J

25 | she/her | minors dni Masterlist

[marvelfilth]

Undercover (18+)

Pairing: g!p Natasha Romanoff x f!reader

Warnings: smut, fingering, unprotected sex, bj, mafia!Nat, fbi!reader, teasing in public, pet names

Summary: Her eyes grow a shade darker, but the glint in them stays the same. They slide over your body, drinking you in unapologetically. She wants you, you both know it. It might be your only saving grace tonight.

Masterlist

The ballroom looks boring as fuck, which is really weird since it's where Gregorov’s birthday celebration is being held in, and Gregorov is a very flashy man, so you expected at least some of his extravaganza to translate to his parties. But at the same time though, man and disappointment walk hand in hand, so you shouldn't have had your hopes up in the first place.

The giant chandelier hangs in a middle of the room like a fucking death sentence, threatening to fall right on top of your head and kill you instantly. At least it'll be a quick death, better than being stuck here all night, in this ridiculously tight dress. You cast a sideways glance at the heavy maroon curtains, wishing you could just roll up in that velvety fabric and hide your boobs from multiple bald men who do a very bad job at covering their stares. God, you really hate men.

You tug on the tiny little piece of almost see through fabric, trying to cover whatever's left of your dignity.

Why did you even agree to this? An unauthorized mission, with no actual backup, and you're completely out of your element. Clint will be filing your paperwork for months for this.

“You alright there, Cat?”

You huff at the nickname he gave you back when you first joined the FBI, and discreetly turn on the mic on your ear piece.

“Just peachy,” you grumble under your breath, eyes rolling at the sound of Clint's laugh.

“I can see you're enjoying yourself.”

“Uhuh, I'm having the best time of my life.”

“You agreed to this, Cat. I didn't even have to ask you twice,” he says, and you can hear clicking of his keyboard.

“Only because Alice got shot last week. And I thought it would be fun to try something new,” you murmur under your breath, “you know I never do undercover stuff.”

“And now you know why,” he laughs.

“Yes, Clint, now I know why,” you huff, adjusting your dress again.

“You gotta fix that face of yours, your target is approaching. Contact in three-”

Your earcom beeps, signal lost. With a last long-suffering sigh you turn off your comms and turn around sharply, which results in you accidentally spilling some of your champagne on the ridiculously tight shirt of some pimp.

Which is- well… what the fuck, actually?

“You alright?”

You gulp, finally looking up from a very, very full chest and right into the greenest eyes you've ever seen in your life.

“Yes, I'm- Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going.”

Her scorching hot hands are on your waist, stabilising. You don't even have to force your expressions, you're quite literally gobsmacked. This is your target for the night? This exquisitely hot woman in a tailored suit? Why wasn't she in any of the files then? Did Clint make a mistake choosing her?

“No harm done,” she says, and of-fucking-course her voice is all throaty and deep, “except for my shirt.”

“I'm sure you'll survive,” you smile, putting down your glass, “you can't even see the stain.”

She looks down and shakes her head. “I should go get changed upstairs,” she says, with a suggestive glint in her eyes. “Care to join me?”

This is not going well, you decide. You're completely off kilter.

“But I just got here,” you smile, batting your lashes just enough to make it seem almost unintentional, “Don’t you want to dance?”

“Dance?” she husks. “Amidst this boring crowd? I'd rather we dance in private, pretty girl.” She squeezes your waist a little tighter at that, closing down the distance between you to mere inches.

You gulp, looking away for a moment. You're not a fan of the thought yourself, but her proximity is becoming dangerous.

You must take too long to respond because she simply smirks, her hands sliding lower to settle on your hips, and says, “Alright, let's dance.”

She leads you to the center of the room, past familiar faces of mafia bosses and their soldiers. Strangely enough, you don't feel like you're in danger.

She is a good dancer, that much is clear from the very first beat her body follows, tugging you along to join the flow of music. She is fluid and sensual, but respectful at the same time. Her hands, although sure and strong on your hips, never try to sneak lower, past the hem of your dress. Her breaths are hot on your neck and you wish she would lean down and kiss your heated skin.

“You're a good dancer,” you whisper against her ear.

“Mhm,” she hums, turning you around and you grind your ass against her front like a horny high-schooler. You can tell she's already hard, it turns you on even more. “I'm good at a lot of things.” Her hands slide over your stomach almost possessively.

You're enjoying this far too much to concentrate on your mission.

“Tell me about those things then,” you say, angling your head to look her in the eye.

She chuckles, caressing the side of your face with her knuckles. “Are you sure you want to know?”

You hum, your hand sliding over hers, intertwining fingers. “Positive.”

Her proximity makes you forget about protocol, makes you forget about the question you're supposed to be asking. It makes you feel like you're treading on some very dangerous grounds.

“I'm good at getting what I want. That's all you need to know, Cat.”

You stop breathing.

“Don't panic,” she says, burrowing her face in the crook of your neck, her lips moving achingly softly against your skin. “You're safe, I promise.”

“I don't-”

“Don't lie, kitten, I don't do well with liars,” she husks, pushing you tighter against her front. “Do you understand?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“Good. Turn around.”

You swallow, eyes darting around the room, hoping to see someone who could help you. Clint should be watching the cameras, but would he be able to tell something is wrong?

“Don't worry about your friend. He simply fell asleep in his cheap van,” she chuckles, “did you really have to use every cliché for this little mission of yours?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fucking shit. Now what?

You internally groan, but turn around, not wanting to aggravate the woman.

Her eyes grow a shade darker, but the glint in them stays the same. They slide over your body, drinking you in unapologetically. She wants you, you both know it.

It might be your only saving grace tonight.

She starts leading you, slowly bringing you back into a dance.

“What was the plan?” She asks, entirely focused on your cleavage.

You blink. “What?”

She lifts your chin with her fingers, pushing your faces close. “After you got your answers, were you going to get me drunk and leave? Or…” Her other hand finally slides lower to sneak under the hem of your dress, making you whimper quietly.

“Yes,” you say, not wanting to hear the alternative.

She hums, her fingertips now at the edge of your panties. “I don't believe you.”

You bite on your lower lip and hide your face in her shoulder. You're in the middle of a fucking ballroom, with a goddamn death chandelier hanging over your heads, and her hand is- fuck, her hand is so close.

