Wanda’s chest. But it was never you.
Wanda didn’t care. She couldn’t. So what if you stopped coming in? People drifted in and out of the bookstore all the time. College kids graduated. They got new routines, new cafès, new favorite haunts. Wanda had seen it happen before. It didn’t matter. That’s what she told herself anyway.
She threw herself into work instead. She reorganized the fantasy section that was constantly in a state of disarray, brought order back to the Funko Pop display, even vacuumed the stockroom, which was the only part of the bookstore that still had carpet for some reason. She did anything she could to avoid thinking about the fact that a certain girl with windswept hair and an affinity for clunky statement jewelry hadn’t shown her face in the past few days.
By the fifth consecutive day, Wanda almost asked Pietro if he’d seen you around campus. Which was humiliating, because that would require admitting she cared at all. And Pietro would never let her live it down. But Pietro had a way of knowing that Wanda was thinking about asking it anyway.
“If you’re worried about your girlfriend—“ Pietro starts.
“She is not my girlfriend,” Wanda interjected.
“Well, if you’re worried about the girl who’s not your girlfriend, but whom I know you’re attracted to,” Pietro amends his statement. “She’s not dead or anything. She’s been in German 2 every day this week. She just hasn’t been coming here,”
Wanda ignores the sting she feels. So you were safe, you just…what? Found a new bookstore? Didn’t want to see Wanda anymore?
Not that you were seeing her at all. Not that Wanda cared if she ever saw you again. Wanda fights to stay aloof, managing a cool nod in response to Pietro’s news. “Okay. Great,” she says. “I’m glad she is safe.”
Pietro looks at Wanda, an annoyingly sympathetic expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Wands. I don’t know why she’s stopped coming here. I guess I could ask her the next time I see her in class—“
“No.” Wanda snaps. “You will do no such thing, Pietro. But what you can do is stay out of my business, alright?”
Wanda doesn’t wait for Pietro to answer. Turning away from him, she grabs the stack of books off the register, and storms off to put them back on the shelf.
Wanda finds herself in the romance section, because of course she does. Her brain is on autopilot as she puts each book back where it goes. The last book in her hands catches her attention. It’s a sapphic romance, an art design of two girls holding hands on the cover. Wanda stares for a long time at the dark-haired girl with tattoos depicted on the left side, and suddenly she’s thinking of an attractive smile and a bomber jacket. Wanda clears her throat and shoves the book back on the shelf.
This was ridiculous. Wanda didn’t get crushes. She didn’t get weird and gooey about people. She was better off alone. Her stomach was wrong. Her heart was even more wrong. Wanda can’t flee the romance aisle fast enough.
***
It has now been two weeks since Wanda had last seen you in her bookstore. You would think that after fourteen full days, her body would stop reacting. That eventually she’d stop glancing up every time the bell above the door chimed. That the tiny spark of hope in her chest would finally die out instead of reigniting over and over and over again. But it never did. Every single time the door opened, Wanda’s stupid heart still leapt before her brain could catch up. And every time it wasn’t you, the feeling fizzled out just as quickly, leaving behind something hollow and embarrassing.
It was pathetic. Especially because Wanda still didn’t even know why you’d stopped coming. Maybe you found another cafè. Maybe you got bored of flirting with the awkward bookstore owner who could barely string a sentence together around you.
It had been a slow day from start to finish, and by the time closing rolled around, Wanda had already sent everyone else home. Now it was just Wanda alone behind the register, counting the tills and organizing receipts. The silence is broken by the bell chime of the door.
“We’re closing in ten minutes,” Wanda called automatically without looking up.
“That’s okay,” a familiar voice said warmly. “I only need one thing.”
Wanda’s heart did something fizzy in her chest. Her head snapped up so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. And there you were.
Rain droplets dappled the shoulders of your dark jacket and the ends of your hair were damp too like you narrowly escaped the downpour. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket, and gave Wanda a cheeky smile. And just like that, two miserable weeks of pretending she didn’t care evaporated.
Something must’ve shown on Wanda’s face because your expression softened almost immediately. “There she is,” you murmur quietly.
Wanda realized, distantly, that she was staring. “You just disappeared,” she blurts before she can stop herself. Your eyebrows lifted, and Wanda wanted to throw herself directly into traffic. “I mean…” she backpedals. “You-you haven’t come in and Pietro said classes were still in session, so I thought maybe—“
Your expression melted into something so unbearably fond that it made Wanda’s stomach flip. “You noticed I was gone, huh?” you ask.
Wanda crosses her arms defensively even as heat rushes to her cheeks. “Well, you loiter in my store for eight hours a day. It would’ve been difficult not to notice your absence,”
You chuckle, stepping closer to the counter. “I missed you too, Maximoff,”
Up close, Wanda notices two things about you: that you have the prettiest eyes she’s ever seen…and that you look exhausted. Something tugs in her chest.
“So where were you?” she asks before she can stop herself. She’s hoping more than anything that you’re not about to mention a longtime girlfriend that you’ve been spending all your time with.
“My mom was in the hospital,” you admit softly, scratching at the back of your neck. “She’s okay now. It was just…a rough couple weeks.”
Oh. Instant guilt crashes into Wanda so hard it nearly makes her dizzy. All this time she’d been spiraling, thinking you’d just gotten bored of her when you’d been dealing with something so real. Was she really that much of drama queen?
Your smile suddenly turns sheepish. “I kept meaning to come by, but things got kinda crazy, both with my mom and with classes,”
Wanda suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself or her nervous energy. You hadn’t been avoiding her. You’d wanted to see her all this time, you were just busy dealing with a sick mother and ruthless college classes. Wanda steps out from behind the counter to talk to you, and is struck immediately by the height difference. You were a good four inches taller, to the effect that Wanda had to tilt her head a bit to meet your eyes.
“I’m so sorry, that all sounds really stressful,” Wanda says. “But I’m glad your mom is okay now,”
“Yeah,” you smile. “Me too. Now, I can spend more time here figuring out a puzzle,”
Wanda frowns. “I don’t sell puzzles here,”
You chuckle. “I know, Maximoff. I meant you,”
Wanda’s heart jolts in her chest. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” you reply, shameless. “I know you’re a little prickly, but I think you’re cute. And I hope you know I’m not gonna stop flirting unless you tell me to back off,”
Wanda swallows hard. “I’m not…good at that, though,” she stammers. “At-at flirting back. I’m not good at it.”
“Yeah, I’ve gathered that,” you laugh. “But don’t worry. I think that’s cute too, and I can definitely work with that,”
“You can?” Wanda asks.
“Yeah,” you say. And then you reach for Wanda’s hand. Your skin is warm against hers, and the touch sends a spark up her entire arm. Wanda relaxes into it, letting her fingers lace with yours.
“Are you hungry at all?” you ask next.
“Starving, actually,” Wanda replies. And she was. All she’d had for sustenance today was a fruit smoothie around six a.m in the morning. And she could finally admit to herself that she’d been thinking of you all day, and that’s why her stomach had been in knots.
“Wanna get out of here? Grab a bite? Actually have a conversation now that you’ve admitted to digging me?” you tease.
Wanda tilts her head. “Did I admit that?” she asks coyly.
You smile down at her. “Well, you haven’t dropped my hand yet, so I think that counts for something,”
Wanda’s smile widens. “Hmm. Well, just let me lock up and I’m yours,”
You wait for Wanda as she locks up her bookstore. When she’s done, her hand finds yours and she lets you lead her to your car. Wanda can’t shake the dopey smile that plays on her lips, and all she can think about is how she’s just so damn glad she finally stopped pretending.
Summary: It was you who was shy before dating, but now its her that gets shy
Warnings: None
--
Three months into dating Natasha Romanoff and you discovered something fascinating.
The Black Widow—
legendary assassin, terrifying interrogator, woman who could kill someone with a paperclip—
got embarrassed when you kissed her unexpectedly.
Not dramatically.
Natasha was still Natasha.
She still walked around the Tower like she owned it. Still gave people that dry, unimpressed look that made trained agents fold instantly. Still fought like a force of nature.
But around you?
There were cracks now.
Soft ones.
And you noticed every single one.
—
It started small.
The first time you casually hooked a finger through one of Natasha’s belt loops while passing behind her in the kitchen, she nearly dropped her coffee.
You blinked at her.
Natasha blinked back.
“…Did you just short-circuit?”
“No.”
“You froze.”
“I did not.”
“You looked terrified.”
“I was assessing a threat.”
You grinned slowly.
Natasha narrowed her eyes immediately because that expression never meant anything good.
“Oh, you think this is funny now.”
“A little.”
She scoffed, but there was color creeping into her cheeks already.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
—
Now you tested it constantly.
Not maliciously.
Mostly because Natasha getting flustered was the cutest thing you’d ever seen.
Like this morning.
She was reading mission reports on the couch, glasses low on her nose, one leg tucked under herself.
You walked past, leaned down, kissed the top of her head, and kept moving.
Silence.
Then—
“…Rude.”
You turned.
Natasha was still staring at the report, except she hadn’t turned the page in a full minute.
“You’re upset I kissed you?”
“You distracted me.”
“You hate affection now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You wandered back over innocently. “You want another one?”
Natasha finally looked up.
Big mistake.
Because now you could see the faint pink dusting her ears.
“Oh my God,” you whispered delightedly. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m going to kill Barton.”
“What did Clint do?”
“He noticed first.”
—
Natasha’s shyness mostly appeared in very specific ways.
She got weirdly quiet when you looked at her too long.
Not in a bad way.
Just… attentive.
Like she suddenly forgot how to speak.
One night you found her in the gym wrapping her hands before training.
You leaned against the doorway watching her for a second.
Natasha glanced up. “You planning on helping or staring?”
“You’re pretty.”
Instant mistake.
Natasha stopped wrapping mid-motion.
You watched the exact moment her brain lost connection.
“…That’s illegal,” she muttered finally.
You snorted. “Illegal?”
“You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere.”
“You literally flirted with me for months.”
“Yes, but then you started flirting back.”
“That’s generally how dating works.”
Natasha pointed at you accusingly with the hand wrap hanging loose from her knuckles.
“You’re smug now. I created a monster.”
“You like the monster.”
The look she gave you should’ve been lethal.
Instead it was soft enough to ruin lives.
“…Unfortunately.”
—
The thing about Natasha was that she wasn’t clingy.
Neither of you were, really.
You both liked your own space.
Which somehow made the smaller moments feel more intimate.
Like her automatically sitting close enough for your knees to touch.
Or silently sliding her hand into the back pocket of your jeans when standing beside you.
Or the way she’d rest her chin briefly on your shoulder when passing behind you in the kitchen.
Tiny things.
Domestic things.
The team noticed immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam said one afternoon, watching Natasha unconsciously fix the collar of your jacket before a mission.
Tony looked horrified. “Romanoff’s gone soft.”
Natasha didn’t even look at him. “I can still break your nose.”
“See?” Sam pointed. “That’s how you know it’s real love. Threats.”
You laughed.
Natasha’s fingers brushed the side of your neck absentmindedly before she walked toward the quinjet.
And because you enjoyed making her malfunction—
“Hey, Romanoff.”
She glanced back.
You crooked a finger for her to come closer.
Suspicious immediately, Natasha still obeyed.
The second she stepped within reach, you grabbed the front of her tactical vest and kissed her quickly.
Short.
Sweet.
Natasha made the tiniest startled sound against your mouth.
Behind you, Sam yelled loud enough to echo:
“THAT WAS DISGUSTING.”
Natasha pulled back just enough to glare at him over your shoulder.
“Get shot on this mission.”
“See?” Sam sighed. “Romance.”
—
The funniest part was how automatic Natasha’s softness around you had become.
She didn’t even realize she was doing it half the time.
You did, though.
You noticed how her voice changed slightly when talking to you.
How she always checked your injuries first after missions even if hers were worse.
How she leaned into your touch before she consciously registered it.
One evening after a rough mission, you were both sprawled across her bed in exhausted silence.
Natasha lay beside you staring at the ceiling while you lazily traced shapes over her wrist.
The room was quiet.
Comfortable.
Then softly—
“You make me weird.”
You looked over.
Natasha still hadn’t moved her gaze from the ceiling.
You grinned a little. “Weird good or weird concerning?”
“…Both.”
Your thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist.
“For the record,” you murmured, “you made me climb out a thirty-eight story window once.”
Natasha finally turned toward you, horrified. “That was because of me?”
“You were making coffee in the kitchen.”
“Oh my God.”
“You were terrifying.”
“I thought you hated me.”
You barked out a laugh.
Natasha squinted at you. “Don’t laugh. That genuinely upset me.”
“You thought I hated you while I was looking at you like this?” you asked, turning toward her fully.
Natasha’s expression went dangerously blank.
Which meant she was flustered.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you look at me like—”
“Like what?”
She stared at you for a long second.
Then suddenly buried her face against your shoulder instead.
You froze triumphantly.
“…Natasha Romanoff,” you whispered. “Are you hiding?”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m resting my eyes.”
“Against my neck?”
“Yes.”
You laughed quietly, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Natasha made a soft annoyed noise that held absolutely no annoyance in it whatsoever.
Then, after a second, she pressed one quick kiss against your jaw without lifting her head.
Summary: When Natasha gets captured, you mount an impromptu rescue operation.
Tags: Hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, angst, eventual smut, jealousy, whump
A/N: I think will be a slow-burn romance between Nat and medic!reader as they go on missions and live alongside one another at the Avengers Tower 😈 please enjoy the first whumptastic 7K+ words and leave a comment! I have the next chapter started but always open to requests for plot twists ✨
“8 letter word for pottery,” you murmur, head bent low over a slightly crumpled crossword puzzle.
You tap the short lead pencil against your lips, thinking.
Suddenly a voice floats over the intercom, and you swear you can hear a hint of a gloating smile behind it.
“Ceramics.”
“Jarvis!” You roll your eyes, quickly scanning the blank spaces. Of course he’s right. “Come on, man!”
There’s a pause, then another infuriatingly reasonable reply from the AI. “If you don’t want my help, may I suggest you refrain from reading the clues out loud?”
“Fair enough,” you sigh, scribbling the letters into their appropriate boxes. Then, under your breath: “Know-it-all.”
You wonder idly how many crosswords you’ve completed at this point in your life. You always keep one or two tucked in your medical bag. It’s a force of habit after so many years being dropped into conflict zones all over the world.
The distraction soothes your nerves in the long, tense hours between emergencies, just waiting for something to happen.
Speaking of…
Your eyes drift to the small screen tracking Hawkeye and the Widow. Two of the Avengers’ most valuable assets, reduced to tiny dots transmitting signals from inside an enemy compound about a half-mile away.
You take a deep breath and roll the pencil between your fingers, trying not to fidget.
It’s your first mission with her and Barton. While they have years of experience working together, you’re a relatively new addition to the team. A skilled pilot and a trained combat medic in your own right, but it’s always hard to embed with new people.
Luckily, your directive is simple. You’re here to fly the twinjet, to provide evac, and to patch them up if necessary. Something Agent Romanoff had been quick to remind you of right before disembarking.
“Don’t leave the jet.”
You grind your teeth just thinking about the way her eyes had flashed when she said the words, almost like she was taunting you.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” you said, trying to brush it off.
“I’m serious.” Her voice was low, eyes scanning your face like she could read your thoughts. “No matter what happens. Don’t get in the way.”
And you hadn’t been able to conceal your displeasure then, bristling at the implication that you couldn’t handle yourself, that you were somehow a liability.
You weren’t a soldier, but you had years of experience in field operations. Long enough to know that her instructions were absurd, insulting even. These types of missions always required a certain amount of flexibility, even for medics. People without guns could still be killed by them. Especially if they got lazy, complacent.
But it was more than that, you know. It was the way she looked at you—dismissive, curt, like she was sidelining you before you even had a chance to prove yourself.
“Is that standard protocol?” You had asked, cheeks flushing a bit as your temper flared.
“It’s my protocol,” had been her reply before sweeping off the jet, silent and deadly as her namesake.
Clint had given you a friendly half-smile, told you not to sweat it. “It’s nothing personal. Nat doesn’t trust easily.”
A muscle in your jaw twitched as you stared into the inky darkness after them.
It felt fucking personal.
Personal enough that, three hours later, you’re still stewing about it. Technically, yes, she outranks you. But you’re not a child. You’ve been in war zones. You’ve been shot at and bombed. You’ve saved lives and lost friends and everything in between. If she thinks she can just write you off…
Suddenly the tracking monitor begins to beep, pulling you out of your sullen reverie. You kick your legs off the console, scooting closer to observe. Before you can decide if this is good or bad, the dots disappear from view completely.
And a pit forms in your stomach.
“Jarvis?” Your voice is pitched up an octave, adrenaline coursing through you.
“Recalibrating,” the system responds.
The next five minutes pass in tense silence.
Then you hear it. Clumsy footfalls outside the jet. You swipe a pair of infrared goggles off the wall and scan the tree line. There’s a lone figure, limping closer. On his back, you see the outline of a bow.
“Barton,” you mutter, opening the bay doors and hurrying through the tall grass to meet him.
“Doc,” he says, winded and bleeding, eyes squeezed shut. He trips on something, a decidedly un-Barton move, and you catch him under the armpits with a hushed oomph.
Immediately you start to cough, chest seizing slightly. There’s a thick, chemical residue clinging to his clothes, his hair. It makes your eyes water.
“What happened?” You let him put his weight on you, then begin guiding him toward the jet. “Where’s Natasha?”
He shakes his head once. “We got ambushed. There was an explosion, then a bunch of gas grenades. I couldn’t see a thing. Still can’t. Managed to drag myself back the way we came. Lost her in the fray.”
You can tell he’s furious with himself. He shakes his head again, as if to clear his vision. But it’s futile.
“Let me take a look,” you say, setting him down on a bench near the cockpit and tilting his head back.
The whites of his eyes are cloudy, darkened by whatever chemical agent the enemy used. You turn to a nearby table, finding a simple saline solution and loading up a dropper.
“This might sting a bit.”
To his credit, he only flinches a little.
“Any other injuries?” You ask, already scanning him with a measured look.
He gestures to his leg, impatient. “Think I took some shrapnel in the knee. It’s not bad. Just fix my eyes, so I can get back to Nat.”
You bend closer, examining the ugly gash in his thigh with a low whistle. “An inch to the left and it’d be a very different story.”
Barton seems unfazed by this information. All he cares about is getting to his partner.
And you can’t blame him.
You apply a tourniquet and dress the wound with quick, efficient movements. The bleeding slows enough that you’re satisfied he’s stable for the time being. But as far as mounting a rescue mission for Romanoff…
“Your vision could take hours to return,” you say, broaching the topic carefully.
“That’s not good enough,” he snaps. “She needs evac now!”
You raise your hands in a gesture of supplication, even though he can’t see you.
“I agree,” you say, a plan already forming in the back of your mind, hoping you can lead him to the only logical solution. “And we’re too remote to call for backup...”
His head tilts to one side, reminding you of a very intuitive dog. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, the answer is no. You don’t have the training.”
But you’re already on your feet, packing a tactical kit with a few supplies.
“All due respect,” you snap. “But I’m really fucking tired of people telling me that. I’m a combat medic, emphasis on combat. And right now, I’m the best chance we have of recovering Agent Romanoff.”
Barton stands too, maybe to try, but his leg buckles.
“You can’t see, and you can’t put weight on that leg,” you continue ruthlessly, zero intentions of letting him stop you. “And you said it yourself, she needs intervention now. There’s no time to argue.”
You can see several emotions play across his face. Frustration, uncertainty, apprehension, and then—finally—acceptance.
“Fine, goddammit,” he grunts, sitting back down on the bench with a little grimace. “Listen very carefully, rookie. Your life depends on it.”
Clint gives you a quick walkthrough of the facility, the number of guards he spotted on their way in, the weapons they carried, the location of the holding cells and the armory. Everything he catalogued before all hell broke loose. You nod along, committing as much as you can to memory.
“I’ve got coordinates,” Jarvis adds suddenly, and you feel the tightness in your chest loosen slightly. Coordinates you can work with. “Her asset tag is back online. It may have been temporarily damaged by the gas exposure.”
You grab a mobile tracker, studying the screen. That little red dot is Natasha. You ignore the way your chest gets tight as you wonder what condition she’s in. Hurt? Scared?
You tell yourself it’s strictly professional. You simply refuse to lose an asset on your first official mission. It has nothing to do with proving Natasha wrong. And certainly nothing to do with wanting to make sure she’s alright.
“Wish me luck,” you say, glancing at Clint and giving him a tight smile.
Then you’re gone.
You breach the outer gates with relative ease. It’s quiet on the perimeter, as if all the attention has been pulled elsewhere. Taking the Black Widow prisoner will have that affect, you think wryly.
You follow Clint’s instructions to the letter, immediately identifying the staircase that leads to the sub-level of the compound. You check the beacon as you go, plotting as direct a line as possible.
The hallways are a maze underground, twisting and turning. You try to go slow, not wanting to run into any guards. But the longer you stare at that unmoving dot, the more urgency you feel. You need to see her with your own eyes. To know she’s still in once piece.
Finally there’s just one more corner. You peer around and then…freeze, leaping back into the safety of the shadows, praying you haven’t been spotted. There’s a heavily armed guard standing outside a large cell door.
Multiple locks.
Fortified steel.
They’re clearly taking no chances with a prisoner this valuable.
Your brain slips into a familiar tactical mode that comes from years of experience; your movements are all calm efficiency, belying the storm of doubt and anxiety and fear just below the surface. You tamp down everything that isn’t useful in that moment, suppressing all extraneous emotions with a steady breath.
Withdrawing a tranquilizer gun, you load one of several darts and take careful aim. Then, looking down the crosshairs, you exhale and squeeze the trigger.
The guard’s hand flies to his neck, like he’s been stung by a bee. But the effect is much more severe. He’s crumpling to the ground before he can even make a noise.
You feel a delicious flicker of satisfaction as you creep out from your position and approach the cell door.
Now it’s just a matter of finding the keys.
There’s a fat ring on the guard’s belt. Easy.
You’re unhooking the metal clasp when feel the uncomfortable press of a gun against your head.
“Get up.”
You lift your hands on instinct, rising slowly and turning to face your new assailant. It’s another guard, younger than the first and quite. Bit scrawnier, and his fly’s down—he must have been taking a leak around the corner.
“What did you do to him?”
He looks almost as scared as you feel, glancing at the man on the ground. There’s sweat beading on his upper lip.
“I’m a medic,” you say, keeping your voice very low and calm. “He’s been tranquilized, I didn’t see who did it. But we should check on the prisoner, make sure she’s still secure.”
For a second, you think he’s going to buy your story. His eyes flicker around the dark hallway, like he’s looking for an unseen threat. But then he reaches for the walkie on his shoulder harness, trembling slightly.
“I’m calling for backup,” he says, voice uncertain. “Don’t move.”
It’s now or never.
Operating on pure instinct, you sweep your arm upward with all the force you can muster and manage to knock the pistol from his hand. It skitters across the floor, sliding under a parked vehicle.
Before you can celebrate the fact that you’re somehow miraculously still alive, he’s withdrawing a knife from his boot. Fuck. You rush him, powered by a wave of pure adrenaline.
The pair of you go flying in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the floor. As you’re scrabbling on the ground, you remember the backup tranq dart in your pocket.
You fumble, reaching for the only weapon you have. But his boot glances off your forehead in the fight, and for a second you see nothing but stars.
The guard senses his opportunity, twisting out of your grip.
You think he’s going to retreat, to finally call for help, but then you feel him close again. This time, something heavy connects with your abdomen—his fist maybe?—and you grunt, trying to get away as he pulls your shirt, dragging you by the collar.
This is your last chance, you realize. You won’t get another one. In a single swift motion, you withdraw the tranquilizer, pop the cap, and drive it deep into the meat of his thigh.
He yelps in surprise. Then his features are going slack, his eyes are closing, and he’s folding in half like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.
You lay there for a moment catching your breath, marveling at the fact that you’re still alive.
You don’t stay down for long. There’s no time to waste. You roll over, intending to stand. But you feel a sudden sharp lancing pain between your ribs, and your legs won’t cooperate.
Glancing down, you see about a 4 inch gash between your ribs. You probe it, pulling back the ripped fabric of your uniform, and blood leaks out around your fingers, hot and bright. That pressure you felt earlier wasn’t his fist, you realize dimly.
It was his knife.
“Shit,” you murmur with a shaky laugh.
This needs tending to now, before you do anything else. So you prop yourself up against the cell door and fumble in your med kit. Withdrawing another small syringe, you triple check the label before injecting yourself in the thigh.
Moments later, your heart rate increases starts and your vision seems to sharpen. Adrenaline. That should keep you upright, buy you enough time to get back to the jet.