“If I didn't show up,” she says, “all of this would've been for someone else?” Her tone is full of jealousy and you don't understand why.

“No,” you say, and it's not a lie, “I wouldn't have let anyone touch me.”

“Good,” she husks, and her fingers finally slip past the fabric of your underwear.

You moan into her shoulder, eyes rolling back from the intensity of your pleasure.

“Please, stop,” you whimper, “please… not here.”

To your astonishment, she stops.

“Alright, kitten,” she murmurs and both of her hands settle on your waist.

You cling to her still, your legs almost shaking with arousal.

“Thank you.”

She chuckles and you feel the sound travel all the way from her chest. It makes you all warm inside.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, “you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into.”

With that, she takes hold of your hand and starts weaving you through the crowd, heading for the grand staircase. You don't risk saying anything, unwilling to attract even more attention than you already have.

The door to her room locks with a quiet click, separating you from the party below.

The woman stands to the side, watching.

“What’s your name?” You ask, panting.

“Take off your comms.”

Your teeth grind.

“Now.”

You huff and throw her the earpiece.

She checks if it's on before carelessly throwing it out of the window.

“Natasha.”

You frown, because you don't know any Natashas. You mentally go through every file you have on the local criminals and you know for sure that Natasha was never mentioned.

“I thought you didn't like liars.”

She smirks. “I'm not lying.”

Right. Fuck. Is she even important or did Clint make a mistake? This evening was a long shot from the start, but now you truly feel like you can kiss your job goodbye.

“Alright, Natasha, why am I here?”

She looks at you for a long moment, before shrugging off her jacket.

“I've been watching you,” she says, “you've become a problem for me.”

For a moment, you stop breathing. “You've been watching me.”

“For quite a long time now.”

Alright, maybe she is important.

You stand with your hand on the doorknob, ready to run out at any sign of danger. She seems unbothered, amused even. Her brow is raised in silent curiosity, almost like she wants you to do something. Whatever you do will be stupid, you're sure. You're also sure she's counting on you to do something stupid.

Fuck.

“Why?”

She shrugs, “You’ve shut down some of my organisation, which is not a lot, but still more than any other agent, and you got one of my trusted advisors. She is one of my best and you-” she stops, hesitating for a moment, “You’re good.”

You should be terrified, but you're not. Her words only make your panties wetter. Your grip on the doorknob starts to hurt.

“Not at espionage, though,” she adds, teasing.

“I'm more of a guns blazing kind of girl.”

She nods, leaning against the wall, the low light hitting her in all the right places. Your hungry eyes slide down her body. She's so hard you can see her bulge from here.

“So what? You'll fuck me and then you'll kill me?”

She looks up, amused. “No, I'll fuck you so good you'll switch sides.”

You would've laughed if you weren't so fucking turned on. “Never happening.”

Her brow quirks, but she stays silent, slowly unbuttoning her blouse. You turn away at the first sight of her bra. She laughs, the sound accompanied by the click of her belt being undone.

You curse under your breath, closing your eyes.

“Come here,” she breathes.

You shake your head no.

She gets closer and tugs you away from the door. You follow blindlessly.

“You want this.” She stops right behind you, fingertips ghosting over the skin of your back. “I felt how bad you want me, kitten. I felt you right on my fingers, so slick, so hot,” she breathes into your ear, her front pressing against the skin of your back.

You suck in a sharp breath, barely holding back from aching against her. She doesn't waste any time, hands settling on your hips, grinding her cock flush against your ass even with both of your clothes in the way.

“Say yes,” she whispers before pressing a hot, wet kiss to your bare shoulder. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you moan, reaching back and digging your fingers into her neck, pushing her face closer. “Fuck, yes, Natasha.”

You spent a lot of time and money on your dress, almost half of your paycheck. You don't feel a single bit of regret when she rips it off your body.

No, the thing that you feel is far from regret.

“Good,” she husks, stepping back for a better view of your backside. You hear a sharp inhale and suddenly her hands are all over your ass, squeezing roughly. You bite back a whimper as one of her hands slides up your side to hover over your naked breasts - your dress didn't allow for a bra, it would've been a disgrace to such beauty.

She molds her body against yours, not leaving an inch of space between you as she starts leaving wet kisses along your shoulder.

“Please,” you mumble, feeling your wetness slide down the inner side of your leg, “touch me.”

The answer chuckle sounds rough and a slightest bit mocking. “I am touching you.”

You push back against her, wriggling your ass against her. “Fuck me or I'll do it myself.”

Her hands slide away from your body to give you a slight shove towards the bed. “Be my guest.”

You can only gape at her smug smirk as she walks toward the bar, seemingly not caring about you, wet and wanting.

She fills a glass with something undoubtedly foul tasting and drags a heavy wooden chair to the side of the bed. She sits, legs spread, her pants undone and her shirt unbuttoned all the way, revealing a black bra. Her eyes stick to your panting chest as she takes a long sip.

“Start.” Her tone leaves no room for objection, clearly used to commanding every room she's in.

For a moment, you entertain the idea. It would feel good to lay on the bed and push two- no, three of your fingers inside, to finally let the pressure go, to do as she asks while she watches. You crawl across the bed on all fours, watching as her pupils blow even wider when she realises you're not planning on laying down and taking whatever she has to offer.

Two can play this game.

You lean over her, taking the glass from her hand and chucking it across the room. And then you kiss her. Hard.

She doesn't hesitate to return it with even more fervour, burying her finger in the threads of your hair and tugging you down hard. You fall onto her lap, unbalanced, your hands landing on her strong shoulders. Her hands slide over your back when you finally settle comfortably, grinding in desperate search of friction.

“Fuck,” she croaks, biting on the skin under your jaw. “You look so good, kitten.” She tugs at your nipple with one hand while the other-

“Fuck, yes!” You cry out as she tugs at the hem of your underwear, adding to the pressure.

She hums, clearly satisfied with your reaction, and then rips it off.

“Yes,” you moan, just as her fingers sink inside. “Feels so- so good.” Your head is thrown back as you bounce on her lap, meeting her thrusts. Your pussy clenches around her long digits and you're so close it's almost embarrassing.

“Look at me.”