Next, you remove a small bottle of super glue, doing what you can to pinch the skin in your side together and stop the worst of the bleeding.
Finally, you unbutton your tunic and slap a wide bandage over the gash, securing it with some tape. When all that’s done, you haul yourself to your feet and disengage the key on the guard’s belt.
You unlock the heavy metal door and stagger into the cell. It’s dark inside. And cold.
You squint into the shadows and see a crumpled figure in the corner. Your stomach does an unpleasant somersault, and fear propels you forward on shaky legs. What if all this is for nothing? What if she’s already dead?
Please be alright, you think. Please, please, please.
Dropping to your knees, you grasp her by the shoulder. You’re about to say her name. But before you can speak, before you can even open your mouth…your world tilts sideways and suddenly you’re flat on your back, all the wind knocked out of your lungs.
It would be impressive if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.
With the agility of a panther, Natasha has swiped your legs from underneath you and pinned you to the ground. Now she’s on top of you, knees on either side of your hips.
And before you can even manage to catch your breath, her hand is wrapped around your throat.
You weren’t exactly expecting a warm greeting. But this is definitely frostier than you were imagining.
She tightens her grip mercilessly, and the edges of your vision begin to go dark. What the hell is going on? She’s looking straight at you…but it’s like she’s not seeing you.
Not seeing you…
And you realize, just like Clint, she can’t see.
She thinks you’re one of the guards.
And she’s quickly dispatching you with exacting efficiency, just like she’s been trained to do.
You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choking sound. You kick your feet, bucking your hips upward, trying to throw her off. But all this does is amuse her. She leans closers, breath tickling your ear.
“Go to sleep,” she says, voice deadly soft, and your stomach tightens in something that feels way too much like arousal.
You bring your arms up, gripping her shirt with your fists, and give her a rough shake. She barely moves, a solid weight on top of you.
You blink hard, trying to focus. Time is running out. You can feel your limbs getting heavy, blood roaring in your ears.
With the last of your brainpower, you lower your hands and start tapping her wrist.
Morse code.
Your name.
Once.
Twice.
Her expression transforms in comprehension, the smile disappearing and replaced by a look of shock. She loosens her grip instantly, withdrawing her hand like she’s been burned.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
You draw in a deep rattling breath and dissolve in a fit of hoarse coughing, pain blossoming in your throat.
“Saving your ass,” you answer when you can finally speak again, voice weak and reedy. “You’re welcome.”
Her face flickers with something you can’t quite interpret. It could almost be remorse. But in the next second, it’s gone. She’s all business again when she asks, “Where’s Clint?”
“In the jet,” you rasp, staring up at her and admiring the little pout of confusion on her features as she tries to put the pieces together. It feels nice to have the upper hand, to be the one with all the answers.
“You’ve both been temporarily blinded by some sort of chemical agent,” you explain. “But I think with treatment your vision should be restored soon.”
Another odd expression flickers across Natasha’s features. Maybe impatience? You decide you don’t care. You’re too tired to try and keep up with her little mind games at this point.
“Now get off me,” you say, voice a little stronger.
Natasha rolls to the side, elegant and smooth as ever. But her knee brushes against your ribs, and you inhale sharply as she makes brief contact with the bandage in your midsection.
It’s a small noise. Barely more than a stutter in your breathing. And yet the redhead goes totally still.
Even though she’s blind, you could swear her eyes flicker down to the bloodstain quickly seeping across your tac suit.
“What’s wrong?”
You sit up, pressing your palm against the wound. It’s deeper than you initially thought. Your hand comes away a little sticky. The makeshift suture isn’t holding. You lick your lips, adrenaline still pumping through you.
“Besides the fact that you got yourself captured?”
Your taunt has the desired effect, distracting Natasha from her previous line of questioning.
“Please,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “I have them right where I want them.”
And even though she’s blind and locked in a cell, you somehow believe her.
“Come here,” you say, unzipping your med kit and defaulting into physician mode. “Let me look at your eyes.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue.
You disinfect your hands, rinsing blood off your palms. Then you carefully extract the vial of saline solution and turn back around to find she’s already kneeling on the ground, head tipped back obediently.
You take a moment to appreciate the sight. Natasha is so rarely compliant. In fact, it seems like she’s been on your ass since the moment you met her. Challenging you. Questioning you. Baiting you.
Seeing her like this makes your breath catch.
You wonder briefly how many people have ever seen her like this. Submissive, vulnerable, almost like she trusts you….
You shake your head, grateful she can’t see the blush that’s spreading on your cheeks.
You approach her. Cautiously this time.
“I’m going to touch your face,” you say.
She nods. Then you’re placing your fingers against her cheek and using your thumb to pull the eyelid back gently.
You administer three drops in each eye. She barely reacts.
“Blink a few times,” you say.
Again, she complies.
“How does it feel? Any pain?”
She smirks. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
You don’t smile back.
“Clint said there was an explosion. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Natasha doesn’t answer so you keep pressing.
“We’ll need to move quickly on the way back to the jet. If you can’t keep up, tell me now.”
“I’m fine,” Natasha says, voice cold again.
“Besides being blinded by gas,” you seethe, and it comes out a little more harshly than you intend. But goddamn, she’s infuriating.
“Nice bedside manner,” she says with a tilt of her head, like she’s trying to push your buttons. You snap your bag closed.
“I’m a combat medic,” you say shortly. “It’s not my job to coddle you, it’s my job to keep you alive. And I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me.”
You expect more arguing but she just stares at you, unseeing and oddly beautiful in the flickering light.
“Some abrasions on my chest from the explosions,” she reports. “I’ll be bruised tomorrow, but that’s all.”
Your eyes flicker down to the small tears in her tac suit, wishing you had more time to do a full examination.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say. “But if you’re fine to travel, let’s get going.”
You start zipping up your bag, already planning your evacuation route. Back the way you came, pray you don’t run into any more guards. But as soon as you straighten up, your side screams in protest. This time you press your lips together and manage to suppress the reaction.
Or so you think.
“Hang on,” she says suddenly, tilting her head to one side. “Since we’re being honest with each other…why’d you flinch earlier?”
You don’t want to answer honestly. You can just hear the smug gloating now if you were to tell the truth. Reminding you that you’re not an agent. That the guard got the drop on you. That you should have stayed in the jet.
So you evade.
“You mean when you were strangling me?”
You feel little bad for throwing that in her face, but you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of admitting the truth.
Natasha’s forehead crinkles in concern. “Did I hurt you?”
And her voice is different now, softer somehow. It makes your chest twinge painfully with guilt.
Before you can think how to assuage her, there’s a commotion in the hallway. Natasha’s head snaps toward the noise, reminding you of a predator—alert, lethal.
You step toward the door, peeking out. “Three men,” you whisper. “About 50 yards away.”
You glance at Natasha. She’s still a force to be reckoned with, vision or no vision. But it would be better to avoid a confrontation, if possible. A lightbulb goes off in your head.
“I have an idea,” you say.
And before Natasha can argue, you’re stepping out the door in plain sight of the approaching formation.
“There you are,” you bark, authoritative and impatient as you kneel beside the unconscious guards. Without missing a beat, you begin performing CPR.
“These men need medical evac, get on the radio and tell them we have two officers down. The Black Widow has escaped and she’s heading for the southwest gate.”
They stare at you for a moment, dumbfounded by the barrage of information. Just as you suspected. They’re obviously foot soldiers on patrol around the facility, accustomed to taking orders.
So you double down on your bluff.
“Fucks sake, don’t just stand there!” You shout between chest compressions, and it seems to startle them into action. “Send for medical and get after her before she escapes!”
The tall one in front snatches the walkie talkie off his chest and relays your report.
“All available units respond to southwest gate!”
They take off on a dead run, weapons drawn. As soon as they round the corner, you abandon your position on the ground and step back into the cell.
Natasha is waiting in the shadows, poised to strike.
“It’s me,” you say, approaching quickly and gripping her by the hand. “They’re gone.”
In the next second you’re leading her out of the cell and down the hall in the opposite direction.
The place is a maze, but you think you remember how you got here. Two lefts and a right and you should be free and clear. You pause at an intersection, peering around the corner.
“Quick thinking back there,” Natasha says in the sudden silence. “Not bad.”
You snort, glancing over your shoulder to ensure no one is following you.
“That was a compliment, ya know?” Natasha’s looking at you, mouth twisted to one side in a wry smile that makes your chest feel tight and warm.
“Not bad?” You repeat. “Am I supposed to be swooning over that?”
And your brain goes a little fuzzy at the cocksure lilt in her voice. There’s no misunderstanding her meaning. “Are you…flirting with me, agent? In the middle of a rescue mission?”
She shrugs. “When else am I supposed to do it?”
You stare at her for a beat, dumbfounded by the audacity, by the sudden shift from insulting you, undermining you to…to whatever the hell this is.
“What’s the matter, doc?” She goads, voice soft and seductive in a way that reminds you exactly who she is. “Cat got your tongue?”
You inhale sharply, hating that she’s managed to get under your skin, to fluster you.
“No! No, I just—” you exhale in frustration, grateful she can’t see the flush in your cheeks. “I don’t flirt with people who don’t respect me.”
Then you grab her hand, leading her further down the empty hallway. You expect another taunt, another tease. But Natasha comes to an abrupt halt, forcing you to stop as well. The sudden movement jostles your wound.
“Ow! What are you -“
“You think I don’t respect you?”
Again you’re struck by her uncanny ability to make you feel so raw, to peer right into your very soul with those gray, unseeing eyes.
“We don’t have time for this,” you growl, glancing up and down the corridor impatiently. But Natasha doesn’t budge.
“I respect you.”
She says it so sincerely, as if you’re not in the middle of a rescue mission. As if you understanding this is all that matters. How strange.
“Fine, you respect me. Can we just -“
But you don’t finish that sentence. Because suddenly, your vision gets dim and you feel your head start to swim. You reach out your other hand toward the wall, steadying yourself.
“Ahh fuck,” you mutter, fighting a wave of fatigue as the adrenaline shot begins ebbing out of your system. “Not now.”
Natasha’s grip tightens as yours goes slack. Her forehead crinkles and she steps closer, concern etched into every letter.
“What’s happening?”
She reaches out and grips your shoulder, furious at her own inability to see, to assess, to diagnose.
“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
You swallow once. Lick your lips. “Just listen, okay? The bird is parked a hundred yards beyond the treeline outside the northeast corner of the compound. Take this passage about 20 meters and then turn left, you should find a set of stairs.”
Natasha’s frown deepens. “Why are you telling me this?”
“In case -“
Before you can finish, an alarm starts to blare and a squadron of men can be heard shouting nearby. There’s a flurry of approaching boots. All the noise echoes off the stone walls.
Natasha picks her head up, trying to listen but clearly disoriented. And the rare sight of her like this—vulnerable and lost—drives home how much she needs you.
How failure isn’t an option.
The soldiers are suddenly much closer. In one smooth motion, you grip Natasha’s waist and turn with her in your arms, pressing her into the shadows of the closest corner, hiding you both from sight as the unit sprints past.
The danger disappears down the hallway, but neither of you moves.
“In case what?” She whispers, and the sound of her voice in your ear makes you shiver.
Natasha’s body is pressed flush against yours, and you feel the soft contours of her hips beneath your fingers, the strong plane of muscles in her stomach. For just a second, you sag against her fully, resting your forehead on her shoulder.
“In case we get separated,” you say, surprised by how steady your voice sounds, how easy it is to lie.
You lift your head and take a deep breath, like you weren’t about to collapse moments ago. It must convince Natasha because she nods.
She takes a step back, but your hand drifts into hers again, and you grip it tightly.
“Let’s get out of here.”
____________
The second Natasha crosses the threshold of the jet, Clint’s on her. “Nat,” he says. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Her eyebrows shoot upward in surprise even as she returns the hug. “You can see.”
He nods, stepping back. “Vision came back about half an hour ago. That little potion the doc mixed up worked like magic.“
You pull yourself into the jet behind Natasha. The bay doors close behind you. You glance up to see her and Clint embracing, talking, debriefing in low voices.
“Jarvis,” you mumble softly, dropping into the pilot’s chair with what feels like the last of your strength. “Take us home.”
You extend one trembling finger and flick the auto-pilot control on.
“Yes, ma’am,” you hear Jarvis respond.
Then you’re slipping down, down, down into something like sleep. But deeper. Warmer. More dangerous.
“Get up,” you mumble to yourself, because even now in some distant corner of your mind, you know this isn’t good. You need to stop the bleeding. “Do it now.”
And somehow you push yourself to your feet, swaying precariously as your vision darkens at the edges. You turn around, managing to take one step, then another.
“Natasha.” You hear Clint’s voice nearby, suddenly low and urgent. “Shit you’re hurt, you’re - Christ, you’re covered in blood.”
He spins her around roughly, looking for the source, his touch somehow gentle and frantic at the same time. Natasha’s hands drift to the midsection of her suit and she feels it, sticky and fresh.
And suddenly everything clicks into place. She grips Clint’s wrist, stalling his investigation.
“I’m okay,” she says, already turning on her heel, already looking for you. “It’s not mine.”
Her unseeing eyes somehow find yours again, landing square on your face. Her expression is accusing, fearful, guilty. You wish you had the strength to tell her it’s alright, not her fault. But your head is swimming.
“Guess you were right,” you mumble. “Should’ve stayed on the jet.”
Then you’re falling and the floor is rushing up to meet you.
But it never does. Because Natasha moves with superhuman speed, catching you just as your legs give out, before your head can crack against the metal floor.
Natasha swears, voice rough with panic.
Her hands gently probe your midsection until she finds the rip in the fabric, tracing it with her thumb and pulling it back to reveal the soaked gauze, the warm tacky texture of fresh blood.
“I knew it,” she bites out, lowering you fully to the ground, laying you out on your back. “Jarvis, I need a medical report!”
She places your head in her lap and brings her fingers up to your pulse point, feeling the unsteady rhythm.
“Clint,” she barks, desperation lacing every word. “Help me.”
The man drops to his knees beside you, unbuttoning your jacket and pulling the fabric away from the wound.
“How bad?” Natasha asks through clenched jaw, bracing herself for the answer.
“Not good,” he admits. “But I’ve seen worse. We need compression, possibly a transfusion.”
“Definitely a transfusion,” Jarvis interrupts politely. “If you don’t mind me saying so. But one of the platelet stabilizers we have on board should hold her until we get to proper medical facility.”
Clint rummages in the med bay and finds the stabilizer. He comes back holding it along with a few other supplies, including some fresh gauze.
“Hold this here,” he tells Natasha, guiding the fabric into her hand. She applies pressure against your side, faltering slightly when you make a low pained noise.
“Nat?”
Natasha goes totally still.
Because you’ve never said her name before.
It’s been Agent this and Romanoff that since day one. So the sound of her name - her nickname - slipping out, soft and defenseless, catches her off guard.
And for a moment, Natasha is frozen, lost. Because soft isn’t something she trusts herself to be. Not with you. From the first moment she saw you, she felt an inconvenient flare of affection, attraction. And she’s been working overtime to tamp it down, to keep you at arm’s length.
But tonight changed everything.
And now, she’s terrified she might lose you before she ever gets to set the record straight.
“It’s better if she stays awake,” Clint says gently, realizing Natasha can’t see your face, the way your eyes are glassy and half-lidded. “Talk to her.”
“Hey, I’m here,” she says, voice tight with fear. “I’m right here. Just- just stay with me, okay? You’re gonna be alright but I need you to stay with me.”
You groan, eyes fluttering open for a moment then closing again as you teeter on the edge of consciousness. You mumble something, but it’s incoherent.
“What happened in there?” Clint asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the fresh gauze, tracking the slow but steady staunch of blood flow.
Natasha shakes her head, clearly at a loss.
“Must have been a run-in with the guards outside my cell,” she mutters. “I knew she was hurt I just…I didn’t realize how bad.”
Clint can hear the regret, the self-blame lacing her words.
“It’s not your fault,” he says evenly. “You were flying blind.”
She shakes her head. “She should never have been there in the first place.”
“We had no other option,” he says, hoping he can make her see reason. “She’s a fighter.”
“She’s a doctor,” Natasha interrupts with a snarl, hands cradling your face protectively. “Not a superhero.”
He starts to argue again, but she fixes Clint with an impressive glare considering the fact that she can’t see him.
“She could have been killed and then what?” Natasha continues, chest heaving with emotion at the thought of you, lifeless and lost forever. “We’d be bringing back a body on top of no actionable intel.”
Suddenly, your voice floats up from the floor.
Weak, but laced with something playful.
“N-nice bedside manner.”
Natasha’s head snaps down toward you, mouth opening in surprise as you throw her own words back in her face.
“You’re…how…” Natasha splutters, trailing off.
Clint schools his face into a neutral expression, fighting the urge to laugh outright.
“She made the right call,” he says smoothly. “I was out of commission. There was no other option.”
Clint pulls the gauze away and, satisfied with the bleeding, he picks up a bottle of antiseptic.
“This is going to suck,” he says apologetically.
“Just do it,” you say, voice ragged at the edges as you brace yourself.
Then he douses the wound and your world ignites in a fresh wave of pain.
“Fuck,” you whimper, back arching off the floor as you turn your face toward Natasha, pressing against her thigh.
She brings one hand to brace on your chest, holding you down, and the other rests on your cheek, stroking her thumb back and forth in a restless instinctive pattern.
“You’re okay,” she says softly. “You’re okay.”
In the next second, you go totally limp, body finally giving in to the exhaustion and pain.
“JARVIS,” Natasha snaps. “ETA?”
“We’ll be arriving back at base in approximately 2 hours.”
Natasha picks you up off the floor and walks carefully toward the small medical bay, setting you in one of the beds. Then she finds a chair and parks herself beside you.
Clint hovers nearby, watching her stew for several minutes. He takes a deep breath.
“You’re not going to want to hear this,” Clint says.
“Then don’t say it,” Natasha snaps.
“But she did exactly what you would have done,” Clint continues, forging ahead. “You underestimated her. We both did. And I think maybe that’s why you’re actually pissed.”
A muscle twitches in Natasha’s jaw. But she doesn’t say anything else.
“You should get some rest,” Clint tries, even though he knows it’s pointless. There’s no use in talking to her when she’s this heated.
“I’ll be in the cockpit,” he says. “Holler if the bleeding starts again.”
————-
You wake up to the sound of beeping. A heart monitor, you realize. So you’re not dead.
You open your eyes. The room is bathed in a soft glowing light. You take a breath, working through your disorientation.
There’s someone in a chair beside your bed. You blink a few times, until a familiar shock of red hair comes into focus.
Natasha’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She’s looking at your midsection, eyes fixed on the freshly wrapped bandage with frightening intensity.
No, not just looking. Seeing. And it dawns on you.
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s impolite to stare, Agent?” You ask, voice scratchy from disuse.
Her eyes snap up, and you can see the relief flooding her features.
“Hey,” she breathes, bringing one hand up to squeeze your arm. “You’re awake.”
You give her a crooked smile, pleased at the obvious improvement in her vision. “And you can see.”
She nods, sheepish. “Yeah, thanks to you.”
You clear your throat, intending to ask a few questions—what happened, how long you’ve been here—but you wince as pain flares to life.
“Careful,” Natasha says. “Your stitches are still pretty fresh.”
But it’s not your side that’s bothering you.
You cough, throat bobbing as the discomfort there asserts itself with a dull aching persistence. And you see her eyes flicker down, expression darkening as a shadow of something passes over her face.
“You thirsty?”
She turns away, but not before you start connecting the dots. Natasha returns to the bedside, holding a cup of ice water, and again her gaze darts below your chin. It dawns on you with sudden, certain clarity that she’s staring at the bruises she left on your throat.
“Hey,” you say after taking a few sips from the straw. Natasha doesn’t respond, just sets the cup on the table beside your bed. “Look at me.”
She glances up, uncertain. You realize she’s expecting blame. It makes your chest ache.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” She asks evasively, even though she now’s exactly what you’re talking about.
“The guilt thing,” you tell her. “It’s pointless.”
She shakes her head, hair falling across her face so that she’s partially shielded. You reach out on instinct, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. Natasha goes still, but doesn’t pull back.
“I could have killed you,” she says, voice quiet. A little shiver goes through her frame, like the mere idea is enough to make her feel sick. “I almost did.”
“You actually did me a favor, if you think about it. Now I can tell people that I fought the Black Widow and lived to tell the tale. That’s some major street cred,” you say, hoping to lighten the mood. “Plus, I look great in turtlenecks.”
She glares at you. “It’s not funny.”
“Sorry,” you sigh, falling back against the pillow. “Bad joke.”
She sees your eyelids getting heavy.
“I should go,” she says, already starting pull away. “Let you rest.”
Your hand darts out, gripping hers before you can second-guess yourself. And the feel of her palm against yours reminds you of that night, guiding her out of the tunnels, escaping together.
You wonder if she’s remembering it, too. If she’s still thinking about what she said in the heat of the moment.
She looks down at your fingers, intertwined with hers on the bed. She opens her mouth, maybe to come up with another excuse for leaving.
But then the med bay doors slide open softly, and Clint strides over. Natasha snatches her hand away before he draws up alongside your bed.
“Doc,” he says by way of greeting. “You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.
You smile a little, then glance down at the bandages on your side. “Don’t tell me you did this hack job?”
“Hey,” he says in mock offense. “I’ve stitched myself up enough times to know my way around a needle and thread. But no, it was one of the doctors here.”
You scrub a hand over your face, rousing yourself a little. “How’s the leg?”
Clint shrugs. “Merely a flesh wound.”
“Ha ha ha.” You grunt in what could pass for laughter. Then, in the brief silence that follows, you add softly, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“You and me both,” Clint smiles.
He studies you for a moment, until he’s satisfied you’re in one piece. Then he glances at Natasha; she stubbornly avoids his gaze. He gets the sudden overwhelming feeling that he’s interrupted something. And he can see that you’re still healing, still exhausted. Clint lays a hand on your shoulder, giving you a quick squeeze.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you back out there.”
Then he’s retracing his steps and exiting the infirmary. It’s just the two of you again.
Natasha fidgets. She never fidgets. You open your mouth, intending to let her off the hook, to say she can go. But she beats you to the punch.
“I owe you an apology.”
Your forehead crinkles in confusion, wondering if your pain meds are making your head fuzzy.
“Look,” she says. “I misjudged you. It wasn’t right or fair. And I’m…I’m sorry.”
You quirk an eyebrow at her. You’ve never seen her this rattled. It’s kind of endearing.
“Don’t have an allergic reaction or anything,” you tease gently.
She gives you a half-smile.
“I don’t like being wrong,” she admits, drifting a little closer, lowering her voice. “But I was. You saved my life.”
You gaze up at her. The curve of her soft smile. The way her voice rumbles with sincerity. The path her eyes take as they drift over your face, lingering on your mouth.
You almost forget to breathe.
“Just doing my job,” you say eventually, swallowing around the flurry of emotions suddenly fighting to escape your throat. She blinks, like you’ve brought her back to reality.
“Right,” she says, withdrawing slightly. You miss her closeness immediately. You realize you don’t want her to leave. Not yet. Not ever, a traitorous voice in your head whispers. Her attention is like a drug.
“Stay?” You ask, eyes already slipping shut. “Just until I fall asleep.”
Natasha doesn’t answer at first. But then you hear her settle back into the chair beside the bed.
“Got anymore of these puzzles?” Her voice is a soft, grumpy rumble.
You smile, but don’t open your eyes. “Check the pocket of my bag.”
There’s some shuffling. Then the familiar scratch of pencil lead against paper punctuates the air. It’s pleasant, soothing. You feel all the muscles in your shoulders start to relax. And in a matter of moments, you’re drifting off into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
Summary: After avoiding Nat for days, she finally confronts you. REQUESTED
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Nickname (Honey, used once)
Word Count: 1.1k
-.-
You tried to keep it a secret and self regulate, but Natasha knew day one that you weren’t doing well.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. Not the comfortable kind you usually sat in after a long day of post-mission debriefs or doing the PR training Tony insisted you all needed. This silence was sharp and deliberate, like a locked door keeping her out. It was new—Natasha didn’t know what to do.
The first day of your silence, she spent planning how to approach you. She thought about what if the roles were reversed, what would she want you to do if she was acting closed off.
You both spent so long working on your communication and trust issues, it was painful that you're doing this now, especially when you’re two years deep into this relationship and six years deep into your friendship.
Day two, she waited again. She didn’t press you to speak to her, not even in your normal friendly passing.
Day three, she felt lonely, which almost made her break the silent promise to give you your space and time.
Night three was cold. The spot in her bed specially reserved for you started to lose your smell.
Morning five was the worst. She missed your laugh, the smell of coffee on your clothes when you got back from early morning training with Steve, and late-night talks about how Tony was an ass.
Natasha was done waiting.