You don't think you can, but then she grasps the back of your head and forces you to meet her eyes.

She looks completely fucking hooked.

You come hard, moaning loudly and shaking violently, but you don't look away. The wild glint in her eyes should scare you, but it does the opposite.

You want to drown in her.

She pulls out, and without missing a bit you take her fingers and lead them to your mouth, greedily sucking on your own wetness.

“Naughty girl,” she says, slowly moving her fingers inside your mouth. In and out. You take them deep until they almost hit the back of your throat, enjoying the way her other hand flexes on your thigh, gripping with strength.

Her fingers leave your mouth, leaving you to pout in disappointment before she roughly grips your ass and gets up in one swift move, your thighs snug around her waist.

God.

You waste no time, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss, tongue licking at the bottom one in search of entrance. She throws you on the bed before you're granted one.

Her shirt slides down her arms along with her bra, her pants soon follow before she's left only in her underwear. You swallow, chest heaving, and spread your legs.

She hisses a breath, and the next second she's on top, fitting in the space between your thighs. She leaves biting kisses down your neck, before finally lowering her mouth on your nipple, her soft lips enveloping the bud.

You moan loudly, back arching, your naked pussy slides against her crotch. “Take it off,” you plead, tugging on the elastic of her briefs. “Want you inside.”

“Patience,” she mumbles against your breasts, “is a virtue.”

“Natasha,” you pant, "please.”

But she's unrelenting, even with her cock rock hard. You make a split second decision and hook your leg over hers before flipping your positions.

She falls against the pillow, surprised, and you don't give a chance to gather her bearings before you slide her underwear down her thighs to reveal her length.

“Fuck,” you moan at the sight. Her cock is leaking precum and you catch it with your tongue, sliding it all the way up to the pink head. She moans loudly, taking a hold of your head.

“I won't be gentle,” she warns.

You smile, lips pressed to her length. “Good.”

She hisses and pushes your mouth down her cock. You almost gag on the length, feeling her head hit the back of your throat. She's big, bigger than anyone you've had before.

It's a good thing you're an overachiever.

You suck like a woman starved, letting her use your mouth to her own pleasure, her body taut as a bowstring as she thrusts into your mouth, her head thrown back. You moan around her head when she pulls out, giving you a chance to breathe before she pounds back in.

“You have such a perfect mouth,” she grunts, voice strained from pleasure. “I'm gonna fill it with my come.”

You hum around her length, on a brink of orgasm yourself, but keep moving your head, readily meeting her thrusts. Her body strains before she comes with a final snap of her hips, painting your throat white. She pants while you swallow it all before licking away the last drops of her cum.

“Come here,” she rasps.

You rise from your position, kissing your way up her gorgeous body all the way up to her breasts, but you're not granted a chance to savor them, she flips you over before you can.

She leans over you now, your head caged between her elbows, her still rock hard cock tight against your pussy. She hisses when she feels just how wet and ready you are, her jaw grinds in a way that probably hurts.

She takes her thick shaft and slowly positions it at your entrance, her head sliding down your folds to collect some of your arousal.

She thrusts all of herself at once, not giving you a chance to take a breath before she's pounding into you like a wild animal. Your walls clench around her as she fucks you into the mattress, her balls slapping against your wet skin.

“Such a tight pussy,” she pants, taking hold of your neck with a slight squeeze, “it's mine now. You're all mine.”

“Yes,” you moan, throwing your legs around her hips, caging her between her legs, desperate to keep her close. She squeezes your breast and plays with your nipple, making your arch into her, before forcing your legs over her shoulders, her cock now hitting deeper. You cry out loudly, your whole body moving with the force of her thrusts.

“God, yes!” you moan, and her hand on your neck squeezes harder making you choke on your words.

“That’s my kitten,” she praises and presses her thumb on your clit. Your eyes well with tears from unimaginable pleasure.

“N- Tasha,” you whine, squeezing your fingers around her wrist, “I can't-,” you gasp, nails digging into her soft skin, “gonna come.”

She lets your legs drop from her shoulders and keeps them spread with a tight hold on your hips, your throat now free of her palm. You whine at the loss, but she makes up for it with a biting kiss, leaving a blooming bruise in the side of your neck.

“Come for me,” she whispers into your ear, thrusting balls deep into your aching heat, “be a good girl and come for me.”

You come with a loud cry, tears spilling down your cheeks. She catches each one with her lips before placing one on your lips, swallowing your moans. Her thrusts become sloppy as your pussy clenches around her straining cock, and you realise she's holding back.

“Don't-” you gasp, “Don't pull out.” Your legs clench around her hips, holding her in place. “Come inside me, please,” you mewl, the thought of her coming anywhere but inside your pussy making your head spin with regret. “Please.”

She growls, fully letting go, and takes your hand in hers, guiding it to your stomach. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when you feel her bulge tearing you apart, another orgasm fast approaching.

“All mine,” she mutters, pressing down, “Say it,” she says with a deep thrust.

“Yours,” you moan, not caring about the consequences. “I'm yours.”

She comes with a loud moan, the feeling of her hot come makes your pussy swallow it all in with a blinding orgasm. Your body shakes as she continues to fuck you, letting you both stretch out the pleasure until it becomes too much.

She pulls out and falls limp beside you, one arm over your waist, her face buried in your hair.

“You're staying the night,” she snuggles closer and you let her.

“Okay.”

You're too tired to move anyway.

××××××

Thoughts?

[marvelfilth]

ILL PM YOU A LINK WHEN I POST IT !!

hope you’re doing alright!!

YESSSSS

Hope you’re doing well too!!

[marvelfilth]

IM IN MIRANDY HEAVEN

started writing for them too

OMG WES

you can’t just say something like that

SHARE RN

[marvelfilth]

Jenna being friends with/possibly dating a nazi abuser…

What the actual fuck

[marvelfilth]

Apparently it’s not as bad as it sounds. The nazi stuff is from ~10 years ago, he never did that again (from what I could find) and the abuse claims are likely false

He’s still an addict, but yeah it’s her choice ig

[marvelfilth]

Jenna being friends with/possibly dating a nazi abuser…

What the actual fuck

[marvelfilth]

just watched an 8:20 spoiler review for scream 7 and i’m not even gonna pirate that shit it genuinely looks so bad😭-💵

The only thing I’m curious about is how they explained Sam and Tara’s absence

[marvelfilth]

Hi! Do you ever plan on finishing Off The Deep End? It’s okay if not. It’s one of my favorite fics on here

Sorry to say it, but it’s abandoned

No plans for it anytime soon 🥲

[marvelfilth]

so i watched scream 7 and it was not good. i stand by everyone needing to boycott it. it revolved around ai…. and the killers were people w like a minute screen time 💔 + the motive was awful

it was horrible, but the kills were definitely brutal and good

Hope you pirated it

[marvelfilth]

Enjoy your boycott and protest, but the OG cast of Scream will never be boycotted. They'll always have love and support from fans, REAL fans. And you can die mad about it too.

Oh man… I already told you I’m not reading the shit you’ve messaged me

Do you have a life? If not, get one please

[marvelfilth]

your post about boycotting scream 7 was my yearly reminder of how fine sam is so thank you-💵

You’re welcome 🙂‍↕️

[marvelfilth]

Yes. I will literally give you my first born if I had one ofc lol if it meant getting an Angel part 2,3,4, etc

Tempting 🤔

[marvelfilth]

PLEASE!!!! I need an angel part 2 😭😭😭 I WILL LITERALLY GIVE YOU ANYTHING!!

What about your firstborn? (unless it’s a boy, then you can keep him)

[marvelfilth]

Imagine the amount of content we would’ve had by now…

anyways boycott scream 7 and the og cast, the old shits can choke on the money they so badly wanted

[marvelfilth]

Wonder what kind of reaction that gay hockey series would get if the main character was israeli and not russian

Y’all really do pick and choose huh

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: requested by a very dear reader on wattpad :)

summary: based on the song by justin timberlake; SHIELD agent!reader, iron man 2!nat because i rewatched it recently and goddamn 🤤

warnings: smut (fingering, n receiving), blood, descriptions of injuries

word count: 11.5k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Practiced hands adjust seams and smooth over her arms. The fabric doesn't bunch, which is good — it wouldn't be practical during a fight. You tighten the straps around her thighs, making sure they're snug and secure, and then look up.

Natasha smiles at you and cups your jaw. Her thumb brushes along your bottom lip.

"Taking your time?"

"More like stalling."

It's dark in your lab. Machines whir, scanners beep occasionally. You're crouched in front of her, fitting and prepping her suit pre-mission. You've done this dozens of times. It's how everything started between you and her.

Back then, you couldn't believe your luck (you still can't), because who would've thought that being her weapons specialist would lead to what you have now? In hindsight, however, it makes sense.

It's intimate. It's quiet. It builds trust. You know her better than most people around here, which is a privilege. You know her favorite types of knives, how she likes her suit fitted, what exactly she needs to be able to perform at her best.

And then, afterwards, you go home. Other things matter, like her favorite candy (sour patch kids) or the show she's currently watching.

You adjust the suit around her waist, fingers skimming her hips. You secure a few holsters, attach some knives, and then straighten up. You feel her lips against yours before you can even look at her again.

Deep, firm, slow. Savoring it. You cup her face before slowly moving your hands into her hair. The curls are soft between your fingers.

She pulls away, but you can still taste her breath. Her lips curve into a sweet little smirk.

"Stalling, huh?", she mumbles, glancing at your lips. You lick them and taste the lip balm she loves so much.

"Yeah. They take a while. Missions, I mean."

"I'll be back before you know it."

Your hands trail down her sides again. You absently adjust her knives.

"Not soon enough", you say, pecking her lips. "Who's joining you this time?"

Natasha tilts her head. "I'm not telling you."

You frown. Truthfully, it might be for the better that you don't know. Depending on who it is, the answer might end up making you waltz up to said person and show her off just to make a point.

Mine. Seriously. Look, don't touch. Actually, don't even look.

She smiles and steps away. You quickly snake your arm around her waist and tug her back into you.

"I want an answer", you insist. Her hands splay out on your chest, toying with the zipper of your SHIELD vest. "For safety."

"Remember that lie detector test you took?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What's your point?"

She grasps your bottom lip. "No wonder you failed. You're miserable at it."

"Not necessarily a bad thing."

"Never said that's the case."

She steps away and gathers her stuff — her favorite gun, her backpack, her Widow's Bites that she puts on. You stand there, watching her, arms crossed and mind running in circles.

Hopefully, she's not going with Valerie. What they had was barely a relationship, but the entire organization knows that she's still pining for Natasha.

Or Ward. Nothing happened between them, to be fair, but you heard him call her 'eye candy' once.

Was he wrong? No. Did you mess with his suit anyway, just so it'd smell like something had rotted in it? Possibly.

"Be careful", you mutter, still slightly disgruntled.

"Always am." She shoulders her backpack. "Hands off Ward's stuff."

Your head snaps upward. "What? I didn't-"

"Lie detector test, honey."

You grunt, rubbing the back of your neck. Natasha puts her foot up on a chair to adjust the strap around her thigh. You catch yourself staring.

Behind you, something starts beeping rapidly. You quickly walk back to your and curse quietly. One of the new high tech gadgets you've been tinkering with has started sparking.

Natasha glances at you, trying not to smile. "New?"

"Of course", you mutter, trying to find what the issue is this time. You reach for the pliers and cut one of the wires. "Goddammit."

"Don't burn yourself."

You sigh and put the gadget aside. How unfortunate — you've been putting a lot of time and energy into this little project. It's a small gadget, merely the size of your palm, but its impact would've been huge. It's multifunctional, designed to help agents hack into databases, unlock different kinds of locks, even scan rooms for traps.

Of course, you mainly had Natasha in mind when designing it. She's complained about similar issues a couple times in the past, and the idea struck you when you were lying in bed together.

Whatever. Looks like you'll have to keep working. In the end, it doesn't matter whether you put ten weeks or ten months into it — as long as it'll end up making her life safer and easier.

"You're nerding out again", Natasha says, suddenly behind you, and presses a kiss to your exposed neck. Your cheeks flare up. "I'm leaving."

"A goodbye, maybe?", you say, turning to face her halfway. She pauses, then cups your jaw with one hand and puts the other on the small of your back.