-.-
That night she caught you in the hallway, the only place she saw you these days since you walked out of every room she entered. You were sitting outside the briefing room, staring blankly at the wall in front of you. It was clear to her that you were lost in thought, probably thinking about how to ignore her for the rest of your lives.
“You're avoiding me,” she says bluntly, moving to stay by the wall opposite of you.
That snaps you out of your daze, making you visibly flinch.
It physically pained her to see you respond like that to such a calm tone; she’d rather you snap at her instead.
Your reply is quick and short in hopes she’ll drop the conversation and go to bed like everyone else, “I’m not.”
Natasha crosses her arms. “You’re a bad liar."
“I said I’m fine, just drop it already.”
The door to your thoughts was locked, and Natasha was frantically trying to find the key.
Nat approaches you, slow and calculated, crouching down to your level. “You haven’t been fine all week, I’m not stupid.”
“I’m just tired.” You’re looking everywhere but her eyes, but she's staring right at you. It felt like the room started to suddenly heat up as her attention and care suffocated you.
“No,” she plainly says, taking a deep breath, “I know what it's like when you're tired. It’s never made you disappear like this before.”
You visibly get uncomfortable as your jaw tightens. “I’m not disappearing, just drop it, Natasha.”
It felt like another shot into Nat’s chest. You haven’t said her whole name in years. It didn’t even feel like she was talking to you anymore, but an angry, cold impersonator.
“It feels like you are.” Her tone is soft, the fight in it slowly leaving, but the door doesn’t budge.
In your mind, your resolve starts to fall, but you can’t show that to her. Instead, you shut down harder.
“I’m done talking about this with you.” With an unnatural speed, you stand up and begin escaping to your room, your safe haven.
Nat’s not going to let that slide. She follows your speed and catches your wrist—not rough, but still firm.
“Talk to me.”
“Nat, let me go.”
“No.” Her grip on you stays firm, not wavering. Her voice is filled with emotion. “Not this time.”
Something in you snaps. This is all too much.
“I said let go!” You yell, stepping out of her grip like she was burning you. Your breathing becomes uneven as you stare at her with wide, glassy doe eyes, filled with more words than you’ve both exchanged.
Natasha freezes.
Not because you yelled—that’s happened before in past arguments. She freezes because she finally sees everything you’ve been trying so desperately to hide.
Fear, exhaustion, pain, and loneliness.
“Please don’t do this here,” you quietly beg, giving in.
-.-
“I can handle it,” you insist as you enter your bedroom. “I don’t need—”
“You don’t need me?” she cuts in, immediately assuming your next words and being filled with hurt just as fast.
But you don't respond. Don’t deny her assumption.
Nat pushes her hair out of her face and begins pacing by the end of your bed. “So shutting me out is handling it?”
Your shoulders slump forward as you honestly admit, “I’m not shutting you out, I just—”
Natasha cuts you off again. “You haven’t been able to look at me properly for FIVE days.” She emphasizes with her fingers out and palm facing towards you, desperately trying to make you understand in her softest tone just how painful this was.
You continue, “I just didn’t want to make it your problem.”
She stops pacing and turns to look at you, understanding and pity in her gaze. “Oh, honey.” She moves to the foot of your bed where you sat slumped over.
“Look at me.” Nat’s hand reaches to soothingly hold your cheek.
It takes a second, but you do look her in the eyes for the first time in what felt like forever.
“You’ve been doing this alone?” she softly asks.
You purse your lips as you try not to break, but you still respond to her question with a tiny nod.
Natasha’s heart breaks into a million pieces from seeing her sweet girl so upset. “Why?”
Your answer comes out barely audible. “Because it felt like I had to.”
Nat immediately shakes her head in disbelief. “No, you don’t. You never have to.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” A sound similar to a laugh escapes you, but there’s no true humor in it.
“Is it?” she asks gently. “I’ve been where you are. I did exactly what you did. I shut people out, I told myself it was better that way, but it never was.”
Your composure cracks. “I just didn’t want to drag you into it. You already deal with enough as is.”
Nat says your name in empathy. “No matter how much I have going on, I will always have time and energy for you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Natasha pulls you into a long hug.
The rest of the night was spent talking about why you disappeared the last few days, a calming cup of tea, and finally a romcom you fell asleep to while tangled in each other's limbs.
i CRAVE a kate bishop x stark!reader so badly !! maybe just headcanons or tony/pepper/peter finding out before they announce it, whatever !! also, remember to hydrate and eat something !!
my dirty little secret - kate bishop x reader
summary: when you and kate first got together, you made sure that your father, tony stark, wouldnt find out. yet it’s too late when peter walks in on you two.
a/n: kind of made reader have a bit too much anxiety since she wants to be good enough for literally everyone because she's a stark and it's what's expected from her... but if this wasn't what ur looking for im very sorry
masterlist
Kate knew why you had to hide your relationship.
For one, you weren't out of the closet yet.
And two, you would rather not know your father's reaction yet.
And since your father is Tony Stark, you also don't want the whole world knowing his daughter has a girlfriend and is very gay.
What Kate wanted was to be able to walk down the streets of New York, holding hands with you, without caring what other people think. Yet, you are the literal opposite.
You worry about everything—what you wear, what you do and how you do it, other people's opinions of you. Basically, you were an over-thinker because of the amount of pressure on you from your father and social media. And because of all this, there's an enormous ball of nerves always bundled up inside you, and it will explode whenever one of those things occurs, which happens more often than you'd like to admit.
You were given meds to help with the anxiety, and sure, they had somewhat helped, but once in a while, the feeling jumps back into your body without a word.
Kate has helped a lot as well. When you first told her about your anxiety, she was understanding. She didn't interrupt you, only sitting beside you, and letting you go on without a word.
One night, a soft knock taps against your window, and when you lift your head from the pillows, your gaze finds Kate on the balcony, archery suit clad to her body with arrows slung onto her back. Her brown hair is swung back into her signature ponytail with a few strands loose in the front.
You grin, slipping out of bed and walking towards the balcony door. Sliding it open, you pull her in with a tug on her arm.
She stumbles inside, a quiet giggle escaping her. "Hey," she murmurs quietly.
"What are you doing here?" You ask, a soft smile perking up.
Her shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "I just wanted to visit."
"But your mom told you to be home by five, and it's"—your eyes dart over to the digital alarm clock perched on your nightstand—"six-twenty-three!"
She shakes her head dismissively. "It's fine. I told her that I would be running late. Or more like running straight towards you."
The shy chuckle rasps right out of you, looking away. "Why are you really here, though?" You ask, eyes finding hers through the dimly lit bedroom.
She gazes down at her, a soft, timid smile reaching her face. "I wanted to see you, and I haven't been able to because I've been busy all week."
"Well, you could have texted me so I could have prepared myself."
"Babe, you don't need to do that."
"Kate, my room's a mess." As you speak, your gaze travels over the disaster of your bedroom. "I'd rather you come over when a tornado didn't hit me."
She laughs, shaking her head. "I don't care about any of that, you know."
"I know, but still. I wanna have a good impression." You murmur, voice feigning into something much smaller.
Kate’s face falls. She knows that tone in your voice. "You already impressed me enough throughout this whole time of me knowing you." Her voice is low and caring, her hands rubbing your forearms.
"Are you sure?" You ask, voice feigning uncertainty as your gazes connect.
She nods, the movement soft. "I am. I don't care who you are or what you're dealing with." A kiss on your forehead makes you sigh. "I want you and only you, okay?"
Your lips tip up into a timid smile. "I want you too,"
"Good," she grins. "Because I am not letting you out of my sight."
The way she says it, cheeky and confident, makes you laugh softly, the sound vibrating in your chest. "I can say the same to you."
Her smile flips into something brighter, then softens. "Now, how about I help you with this room, and then we can just chill for a bit?"
"Oh, no." You shake your head, eyes tearing over the floor, worn clothes scattered on the wood. "You don't need to help with this."
"Yeah, well, I want to." A hand of hers trails down your arm, fingers lacing together like it's meant to happen. "Let me help you, please?"
Her soft, delicate voice sets a crack in your heart. You know you can't say no to her, not when she's insisting like this. It's like she's your weak spot, the one thing you can't refuse. With a sigh, you nod. "Okay,"
A few minutes go by, and with the help of Kate's hands, your room is squeaky clean. Kate would say that you were exaggerating about your room being a mess. Only the bed wasn't made, with a pile of dirty clothes sprawled on the floor.
Once you two are finished, you sink onto the mattress, tugging Kate down beside you. She chuckles as she lies down beside you, an arm resting on your waist.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
A hand comes up to brush her brunette strand away, tucking it behind her ear. “Hey,”
She grins softly, gaze darting over your face. “You’re pretty, you know.”
You chuckle, cupping her cheek. “You told me that so many times.”
“I know,” she says. “And I'm gonna continue saying it.”
Another giggle leaves you, and you press your lips to hers quickly. Kate smiles against your lips, and her grin softens when you pull away. “What was that for?”
Shrugging your shoulders, you say, “Just because,”
Kate’s grin widens, and she leans back in to kiss you, with you melting into it. Her hand rests on the nape of your neck, a sigh leaving her mouth, hitting your lips. The two of you kiss for a while, the pace slow and tentative as always.
But then her hand pushes your shoulder down, your back hitting the mattress. Your lips pull away from hers for a brief moment, then when she climbs back on top of you, your lips reconnect. A smile finds its way to your face, grinning against her mouth as your hands wrap around her torso.
“Hey, do you still have my charger—" The door swings open while Peter’s voice echoes through the room, and you push Kate off so fast she almost falls off the bed.
Peter stands in the doorway, shock filling his entire face. His mouth is agape, gaze going to Kate, then to you, and then back at Kate. “Hi, Kate,”
Meanwhile, Kate stands at the edge of the bed, eyes glued to Peter. “Hey,” she reluctantly says, fixing her standing position.
Peter crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh—well,” she glances over at you, who is sitting up on the bed with wide eyes looking back at her. “I was just stopping by for a visit?”
“A visit?” He asks doubtfully.
She nods jerkily. “Yeah,”
“Well, it’s definitely a visit.” He peeks his head into the room, eyes wandering over to the cable stuck into the outlet. “Oh, there it is.” His feet guide him over, taking the cord out from the wall.
As he jumbles it into his palm, your mind spirals, because obviously, you didn't want Peter to find out. You knew what he would do. He would talk too much to the point where he outs you. Sure, you love Peter and are very happy that he's your friend, but sometimes you wish he could keep secrets a bit better.
"Please don't tell my dad, Peter," you rush out.
Peter finds your gaze, eyebrows twisting. "Why would I tell him?"
Shrugging your shoulders, tou say, “I don’t know, but just—please don’t tell him.”
He only stares at you, contemplating whether he should listen to your words. There’s a high chance he probably will, though, since your reaction to getting caught kissing your girlfriend almost looks like you could fall into a panic attack because of it. "Yeah, of course." He glances over at Kate before backing up. "Also, I support you with all of this. You can kiss all the girls you want."
"Oh, Jesus." You curse under your breath, looking away embarrassed. Kate stifles a chuckle, and you snap your gaze to her, finding a grin on her face.
"Any way, I'm gonna leave you to back to..." His hand gestures to the two of us, as if he's referencing our stolen moment. "This," Then he walks out, slowly shutting the door with a click. When it's just you and Kate left in the room, you release a harsh breath. head hanging down.
"He's gonna rat on us, isn't he?" Kate asks, gaze still on the door.
At which you respond with, "At some point, yeah."
"Shit," She runs a hand through her locks, looking over at me a moment later. "Are you gonna be okay?"
"I hope so," You say. "I just wish that I could tell him myself."
She sighs, stepping over to the bed. "I know," The mattress sinks as she sits down beside you. Her hand lands on yours, fingers brushing each other. "But if he does tell Tony, and he goes apeshit, I'm still staying."
Or! You could do a flower shop au? Where reader OR Lena owns a flower shop and they meet when they’re trying to buy a bouquet
Flower Bouquet
|| Lena Luthor x reader
|| Warnings; reader gets a small injury, blood mention, awkward/flustered reader
|| Summary; reader's never seen someone so beautiful in the flower shop before.
Requests open!
Started; October 28th
Finished; October 28th
Tag List; @queriaumpastelagora @wreathedinantlers (comment below if you would like to be added!)
~~~
The city buzzed outside your flower shop, but inside it was quiet. Just you and a few customers. You were behind the desk, focused on putting together some flowers to make a bouquet. One that would later be put on the shelf for sale.