She's not used to this yet. This having-someone-to-say-goodbye-to, tender thing. Having someone who wants that goodbye, and the obligatory kiss that follows. Someone who'll wait in the hangar when she returns. Someone who'll check up on her.

How couldn't you, though? The reason why you're doing it is standing right in front of you. You'd be an idiot not to care like this.

"Don't go all sentimental on me", she mumbles, finally kissing you.

It's softer this time, lingering even after she's already parted from you. You walk her to the jet, where the pilot is waiting already. Another kiss, a bit quicker, then she turns around. You watch her leave, red curls bouncing slightly as she climbs into the jet.

. . .

SHIELD's hallways are never quiet, never silent, never empty. There's always someone wandering about — whether it be security or agents getting from one place to another.

It's not different tonight. You're walking through hallways, boots thudding against concrete floors and your hands tucked into your vest. Comparing you to a dog would be stupid, but you're not too unlike Hachi in that moment.

You round a corner, greet a fellow agent and check the time. 2.40am, so Natasha should be arriving in about ten minutes. You run your hand through your hair and step into the hangar, where Fury is waiting already.

You give him a quick side eye. "Another one of those?"

"Immediate debriefing. Not much time, Y/L/N." He raises his eyebrows. "What're you up for this early?"

"Nat", you say evasively. "I always wait for her."

He nods. It's not that your private relationship isn't known around here. You've been seen kissing, sneaking into each other's workspaces, flirting over lunch and leaving together a bunch of times. But Fury always seems to assume that it just isn't that serious. That it can't be that serious.

You know what he bases that assumption on. It's not fair, or right, but you can't change the mind of a man who's as stubborn as a mule.

He'll always see Natasha as the person he was first introduced to. The girl from the Red Room, who wouldn't let anyone get too close to her. The one with the trauma, the one who built walls too high to climb and too thick to take down.

It's bullshit. You know it is because you've seen the proof. You've held it in your hands, you've seen it in a way no one else is allowed to. Which is exactly why you won't tell him about it, though. There are different ways in which you can protect someone.

You hear the spinning of engine blades, still muffled but slowly increasing in decibel level. As the jet nears the hangar, the sound gets less and less bearable. If it were only slightly louder, it'd cause you pain.

You walk down the stairs as soon as the jet has touched down. The moment Natasha steps out, though, your stomach turns.

Valerie, in all her glory. Straight black hair, a little nose piercing, her hand resting on your girlfriend's lower back and steadying her. She mumbles something and laughs before Natasha can even react properly.

In that moment, you're glad you left your taser in your office. Giving her a quick little shock probably wouldn't sit too well with Fury, and you're pretty sure Natasha wouldn't love it, either.

Thankfully, she spots you before you can say anything stupid. She's next to you in the blink of an eye, smiling softly, secretively, and squeezing your hand. She doesn't dare do much else, but that's fine. Just like that, Hachi is back home.

You wrap your arms around her and kiss the top of her head. Her head rests against your chest, if only briefly.

"How was it?", you mumble, ignoring the fact that the Director is trying to talk to the woman wrapped up in you. She tips her face up, letting your lips brush against her nose.

"Exhausting and painful", she replies, voice soft.

"No Ward?"

"Careful there."

"Can't blame me for asking." You glance in Valerie's direction pointedly. Natasha pinches your side. "What's she doing here?"

Natasha sighs and kisses your cheek. A rare moment of PDA meant to calm you down, but it ends up having the opposite effect. Valerie gives you a look that's entirely too long. You frown and turn back to Natasha again, your arms tightening around her.

Your little moment gets disrupted by none other than Fury. He pats your back with a little too much force, so you let out a long-suffering exhale and let go of her. Right, the debriefing. Another hour spent here, waiting.

You trail through the hallways, following Natasha like a guard dog. The debriefing room is familiar, with its black leather swivel chairs and long table. A fancy high tech screen hanging on the wall, a projector, the shutters closed so that not a single photon can escape.

You sit next to her. Obviously. She raises her eyebrows at you, but truthfully, she should be glad you didn't just say 'screw it' and pull you into her lap.

Fury stares at you like you just shapeshifted into an actual dog. You weren't part of the mission. All you did was prep her gear and fit her suit. You don't belong here. Yet you waltzed in like you do, and no one seems to be complaining.

Grinning faintly, you put your legs up on the table and cross your arms behind your head. You nod lazily.

"Feel free to start, Sir."

Another stare. A sigh, long and loud. He rubs his forehead and finally turns on the projector. A bunch of mission jargon, accompanied by a map and a few pictures, appear on the screen.

An hour turns into two. You leave the debrief room with your arm around her shoulders. You're tired, but she's drained. You know she'd never admit to it — you know she tends to push herself no matter what; even on the brink of death, she'd keep fighting — but you can see the signs.

The blinking, slightly more frequent. The redness in her eyes. The way her voice softens into a mumble.

She barely says anything on the way home. But as soon as you've entered her apartment, she pulls you into the bedroom with her. You're the one who fitted her suit, who made sure it's like a second layer of skin on her. You know every strap and zipper, and you undo them all blindly.

Your vest is shrugged off. It lands on the floor. Boots are toed off and kicked aside. Bodies fall onto the mattress together.

Right as you're kissing down her neck, hands wandering over her body, you feel something that shouldn't be there. A bandage, around her thigh, with dried blood on it.

First, you stare. Then, Natasha puts her fingers under your chin and tips your head up.

"You know what I think about you doing that."

You almost grimace. She hates it when people stare at her wounds and scars. It's not just a pet peeve — it's a deeply rooted insecurity. It's only a small part of what she tends to cover.

In that moment, though, you don't care. Because you know what Valerie was for on this mission. She was there to watch Natasha's back, to make sure she wouldn't get hurt.

"She failed", you say, sitting up. Natasha sighs and rests her upper body on her forearms. "She had one job-"

"And she made a mistake."

"One that could've killed you!"

"Do you really think I'm that easy to kill? Trust me, she's helpful, but she's not the reason the mission was successful."

You snort derisively. Not because of her, but because she thinks she has to remind you. Of course you know all of this. There's a reason as to why Natasha is so feared, why Fury values her so much. But you're looking for things that'll help you win this argument.

It's not really an argument. You're just pissed at her ex.

"I'm aware", you say, fingers brushing against the bandage again. "Still, you know...what's the point of her joining if you end up getting shot at, anyway?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, silently challenging you. Do you really want to hear this?

"Oh, come on."

"You're ridiculous."

"Okay, maybe I am", you concede. "You're still the one with a bullet wound, though."

She flops backwards onto the mattress. You sigh and crawl on top of her, hands braced next to her head, and kiss her.

She grasps the front of your top, lips pressing against yours firmly, essentially shutting you up.

Well, it shuts you up for exactly five hours. The second you're back at the headquarters in the morning, you drop Natasha off and then make your way to the gym. Boots thud, your steps heavy and determined.

You push open the door with such force that it slams against the wall, but Valerie doesn't bat an eye. She's on the treadmill, warming up, her hair in a sleek ponytail and her clothes tight. There's a band around her wrist that measures her vitals.

She barely glances at you. You stomp to her side and tug the earphones out of her ears. Another glance, slightly annoyed.

"What?”

"What do you mean, 'what'? You're the reason my girlfriend has to take antibiotics!"

She stops the treadmill and leans on one of the handrails. You'd love to wipe that look off her face — smug, unimpressed, almost daring. You used to be naive. You used to believe that no one could be that petty. Natasha's ex managed to prove you wrong.

"She's fine", she says, sounding like she's explaining the concept of love to a toddler. You clench your jaw. "She's not even in med bay. They sent her home."

"'Fine'? She got shot at! You were there to prevent it, and what did you do?"

"I tried", she replies curtly. She straightens back up and turns the treadmill on again, but you slam your fist on the stop-button. "What's with you and those anger issues?"

"You tried? You don't go there to try! You go there to do your fucking job!"

Valerie raises her eyebrows at you. You've never been nice to her, no, but you've never snapped at her like this. Truthfully, she thinks it's ridiculous. It makes her wonder why Natasha bothers being with you, but that's a thought she's not going to voice unless she has to.

"She's alive", she says, leaning back against the other handrail this time. Her arms cross in front of her chest.

"Oh, and that's enough? It's the bare minimum! I need to be able to trust you that you'll protect her!"

"No, you don't", she says. "Nat trusts me, and that's enough."

You almost flip the treadmill she's on, but that'd be overkill, so you lean over the handrail and grip it tightly.

"Not enough, apparently. Otherwise-"

"Agent Y/L/N."

You turn around, blinking. As soon as you see Fury's face, you almost roll your eyes. Of course. Who else would it be but the man who could fire you.

You put some space between you and Valerie to make it seem like you weren't about to chew her out.

"Yes, Director?", you ask, trying your best to seem normal.

"Romanoff's asking for you."

Maybe you should be embarrassed that those few words are enough to make you perk up, but honestly, you don't care. She's asking for you, not Valerie. When she needs to talk, she talks to you. You're jealous, and that's fine, but deep down you know there's no reason to be.

You shoot Valerie a pointed glance, then leave the gym.

. . .

"You're insane", she says, combing her fingers through your hair.

You're in the rec room, which is only empty because almost everyone is at lunch. Natasha, on the other hand, received a sweet little text that made her tug you away from the cafeteria.

She's straddling your lap, hands all over you. In the sweatpants and tank top she's wearing, you can barely focus. Too bad there are security cameras all over this place. The storage room falls flat as well. 'Too dirty', she said. 'So much dust.'

Though, if you hook up at work once, it might affect your performance for the rest of your career.

"She had it coming", you say stubbornly. Natasha raises her eyebrows. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what, exactly?"

You shift under her. She clicks her tongue and cups your face. "May as well tell me."

If only it were that easy. You doubt she hasn't noticed how Valerie stares at her, how she still seeks her out, how she wants what's clearly taken. You don't have ownership over her — obviously not, god forbid — but you're selfish. You know you are. If you could keep her to yourself, you would.

"The point is-"

"The point is you're overthinking this", she cuts you off. "Val and I are on good terms..."

(The nickname makes you fume. You bite your tongue.)

"...and I don't need to end up in a spat with a coworker." She pushes her finger into your chest. "And neither do you."

No reply. You stare at her, tongue between your teeth, a million unsaid things on your tongue. You're not sure if she hasn't realized or if she simply doesn't care, but you do have your reasons. Valerie is annoying, and she's petty, and she hovers around Natasha like she has any right to do so.

You don't like this feeling, either — this all-consuming jealousy. It's not something you're used to. But something about that woman just drives you up the wall.

"Fine", you mutter. "Fine, I'll let it go."

"You better."

"I still don't like her."

"Fair. I guess."

Natasha pecks your lips and scoots off your lap. You watch her grab the coffee pot and pour a generous amount. Sugar, no milk. Back to work it is.

You pick her up once you're both done with your shifts. Arm wrapped around her shoulders, you make sure to walk past Valerie's desk on your way out. She doesn't look at you, but her typing on the keyboard speeds up.

"Ha", you mumble.

"What was that?"

You shake your head and kiss her ear. She squirms at the feeling.

"Doesn't matter. I'm happy now, angel."

. . .

"Whose idea was this?"

"Hill", Natasha says, reapplying lipstick. You're in the elevator that leads to the building's top floor, but you're not here for work. It's Fury's birthday, and apparently Maria Hill decided that the grumpy old man deserves a proper celebration.

You're leaning against the wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of your slacks, an absentminded look in your eyes. A gift is tucked under your arm, your shirt is open at the top, but it's not your reflection that's got you this distracted. It's Natasha, looking at herself in the mirror and gently blotting her lips. Hair freshly curled and dress hugging all her curves, she looks unfairly sinful for an office celebration.

"Doubt he even wants a party", you mumble, eyes trailing lower. You exhale quietly. "That dress is a blessing, you know."

"So dramatic", she says, smiling faintly. "I'm not complaining. I want to see him get drunk. Think that’ll change his grumpy attitude?"

You hum. The elevator dings and comes to a stop, so Natasha links her arm around yours. You step into the hallway, her heels clicking with every step. You can already hear the music and feel the bass thump.

“Nothing could change it”, you say, eyes on her. She tilts her head. “A real Fury the Grouch.”

“Sesame Street?”