You were carefully trimming rose thorns when someone caught your eye. She was stunning. You'd never seen her in the shop before, you would have definitely remembered if she'd been here. Her dark hair... that smile. Everything seemed to just completely pull you away from the bouquet. More importantly, the rose thorns.
"Tch- ow-" a small hiss left your lips and you looked down, seeing that one of the thorns managed to prick you. Maybe daydreaming while holding a rose wasn't the best idea.
With a sigh, you reached for the med kit below the counter. Pulling it out and settling it beside you. You dug through, looking for alcohol wipes and a bandaid. In the meantime, you held your finger to your lips. Right over the cut to keep the blood from dripping on the counter.
"Are you alright?" A voice startled you from your thoughts, the woman from before's eyes met yours. Her own full of concern, despite not even knowing you. Could she be anymore perfect?
It took you a moment to respond, finding yourself staring in awe. She was even more beautiful up close. Your cheeks flushed when you realized you were staring and you awkwardly cleared your throat.
"I, um- yeah. Just a scratch." You murmured, her eyes softened and she held her hand out towards you.
"Let me see," you don't know why, but you found yourself easily listening. Resting your hand to hers. Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red.
"...it's not that bad," you tried for a weak protest.
The lady simply shook her head and took one of the alcohol wipes from your first aid kit.
"This might sting, feel free to squeeze my hand as tight as you need," she dabbed the wipe along your cut. Slowly, carefully. When it hit your cut you winced. Hand instinctively tightening around hers. She only smiled, seeming not to mind.
"There we go," she spoke softly. In a quiet tone that felt like it was only meant for the two of you. She tossed the alcohol wipe into the garbage next to the counter, taking a bandaid and slowly wrapping it over the wound. Her eyes met yours when she was done," better?"
"Yeah... th-thank you," your eyes widened. Realizing you never got her name," what's your name-?"
"Lena." Her hand continued to hold yours, almost like the both of you forgot you were even holding hands," yourself?"
"Y/N."
"That's beautiful," her cheeks flushed when she realized what she said and quickly backpedaled, feeling awkward about being so blunt," your name."
"Th-thank you-"
The two of you continued to stare at each other, you finally realized your hand was still connected to hers and quickly let go. Trying to look anywhere but Lena's eyes.
Lena broke the awkward silence first," um. I was going to ask if I could place an order?"
"Right! Yeah!" You blinked, attempting to refocus. You were still at work after all.
Lena placed an order for a flower bouquet, filling out the contact info sheet then handing it to you.
"I'll have this ready for you for tomorrow," you assured her.
"I left roses out so you won't hurt yourself this time," Lena playfully winked at you," have a nice day."
And with that, she left your shop. Both of you feeling warmer than before you knew each other.
Could you do a Natasha x fem reader one where Nat gets super drunk, and her big bad black widow persona is thrown out the door? She’s just all cute and clingy to her girlfriend. Did I mention incredibly drunk? 😅 so then reader has to take care of her lol
Drunk Affection
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
[A/N] No update yesterday, I was sorting my spare room and I had a teeny bit of writer's block which I'm doing my best to try and overcome 👀 Fingers crossed! Thanks for the request my lovely, hope you enjoy this one ❤️
You had known pretty much immediately that Natasha intended to get shitfaced tonight. Although Natasha had a drink most nights she very rarely allowed herself to drink too much. In the morning Natasha always regretted it, hating the way she’d lost control the night before. Well, this was what she’d told you anyway - Natasha had never actually got that drunk around you before, something which infuriated you greatly. For every funny drunken story Natasha had of you, you didn’t have even one about her.
Playing drinking games Natasha would always argue on the technicalities of why she didn’t need to take a drink “It’s a drinking game!” You’d always moan “The point is to get drunk.”
Natasha had just grinned, watching as you sulkily threw back another shot.
Tonight was different though. It had been a difficult week for everybody so of course Tony had suggested that you all meet in the common room for drinks. As you’d both gotten ready in your bedroom you’d noticed Natasha already swigging vodka straight from the bottle. It had been a particularly difficult week for Natasha. Yelena had gone MIA for a few days – not too uncommon but Natasha had been more worried about her than usual. Today Yelena had finally got back in touch to say she was okay.
Natasha takes another long swig from the bottle and for a moment you consider telling her she should slow down but then keep quiet. You’re intrigued to see what Natasha is like when she’s drunk. So intrigued that you decide to take it slow tonight – you don’t want to miss a single second of this.
By the time you both make it down to the common room Natasha is clearly more than a little buzzed – not enough to slur her words or stumble as she walks but drunk enough that she begins pulling everyone she meets in for a big hug. Steve is first and she approaches him, a massive grin on her face “Come here big guy, come here!”
Natasha goes around the room giving everyone a big hug; even kissing some of them on the cheek which makes Peter go very pink. You smile, sitting down next to her as Tony announces they’re going to start drinking games.
Given that Natasha is already more than a little buzzed she doesn’t take much convincing to actually drink during the games. You barely touch your own drink, watching with amusement as she takes a drink for things she’d never previously taken a drink for in ‘Never Have I Ever’. Part of it being that Natasha kept arguing the things she had done didn’t quite count when she was more sober and also she was finally being truthful about some of the things she’d done.
‘Never Have I Ever’ eventually turns into a game of truth or dare, and when it’s Natasha’s turn she picks dare. Everyone looks towards you, wanting you to think of something since she’s your girlfriend. You look at the drunken grin on Natasha’s face, not wanting to dare her to do something too outrageous that she’d regret tomorrow “I dare you… To take a drink for every girl you’ve ever dated.”
Natasha rolls her eyes and takes five sips of her drink, making you raise your eye-brows. You and Natasha had only been dating for eight months so it was still relatively early days. The two of you hadn’t really discussed your dating pasts before but Natasha was only your second girlfriend. Were you her fifth or her sixth? Everyone else moves on like it’s old news so you keep your questions to yourself but your thoughts are quickly becoming a mess. Natasha has quite the history… How long had her previous relationships lasted? How did they measure up to you?
After midnight everyone begins to head back to their rooms – you and Natasha are the last two to get up and Natasha wraps her arms around your waist as you stand “Hey! Hey, um… Hey, can I- Are we going to your room?”
“Might be a good idea.” You say, wrapping your arm around her to hold her steady. Natasha keeps both arms wrapped around you, pressing her face to your neck “Baby, come on-”
“I’m your baby?” Natasha asks and you have to suppress a smile at the awed tone of her voice “You’re my- My- Favourite- Person. My best girl.”
Her speech is a little broken and slurred and you prop her up, awkwardly helping her walk towards your room – difficult given that she refuses to let go of your waist “Baby, if you could-”
“Ahh, your baby.” Natasha grins, holding you even tighter.
You roll your eyes but you can’t help smiling as you finally get her into your room. None of her clothes are in your room and you can’t be bothered to venture to Natasha’s room which is irritatingly about a million miles away from yours, in a completely different area. You pull a pair of your own pyjamas out of a drawer and Natasha beams as you start undressing her, clearly excited at the prospect of wearing your clothes. You’ve never seen her smile so much in such a short space of time. Natasha isn’t serious all of the time but now her Black Widow persona has completely vanished, left with nothing but soppy affection as she presses a big, clumsy kiss to your cheek.
“I love you.” Natasha says, as you manage to finally deposit her onto the end of your bed to change into your own pyjamas. Natasha normally sleeps in an oversized t-shirt and underwear so she looks adorable in a pair of your Mickey Mouse pyjamas, something she’d never let you put on her if she was sober. You take your phone out and snap a picture of her when she suddenly she bursts into song, making up the lyrics as she goes “You’re so cute, my cutie pie girlfriend-”
You can’t help bursting out laughing and she giggles too, lying back on your bed as you crawl in next to her, kissing her cheek “I love you too. Especially like this. You gotta get drunk more often.”
“Noooooo, everyone makes fun of me.” Natasha whines.
“I’m not making fun of you.” You reassure her.
“You will tomorrow. Meanie.”
“That’s really rude-”
“No, no, don’t be mad at me, you’re my favourite and I love you.” Natasha says, suddenly worried.
“I’m not mad! I was only teasing you-”
“You’re mad at me!” Natasha sniffles.
“I’m not mad, not at all, I promise.” You say, kissing her forehead “You’re my girl and I love you.”
Natasha blinks hard, her tears thankfully drying up as you hold her close. Her arm snakes around your waist, clinging to you like her life depends on it. You’re usually the one who has to convince Natasha to cuddle whereas now you can tell she won’t be letting go for the rest of the night “I don’t wanna upset you, you’re my favouriiiiiiiite.”
“Yeah? You’re my favourite too. And I’m definitely not upset.” You run your fingers up and down her back absentmindedly “Hey so um… You know you took five drinks earlier for your past partners? So am I number five or number six?”
“Num- Number one, idiot! My favourite.”
“You know what I mean.”
“My one and only.” Natasha replies in a singsong voice, bursting into song again quite loudly “I love you baby, and if it’s quite alright-”
“Shh!” You giggle as she starts pressing drunken kisses to your neck “I wanna know about your past.”
“I dated other girls and we broke up and now I’m with you and you’re the best one I ever had. Way too good for me.” Natasha’s drunken voice suddenly drops quieter “You could do a lot better. I’m not letting go though.”
You frown, running your fingers through her hair “What makes you say that? That I could do better?”
“Oh come oooooooon Y/N, you’re you, the sweetest girl ever and I’m me, a pain in the ass who can barely show affection.”
“You’re showing affection now. And you always do, in your own way.”
It’s true – Natasha might not shout her love for you from the rooftops but she definitely does it in quieter, subtler ways.
“I mean it; you’re the best girl I ever dated.” Natasha presses kisses to your shoulder as she speaks “My favourite person ever. Don’t let me go.”
“I’m right here.” You kiss her forehead “Always.”
Natasha gives a lopsided smile, her eyes fluttering closed. She mumbles something and then falls asleep mid-sentence. You watch her for a moment, adjusting her so she’s comfortable next to you. Maybe you should’ve made her have some water but you’re a light sleeper so if she wakes in the night you’ll wake too. You’ll do whatever she needs in the morning, either make her a greasy breakfast or sit with her while she nurses her hangover. Whatever she needs.
You find yourself not minding anymore about her previous girlfriends. Natasha’s right – the two of you are dating now. Who cares about her past? You’re her girlfriend now and you’re pretty certain after that display that she cares deeply for you. As you care for her.
You kiss her forehead, smiling to herself. You can’t wait to tease her when her hangover is gone.
Warnings: Age gap (Natasha is 32 - reader is 23), Abuse, mention of injury’s
Word count: 5,5k
A/N: Thank you so much for all the support on the previous part! It honestly shocked me a little how many of you reached out with similar personal stories, and I feel very honored that you trusted me with them. As I mentioned in the last part, both I and others who are far more professional than I am are out there to listen and, where possible, help you find support or solutions. Please don’t ever feel guilty for reaching out, you’re already strong 🫂
Part 1
The gym was already awake when Natasha arrived.
Not loud yet, but alive in the way places like this always were. Somewhere deeper inside, a jump rope slapped rhythmically against concrete. Metal clinked, someone laughed, then groaned. Natasha paused just inside the entrance, taking it all in.
She always did that, mapped a space before stepping fully into it. Exits, corners, sightlines. Where people gathered or where they avoided. This gym had history in its walls. You could feel it.
“Romanoff.”
The coach stepped toward her, hand extended. He looked different out of the ring lights, older somehow, lines carved deeper around his eyes. The kind of man who had stayed when it would’ve been easier not to.
“Glad you made it!” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “Traffic treat you okay?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Natasha replied easily.
She followed him into the small administrative office tucked off the main hall. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A desk crowded with paperwork, old fight posters curling at the edges on the walls. He slid the final contract across the desk.
“Standard stuff..” he said. “You’ve already reviewed most of it.”
Natasha skimmed it anyway. Her pen hovered for half a second over the signature line, and then she signed.
“That’s it.” the coach said, folding the paper neatly. “You’re officially with us.” Natasha nodded once Just a quiet acceptance of responsibility. “Let me show you around.”
They started with the offices, small, functional, worn. Names taped to doors, schedules pinned crookedly to corkboards. A bulletin board filled with taped-up fight cards and hand-scrawled notes.
The medical area came next, and Natasha slowed there. Two exam tables. Locked cabinets. Crash cart in the corner. Ice machine humming steadily. She checked everything with her eyes: supplies, layout, access points.
“This is where they usually come after fights.” the coach said. “Or when they’re forced to.”