“I babysat my niece while you were gone. Don’t ask.”

Natasha laughs, the sound soft and raspy and genuine. She tugs you into an empty corner, hands finding the collar of your shirt, and brings her lips up to yours.

“Good thing you’re not a grouch. And even better that I know exactly how to turn a grumpy you back into a happy you.”

“It’s quite easy”, you affirm. Your hands slide to the curve of her back, keeping her close. “It involves you and the disposal of a dress.”

“Charmer”, she whispers.

Cheeks reddened, you smile. You lean in, slowly, and steal that kiss you’ve been waiting for since you stepped out of your apartment.

She tastes like mint and something entirely hers. Her fingers grasp your collar tightly, her skin is warm under your palms. She nods her head to deepen the kiss, one hand finding the back of your neck.

“Romanoff, Y/L/N! You really have no shame, do you?”

You pull away with a quiet groan and shoot a glare at the offender. Of course it’s Ward, because who else would it be but SHIELD’s most annoying agent.

Natasha doesn't even glance at him. She just smiles at the sight of your mouth, smudged with her lipstick, and swipes her thumb across your lips.

"Not your color", she says thoughtfully.

"Agreed", Ward says, putting a tray of horsd'œuvres down next to you. “You guys hungry? Probably not, since you’re eating each other’s faces. The salmon’s good, though.”

“Can you creep someone else out?”, you mutter.

Natasha smiles at you, which is enough to soften your attitude a little. Ward rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, Fury gets uncomfortable when someone holds hands. But keep the girl-on-girl action going, I’m not complaining.”

“I’ll shoot you”, you say, gripping Natasha’s waist.

He lifts his hands. “You can try.”

“That’s enough”, your girlfriend mumbles, patting your side. “Stay here for a moment, hm? I’m getting us something to drink.”

You hum reluctantly, staying in your spot against the wall. With your hands losing the purpose of holding Natasha’s waist, you have no other choice but to tuck them into your pockets.

She’s already halfway to the bar, hips swaying and red curls moving with every step. You sigh quietly and turn your head. The way you scan the crowd isn’t deliberate, but it’s purposeful. It’s you making sure that nobody is staring too hard.

You’re fine with Natasha getting looked at. Somewhat fine, that is. You know she’s gorgeous, and that others can see that too. Humans can’t help it — if something’s beautiful, they stare at it.

Or avert their eyes. Which is what happened when you first met her. But knowing you wouldn’t get anywhere with that attitude, you’d forced yourself to get your shit together. Thankfully, you didn’t make an idiot out of yourself. It worked out.

You still remember it all. First dates, leaning against bars and sipping whiskey. Getting to know her. Sleeping with her. The tingling feeling in your stomach whenever your phone made a sound — a text? A call?

That hasn’t changed. You still hope it’s her behind every phone call, every text.

Natasha leans over the bar and mumbles her order to the bartender. He nods and turns around. Valerie slides closer. Just like that, the mood shifts. It’s like a storm rolled in.

You’re somewhere between making a beeline for the bar and staying right where you are. After what happened last week, you’re sure she wouldn’t appreciate an unwarranted interruption by her girlfriend right now.

They’re talking, that’s it. Just a brief chat. They’re co-workers, after all. Friends. Exes. It’d be selfish of you not to let her have this, right? Even if they’re connected by history.

But Valerie’s getting closer. If you were in Natasha’s spot, you’d probably feel her breath and smell the cigarette she smoked.

You subtly feel for the gun tucked into your belt. It’s always there. Not a moment of peace for you, but you’ve gotten used to it.

Natasha smiles. Valerie tilts her head, scoots closer. Your heart beats faster.

Natasha gets up and turns around. Valerie stares at her, blinking. You quickly push off the wall to meet her halfway.

She wraps her arm around yours neck and holds the glass to your lips, tipping it. Vodka burns in your throat, your eyes water, and you pull away enough to kiss her. She hums, sucking the remaining alcohol off your tongue.

“What was that for?”, you mumble, rubbing her side.

“Thought you needed it. Tried to stop you from breaking her nose.”

“Oh, you…” You huff. “Alright.”

“You’re everything but subtle”, she reveals, putting the empty shot glass aside. “And shooting her really isn’t necessary, baby.”

You roll your eyes. Natasha smirks and tilts her head, nose brushing against your jaw. Her hand cups the side of your face. Your cheek feels warm beneath the pad of her thumb.

“I don’t know why you’re this chill”, you mutter.

“Because I know that Val can be sad and desperate”, she whispers. Her hand moves to your shirt, and she undoes another button. Palm against your chest, she feels your steady heartbeat. “And it’s you who’s taking me home tonight.”

You put your hand on her wrist, holding her hand in place. Your eyes slowly trail back to the bar, to Valerie; and when your eyes meet, she knocks back another shot.

She's looked pissed off before, but never like this. Time to amp up the heat.

"Taking you home, huh?", you mumble, glancing at Natasha's lips. "You're optimistic."

Natasha raises her eyebrows at you. Her hand, still on your chest, slides back up and into your hair. "What're you saying?"

"I'm saying..." You lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I don’t want to wait. Let me touch you."

She exhales. Her head tilts, her eyes search yours. What you’re doing is painfully obvious, but she can’t deny the thrill your words send through her. The idea is risky, but appealing.

You, her. Hidden in a dark hallway. Dress hiked up, lipstick smudged, your hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Would you keep her quiet? Or would you try and do the opposite?

Your hand moves down her body and to her backside. You give it a light squeeze, and she gives you another glance.

Her hand grabs yours. You sneak away from the party and into the hallway.

Before you even manage to push her up against the wall, she's already pulling you closer. Your lips crash into hers, desperate and needy, and she clutches your collar. Your hands fumble with her dress, bunching it up around her hips.

The party is still in hearing distance. A pop song is playing instead of whatever techno music was booming earlier. You hear voices, muffled and blending together. Natasha’s lips press against your shoulder, your own trail kisses down her neck.

“Don’t leave a mark”, she warns, breathless, when you suck on her collarbone.

“Why?” You pull away enough to see the hickey blooming on her skin. “Looks good.”

She moans quietly and tugs you back in. Your fingers slide between her thighs, to the lacy underwear she’s got on, and nudge the fabric aside.