They passed through the weight room, where bodies moved with grim focus. No mirrors intentional. Just effort and discipline and the low music pounding from cheap speakers.
Then they reached the ring area, and Natasha stopped again. The ring sat in the center of the gym like a pulse point. Ropes scuffed, canvas stained and repaired in places. Around it, fighters trained in loose clusters.
Inside the ring..You.
Natasha recognized you instantly. But somehow not like this. You weren’t bleeding or rigid. Weren’t carrying yourself like every movement hurt. You were just moving fluid. You darted backward as your sparring partner lunged, laughing as you slipped just out of reach. Your guard dropped deliberately. You pivoted, ran half a circle around the ring, and the other woman chased you, both of you grinning like kids.
“Come on!” you called, breathless but bright. “Too slow!”
You feinted left, then darted right, tapping your partner’s shoulder instead of throwing a real punch. The other fighter groaned dramatically. “Oh, that’s cheap..“
You laughed..actually laughed. The sound hit Natasha harder than any punch she’d seen in the ring the night before. It wasn’t guarded or sharp. It was…free.
Natasha felt something shift in her chest. This wasn’t the woman who refused treatment. This wasn’t the fighter who clenched her jaw like the world was something to endure. This was someone enjoying her body. Her skill, the sheer joy of movement.
The coach noticed Natasha’s stillness. “That’s her real self..” he said quietly.
Natasha didn’t look away. “She doesn’t fight like that in matches.”
“No.” he agreed. “Ring changes people.”
You ducked under a lazy swing and popped up on the other side, throwing your hands up in mock surrender.
“Okay, okay- time out!”
You leaned against opposite ropes, both laughing, sweat-slick and flushed. Someone outside the ring tossed you a towel. You caught it easily, slung it over your shoulder, and still smiling.
Natasha hadn’t seen that smile last night. She hadn’t seen it anywhere near the blood or the pain. “How long has she been with you?” Natasha asked.
The coach glanced at her, then back at the ring. “A long time.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that’s mine to give, Romanoff.” he replied calmly. Natasha accepted that without pushing.
They watched as the sparring resumed, lighter now, playful but precise. You moved like someone who knew exactly what her body could do, who trusted it completely. Natasha filed that away. Trust like that didn’t come from nowhere.
You landed a clean body shot, not hard, just enough to score and pulled back immediately, hands raised.
“Point for me.“ you said smugly.
Your partner rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet you keep sparring with me..” you shot back, and grinned again.
Then, like you felt it, your eyes flicked briefly toward the edge of the gym. Toward Natasha, and the smile faltered. It wasn’t gone..just…muted. Something closed behind your eyes. The laughter dimmed, replaced by alertness.
Natasha held your gaze and didn’t look away. You looked first, and turned back to your partner, tugging your headgear back on, movements sharper now. More contained. The moment was gone. The coach cleared his throat gently. “Come on. Still got a few places to show you.”
As they walked away, she glanced back once more. But you were already back in motion, focused, disciplined, the joy tucked carefully out of sight. But Natasha had seen it, and she knew that smile meant more than any belt or win ever would.
“You don’t talk about her much.” Natasha said as they continued the tour.
The coach shrugged. “She doesn’t need me to.”
Natasha considered that. “She’s different when she thinks she’s not being watched.” she said quietly.
The coach smiled to himself. “Yeah..” he said. “That’s the part people miss.”
——
The gym felt different in the evening. Quieter, but not empty. The heavy work was done; conditioning, sparring, but a few fighters lingered, hitting bags, stretching, moving through routines that bordered on ritual.
The overhead lights cast long shadows across the floor. You were near the far ring, working a bag with slow, controlled strikes. Not power shots, but with o precision. Each movement deliberate, like you were listening to your body instead of fighting it.
Natasha approached without announcing herself. She stopped just outside your range, arms crossed loosely.
“Hey.” she said.
You stiffened for half a second, then turned. The guarded expression slid into place almost instantly. The openness from earlier was gone, tucked away behind narrowed eyes and a set jaw.
“Yes?” you asked, tone clipped but not hostile. Natasha met you where you were. “I need to check your eyebrow.”
You blinked. “Now?”
“Yes.”
You glanced at the bag, then at Natasha. Then back toward the ring, like you were considering escape routes, and Natasha waited.
Finally, you exhaled sharply. “Fine.” The word sounded like a concession you weren’t used to making.
“Come on.” Natasha said, already turning toward the medical room. To her surprise, you followed without argument.
The medical room was softly lit now, less clinical than during fight nights. The hum of the ice machine filled the silence, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and latex. Natasha set her bag down and gestured toward the exam table.
“Take a seat.”
You did, but stiffly, perching on the edge like you might bolt at any second. Natasha snapped on gloves, her movements completely unhurried.
“How does it feel today?”
You shrugged. “Sore.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Your lips pressed together. “Tight. It pulls when I raise my brow, and it itched like hell this morning.”
“Headache?”
“…A little.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
“Vision?”
“Is completely fine.”
Natasha nodded and stepped closer, close enough now to see the faint yellowing around the bruise early stages of healing. The skin was angry but closed, the strips still holding.
“Lean back slightly.” Natasha instructed.
You complied and staring at the ceiling. Natasha carefully peeled away one edge of the adhesive strip, watching your face the entire time.
“Tell me if this hurts.” she said.
“It already does..“ you muttered.
Natasha’s mouth twitched faintly. She removed the strips slowly, one by one, supporting the skin so it didn’t pull unnecessarily. The cut beneath was clean but still tender, but the edges are beginning to knit together.
“Not infected..” Natasha murmured. “That’s good.”
She irrigated the wound again, gentle but thorough. Your fingers curled into the edge of the table.
“Breathe, and keep trying to sit still.” Natasha reminded quietly.
You did, but your breaths were shallow, and Natasha noticed.
“You don’t like being still.“ she observed.
You scoffed. “Am I?”
“You’re bracing.”
“So?”
“So you don’t have to.“ Natasha replied, and placed two fingers lightly against your temple, not restraining, just grounding. “I won’t hurt you, you know.“
The words landed heavier than intended, and your breath hitched once. Natasha cleaned the wound, dried the skin carefully, then examined it closely, angling her head, checking depth and healing progression.
“This reopened deeper than I like.” she said. “You should’ve come in sooner.”
Your jaw tightened. “I had training.”
“You always do.”
That earned a sharp glance, and Natasha met it evenly. “I’m not judging.“ she said. “I’m explaining.”
She reached for a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, applying it with precise care. “Any throbbing today?” Natasha asked.
“Only when I think too much.”
Natasha hummed quietly. “Consistent with mild post-impact inflammation.” She applied fresh closure strips, slower this time, smoothing the skin gently as she went. Her hands were steady and confident, but there was something else there too.
“You notice everything.” you said suddenly.
“I do.“ Natasha said.
“That’s not normal either.“ you added.
“That’s my job.” Natasha said.
You huffed softly. “Funny. Other medics never-” You stopped yourself. Natasha glanced up. “Never what?”
Your jaw tightened. “Nothing.”
Natasha finished the last strip and stepped back, and pulling off her gloves.
“You don’t push back.” Natasha said quietly. “Even when something hurts. Even when you’re uncomfortable.”
Your shoulders stiffened again. “I don’t see the point.”
“There usually is one.” Natasha said. “Avoiding punishment..Avoiding escalation.”
Your head snapped up. “What did you say?”
Natasha held your gaze, realizing it too late that she’d probably stepped past observation into interpretation.
“Has anyone ever told you..” Natasha said carefully now, “that you don’t react like someone who expects care?”
Silence, and your breathing changed. It’s faster now, sharper, “That’s not your business.” you said.
“Don’t.” you snapped, sliding off the exam table. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk like you know me.” you said, anger finally surfacing, not explosive, but contained and dangerous. “You don’t.”
Natasha straightened. “I wasn’t trying to-”
“You’re my medic.” you cut in. “That’s it. You patch me up so I can fight. That’s the agreement.”
Natasha felt the misstep settle heavy in her chest.
“I crossed a line, I’m sorry.” she admitted.
“Yes.“ you said. “You did.”
You grabbed your jacket and grab the door, “Just do your job.“ you said, voice tight. “Nothing else.”
You turned and left the room without waiting for a response, the door swung shut hard enough to rattle the cabinets. Natasha stood there, alone in the quiet now. She looked down at her gloved hands and exhaled slowly.
She hadn’t meant to push. But she had recognized something she wasn’t supposed to name yet. And you had recognized that Natasha saw it.
That was the problem.
You pushed past the coach so fast he barely had time to register your expression: jaw tight, eyes bright with something sharp and contained, before you were already halfway down the hall. Your shoulder clipped the doorframe. You didn’t slow down or look back.
Natasha stood just inside the medical room, gloves half-removed, hands still. Her posture was straight, controlled, but there was a stillness to her that hadn’t been there earlier. Like someone bracing after impact instead of before.
The coach exhaled slowly through his nose. “…What did you say?”
Natasha didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I didn’t mean to upset her.” she said first. The coach stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. The click echoed louder than it should have.
“She doesn’t get upset easily.” he said. “She gets..cornered.”
Natasha nodded once. “I noticed.”
She finally pulled the gloves off, dropping them into the bin with more force than necessary. She leaned back against the counter, eyes unfocused for a moment.
“I was doing my job..” she said. “And then I wasn’t.”
The coach crossed his arms, studying her. “What does that mean?”
“I started observing patterns.“ Natasha replied. “Not injuries, but her behavior, compliance. The way she responds to instructions.”
He sighed quietly, that was answer enough.
“God, you asked her something personal..”
Natasha didn’t deny it. “I made an inference out loud.”
“That’ll do it.”
Silence settled between them, but Natasha broke it. “She doesn’t resist treatment. At all. Even when she’s clearly uncomfortable.”
The coach’s jaw tightened. “She follows instructions..” Natasha continued. “Immediately. No negotiation. No pushback. Like she’s learned that compliance keeps things…manageable.”
The coach rubbed a hand over his face, tired in a way that went beyond the day. „Yeah.” he said quietly. “That tracks.”
Natasha looked at him then. “That’s not normal.”
“No.” he agreed. “It’s learned.”
He hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “I don’t tell people this..” he said. “Not because it’s a secret. Because it’s not my story to hand out.” Natasha waited.
“But..” he continued, “you’re working with her now. And you’re observant enough to get yourself into trouble. So maybe you should understand why.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She grew up in a house where you didn’t argue. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t say ‘no’ unless you wanted things to get worse.”
Natasha’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “She learned early that listening was safer than pushing back.“ the coach said. “That if someone was already angry, the fastest way through it was to comply and get it over with.” Natasha stared at the floor now, already knowing what that meant.
“That doesn’t mean she trusts you.“ he added quietly. “It means she’s surviving the interaction.”
“I wasn’t trying to pry.” she said.
“I know.” the coach replied. “That’s the problem.” He stood, pacing once across the small room.
“She didn’t have anyone who asked how things felt.” he said. “Not in a way that mattered. Pain was just… something to manage. Or ignore.” Natasha closed her eyes briefly.
“So when you noticed.” the coach continued, “when you put words to it..“
“I took away her control.” Natasha finished.
The coach nodded. “You named something she’s never had the option to define.”
They stood in silence again, the hum of the ice machine filling the space. “She’ll be angry for a bit.” the coach said eventually. “Not because you were wrong. Because you were close.”
Natasha let out a slow breath. “I don’t intend to push again.”
“Good.” he said. “But don’t disappear either.”
She looked up, surprised. “She needs consistency.” he said. “Not distance. If you pull back completely, she’ll assume she messed up. Or that care is conditional.”
Natasha considered that. “I’ll keep it professional.” she said. The coach gave her a tired half-smile. “You already crossed that line the moment you paid attention.”
He moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it’s worth..“he added, “she doesn’t let just anyone close enough to screw up like that.”
Natasha didn’t smile, but something in her chest eased..just a fraction. After he left, Natasha stayed in the room for a long moment, staring at the empty exam table. She hadn’t meant to hurt you. But she had seen you. And now she knew: the hard part wasn’t treating the wounds..It was learning when not to touch the ones that hadn’t healed yet.
——
Your room was the safest place in the house. Not because it was warm or peaceful, but ecause it was controlled.
The walls were lined with proof. Belts mounted carefully, polished until they caught the light. Medals hanging in neat rows, ribbons faded from sweat and time. Framed photographs: your hand raised in victory, sweat-soaked hair pulled back, eyes fierce and alive under harsh arena lights.
Every inch of the room said I survived.
You sat on the edge of your bed, forearms resting on your thighs, music playing quietly through your speakers. Not loud enough to drown anything out..never that. Just enough to take the edge off the silence. You needed to hear the house: Footsteps, doors, voices changing. The habit had settled into your bones years ago.
Your eyebrow pulled slightly when you frowned, the fresh treatment tight against your skin. You lifted a hand, touched it carefully, then let it drop. Then, a knock came at the door.
“Sweetheart?” your mother’s voice. “Food’s ready.”
You exhaled and stood, slipping into a hoodie before heading downstairs. The kitchen smelled like something warm rice, garlic, oil. Your mother was already at the table, smiling as she set plates down.
“Sit, before it gets cold.” she said.
You ate quietly at first, the way you always did when things felt okay. The clink of forks, the hum of the refrigerator..
“You trained today?” your mother asked, gentle.
You nodded. “Yeah. Light stuff.”
Your mother smiled. “Good. You looked…happy earlier.”
You paused. “I did?”
“Briefly..” your mother said, like she was treasuring the memory. “I like seeing that.”
You felt something twist in your chest. “Yeah..Me too.”
You talked about nothing.. Groceries, a neighbor’s dog. A show your mother wanted to watch later. Small, safe things. For a moment, just a moment it almost felt normal.
But then the front door opened, and the sound was unmistakable. Your shoulders tensed immediately, your fork pausing halfway to your mouth. Your mother’s smile flickered, just slightly, like a candle in a draft.
Footsteps crossed the hall, and your father entered the kitchen with the weight of someone who expected the room to make space for him. He smelled faintly of alcohol and cologne..like always. He smiled broadly, like he was pleased to see you.
“There are my girls..“ he said.
He leaned down, kissed your mother’s head, and then yours. The kiss lingered just a second too long, and you kept your face neutral and you’re eyes on your plate.
He sat, pulled his chair back loudly, picked up his fork. “Smells good.” he said.
You ate in silence for a few minutes. You counted bites, kept your movements small. You could feel his gaze flicking toward your face.
And he noticed something. He always does. “What’s that on your eyebrow?” he asked casually.
Your stomach dropped..Fuck.
“Just a cut.” you said evenly.
He squinted. “Looks treated.”
Your mother stiffened. “Yeah.” you said. “Team medic handled it.”
His fork stopped mid-air. “Medic?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He looked at you fully now. “Why would a medic treat that?”
You swallowed. “Because I got hit.”
He leaned back in his chair. “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”
The question wasn’t curiosity. It was accusation.
Your mother spoke softly. “She had a match yesterday-”
“I wasn’t asking you!” he snapped, eyes never leaving you.
Your jaw tightened. “It’s standard. Cuts get treated, it’s protocol.“
“Standard?” he scoffed. “Since when do you need someone patching you up like you’re fragile?”
“I don’t..” you replied, heat creeping into your voice. “It’s protocol.”
He laughed sharply. “Protocol’s for people who can’t take it..”
You felt the familiar pressure behind your eyes. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh, I know how it works.” he said, voice lowering. “You go soft, you start relying on people, you lose.”
Your mother reached out. “Please-”
“Stay out of it!” he barked.
You stood, and the chair scraped loudly against the floor. “You don’t get to talk to her or about my career like t-that!” you said, voice shaking despite your effort. “You don’t know what it takes!“
His eyes darkened. “I know you wouldn’t be anything without toughness..“ he said. “And I don’t like seeing you handled like you’re weak.”
Something inside you snapped. “I’m not weak!” you said. “And getting medical care doesn’t make me less of a fighter!“
He stood too, and the room felt smaller instantly. “You think you know better than me now?” he asked.
“Yes.” you said. The word hung in the air, and now it’s just silence. Then his hand moved.
The impact echoed in the room, a sharp, hollow sound. You staggered back, shoulder slamming into the counter. Your vision flashed white, your cheek burning.
Your mother cried out, but you didn’t. You straightened slowly, blood pounding in your ears, heart racing, but your face was calm. Your father stared at his hand like he hadn’t meant to move it. His expression wasn’t rage..It was confusion.
Then, he suddenly sat back down, picked up his fork and continued to eat his food.
You didn’t cry, didn’t speak, just turned and walked upstairs. Your movements were steady. Like you’d done this before, because you had. In your room, you grabbed your bag and packed quickly. Clothes, shoes, phone charger.
When you came back downstairs, the kitchen was quiet again. Your father was still eating, and your mother stood near the sink, hands gripping the edge.
You stopped in front of her, snd for a moment, neither of you spoke. The guilt hit hard and sudden..I’m leaving you again. But your mother looked at your face. The red mark already blooming on your cheek, and she smiled. She nodded once.
Go. You swallowed hard, nodded back, and turned toward the door.
A single lamp burned on the desk, casting a warm, tired circle of light over stacks of paperwork. Medical reports, clearance forms. Notes she’d rewritten twice because precision mattered, even when no one was watching.
Outside, the gym had settled into its nighttime rhythm, machines humming, lights dimmed in unused corners, the faint echo of someone hitting a bag two rooms away.
Then, the front door opened, and Natasha’s pen paused mid-word. Footsteps followed in cadence, but heavier than before. She set the pen down and stood.
By the time she reached the edge of her office, she could see the corner of the gym floor, the space most people overlooked. The one with the old mat folded against the wall, a spare blanket tucked into a crate, a duffel bag that didn’t belong to the gym.
And you were there. You hadn’t noticed Natasha yet. You moved like you’d done this before. Unrolling the mat with practiced ease. Setting your bag down just so. Folding the blanket carefully, smoothing out wrinkles like that mattered.
Natasha’s chest tightened, and stepped forward.
“Hey-”
You startled violently. You spun around, hands coming up instinctively, heart slamming so hard Natasha could see it in the rise of your chest. Your eyes were wide for a split second before the recognition hit and then the walls slammed back into place.
“Jesus..” you muttered, dropping your hands. “I didn’t think anyone was still here.”
“I-” Natasha stopped herself, recalibrating. “I was finishing paperwork.”
You nodded once. “Right.”
You turned back to the mat, crouching again, fingers tugging at the edge like if you focused hard enough, the world would leave you alone, and Natasha lingered.
“Hey, I wanted to say-” she began, then tried again, softer. “About earlier. I shouldn’t have-“
“It’s fine.” you cut in immediately.
Natasha recognized that tone now. The one that meant please don’t continue and just leave. But then she saw the mat with a blanket.
“…Are you sleeping here?” Natasha asked.
You didn’t answer at first. Just kept adjusting the blanket, jaw tightening.
“Y/n..” Natasha said carefully.
That did it. You let out a sharp breath and straightened, turning on your heel. “Yes.” you snapped. “I am. Is that a problem?”
Natasha blinked. “No- I just-”
“I just want some peace, okay?” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “That’s it. I don’t want another conversation. I don’t want to explain anything. I just need quiet.”
Natasha held her ground. “This isn’t just about quiet.”
You laughed once, harsh and brittle. “It never is with you, is it?”
Natasha opened her mouth, and then she saw it. The bruise on your cheek. Not gym bruising, not the diffuse swelling of sparring. This was fresh..Blooming dark under the skin.
Natasha went still, her voice dropped instantly. “Who did that?”
You froze. Can’t she just leave?!
Your eyes flicked away. “It’s nothing.”
“No.” Natasha said, stepping closer without thinking. “That’s not from training.”
“I said it’s nothing.”
Natasha’s heart rate spiked, adrenaline snapping into place like muscle memory. “Did someone hit you?” she asked, sharper now.
Your frustration boiled over. “Stop!” you said. “Just-stop.”
Natasha didn’t. She reached out, stopping herself just short of touching your face. “You’re hurt.” she said. “You need-“
“I don’t need anything!” you snapped. “That’s the point!”
Your chest heaved, and you looked so damn exhausted now, not physically, but deep in your bones. Natasha lowered her hand slowly, realizing too late how fast she’d moved, how invasive she must look right now.
“Then do your job or whatever!” you shot back. “Or don’t. But don’t stand there like you’re entitled to answers.”
Silence stretched between you. You looked like you were vibrating with tension: anger, fatigue, something close to panic. You dragged a hand through your hair and turned away, shoulders sagging just slightly.
“I’m too tired to fight this..” you muttered. “You can do whatever you’re going to do. I don’t care anymore.”
Natasha swallowed hard, forcing herself to slow down, to breathe.
“Let me just have a look, nothing more.“ she said gently. You sat on the edge of the mat, elbows resting on your knees, staring at the floor. Natasha knelt in front of you, keeping her movements deliberate and visible.
“I’m not asking questions.” she said quietly. “I’m just checking you.”
You didn’t respond. Natasha examined the bruise carefully, her tone clinical now, grounding herself in procedure.
“No fracture.” she murmured. “Tender?”
You nodded faintly. Natasha’s hands were still steady, but her jaw was tight.
“This isn’t okay.” she said. Your voice came out flat. “It is what it is..”
Natasha looked at you then. The exhaustion, the emotional depletion. The way you’d folded into compliance not because you trusted her, but because you had nothing left to resist with.
And that hit harder than any argument.
You just sat there now, letting Natasha do what she did best, because fighting that felt impossible. And Natasha realized, with aching clarity, that this wasn’t a moment to push.
It was a moment to stay.
Natasha looked at the bruise one last time. Not like a medic searching for complications, she’d already done that, but like someone committing an image to memory. The skin along your cheekbone was swollen, darkening fast. Clean impact, no split skin. No fracture. Painful, yes, but not dangerous.
“It just needs ice.” Natasha said finally.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Told you.”
She stood, packed her kit with efficient, practiced movements, then paused. For a second, it looked like she might say something else, but she didn’t. Instead, she walked back toward her office.
You watched her go, shoulders slowly loosening. That familiar sense of that’s it then settled in. You lay back on the mat, pulled the blanket up, turned slightly onto your side. The gym lights buzzed softly overhead, and you closed your eyes.
Then the click of a light switch. You opened your eyes again, and Natasha’s office light went dark. After that, footsteps approached, and Natasha stopped in front of you.
“Let’s go.” she said.
You frowned, pushing yourself up on one elbow. “What?”
“You’re coming with me.”
“What?” you said immediately. “No.”
Natasha didn’t argue yet. “You’re exhausted.”
“I sleep here all the time.”
“I know.”
That made you bristle. “Then you know it’s fine.”
Natasha crossed her arms loosely, studying you. “You’re not sleeping tonight.“ Natasha said calmly. “You’re going to lie there with your eyes closed and your body on high alert.”
You scoffed. “You don’t know that.”
Natasha met your gaze. “I do.”
You felt the familiar flare of irritation, “I don’t want to go anywhere.“ you said. “I just want to sleep.”
“I’m offering you a place where you can.” Natasha replied.
You shook your head. “I don’t need-”
“I know.” Natasha interrupted gently. “You never do.”
The words weren’t sharp, they weren’t soft either. They were tired.
You looked away, jaw tightening. “I said no..”
Natasha waited. Ten seconds passed, then another. “You don’t have to explain anything.” Natasha said. “You don’t have to talk. You can sleep. That’s it.”
“I’m not-” You stopped yourself. The fight drained out of your voice mid-sentence. “I don’t want to fight this anymore.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Natasha said.
She stepped back slightly, giving you space to choose. You stared at the mat. The blanket, the corner you’d made your own because it asked nothing of you.
“…Fine..” you muttered. “Just- fine.”
Natasha nodded once. “Grab your bag.”
You hesitated when you saw the car. Low, sleek, black. The kind of vehicle that looked like it belonged on an empty highway at illegal speeds, not parked behind a boxing gym.
You blinked. “That’s yours?”
Natasha opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
You did, still eyeing the car. “Didn’t peg you for…this.”
The engine purred to life, smooth and powerful. They pulled out onto the street, city lights sliding past the windows in long streaks of gold and white.
Natasha glanced over at you more than once, not obviously, not enough to feel like staring. Just checking. You sat rigid in the seat, arms crossed loosely over your middle, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Your jaw was tight, shoulders squared like you were bracing for impact that never came.
There was a fight happening inside you. Natasha could see it in the tension of your hands, the way your foot pressed flat against the floor like you were grounding yourself.
“You don’t have to be ready.“ Natasha said quietly, eyes back on the road. “You just have to be here, okay?“
You didn’t respond, but your shoulders dropped just a fraction. The car sped up, engine humming low and steady, carrying you away from the gym, from the house, from the places that had taken too much.
Natasha kept driving, and for the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you had to watch every exit.