Moonlight seeps in through the window. You taste alcohol and mint. Wet heat envelops your fingers, and her back arches. You thrust in deeper, all the way you your knuckles, and kiss her through it. She pulls away, panting into your open mouth.

"Fuck."

"Don't make a sound", you mumble, peppering her jaw with kisses. "You'll get us caught."

A whine. Your free hand grips her thigh, hikes it up. Having better access now, you add a finger. She almost falls apart, and her moans and whines echo in the empty hallway.

A door opens and shuts. You angle your body a little, still fingering her relentlessly.

Butterflies and tingles, legs trembling and breath uneven. You hear footsteps, quiet and muffled. Your hand is drenched, her underwear is sticking to her thighs.

Another whiny moan. You shush her, curling your fingers and pushing them deeper.

"Not a noise, love. Or I'll make you come again. Want to go back in there shaking?"

The footsteps are approaching you. Natasha writhes, and you wrap your arm around her thighs to keep her in place. When she comes, it's loud and barely restrained. You laugh against her neck, breathless, and let her ride out her orgasm.

She slumps against the wall. You pull out and lick the excess moisture off your fingers. She watches you, dazed and spent.

"Back to the party?", you ask, already adjusting her dress with one hand.

"A moment", she mumbles, closing her eyes. "Good luck explaining this to Fury."

"Huh?"

She nods at the ceiling. You look up and huff. Security cameras, of course. Everywhere. Filming and remembering every moment, every gasp, every movement of your hand beneath her dress. You curse quietly.

"Goddammit."

"This was your idea", she says, adjusting her dress and smoothing it out. "Have fun dealing with him."

You roll your eyes and kiss her flushed cheek. Natasha's managed to go from looking wrecked to almost normal. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair a tad more disheveled, her cheeks still got a hint of color in them, but nobody would suspect that it's from anything other than a makeout-session.

Well, except for whoever checks the security cameras. You bite your lip when you realize just how much they'll see.

It's an odd feeling. Yes, they'll see way too much — but they'll also see you with her.

Natasha fixes her lipstick, wipes the smudges off your mouth with a napkin, then you return to the party. Of course, almost nobody noticed. They're too caught up in chatter and alcohol. Fury looks like he's about two minutes away from exploding. You can't blame the poor guy; he's surrounded by a bunch of drunk agents trying to get him to dance the Cha Cha Slide.

Valerie's ignoring you, but in that one way that lets you know she's trying her hardest to do so. She knocks back another shot, her jaw set.

You smile to yourself and let Natasha lead you further into the room. Once you've reached the middle, she wraps her arms around your neck and presses a quick kiss to your swollen lips.

"Round two in my office later?"

"Don't you dare", she murmurs.

"Shame."

The look on her face is unimpressed, but her lips twitch. You hug her closer to your chest, still swaying in spot. You dip your head and kiss her shoulder.

"Let me show you off", you mumble, running your hands over her back. Natasha smiles now, her face buried against your neck.

"You are, dumbass."

You hum. You can't argue, you are showing her off. You pulled her into the center of the room, the center of the universe, and pulled her into a slow dance that probably would've had her running a few years ago.

Her head tilts slightly, resting against your shoulder. She stays silent for a while, lost in everything happening around her.

The party, now a bit more quiet. The music, having changed to a slower rhythm. You, holding her.

The contrast between the thing in the hallway and the dance here is drastic enough to give her whiplash. But she's content, happy, silently and quietly. She's unlike you in that regard — no need to make a big scene of it. Keep things as lowkey as possible. Not everyone needs to know.

(Two days later, you get called into Fury's office because the person checking the security camera footage complained about emotional damage. You get banned from the hallways. Natasha's belief to keep things private is reinforced. All you hear is that your office is still an option.)

. . .

You're on the floor, cross-legged, Natasha's suit on the ground. A lightweight Kevlar blend you designed, adjusting to every movement. You straighten out the fabric and check for damage.

"The side is singed", you comment. "An explosion?"

"You don't want to know."

You shake your head and get up. Natasha unzips her jacket and peels it off, the tight fabric revealing creamy skin you're definitely not supposed to be staring at.

Her pants follow, then her shirt. You crouch in front of her and help her step into the lower half. You tug the fabric over her legs, smoothing it out as you go.

It's been a while since you started doing this. You should be used to it. But your hands brush her calves, her thighs, and your ears burn.

"Cold hands", Natasha comments.

"Stop squirming."

"Can't blame me, your hands are very cold."

You look up, jaw set. "Just...don't move."

She smirks as she lets you help peel the fabric over her arms. You grab the zipper and pull it up, slowly straightening up as you go.

When you're face to face and you've got her all zipped up, you don't let go. Natasha hums, watching you. You hesitate one last time — the quicker you're done, the sooner she's leaving for her mission. Again.

"You're staring", she mumbles. You let go and turn around, leading her into the weapons storage room. Tight quarters, as you barely fit in there together. But you make it work.

"I should be used to this", you admit, scanning the shelves. Natasha reaches over you to grab a gun, her front brushing your back. "But I'm not."

"Neither am I."

You grab her Widow's Bites and a couple blades. You turn around and fit the bracelets with an automatic look. Then you kneel in front of her, slide her belt into place, adjust it accordingly. The thigh straps follow — lord have mercy — and you tuck her weapons in. You tap each of the concealed items: the blades along her ribs, the guns, the taser.

Natasha brushes her fingers through your hair and makes you look up. She crouches, breathing more heavily, her lips right in front of yours. You smell perfume and gunpowder, leather and shampoo, cleaning solvents. Her breath is hot against your lips when she speaks.

"Blades are lighter."

"Shaved an ounce off", you mumble, blinking. "Makes it easier."

"Always thinking about everything", she replies. Her lips meet yours halfway and she kisses you with her fingers tangled in your hair. You grab her waist and keep her close, knees still on the ground, head tipped back slightly. It's warm, slow, enough to make you wish you could cancel the damn mission.

She pulls away. You clear your throat.

"I'm keeping an eye on Valerie."

"Oh no, you're not."

"She doesn't have a clue what she's doing", you say, getting up. Natasha sighs. "You got shot!"

"Her responsibility is to support me as best as she can and focus on the mission. She's not my babysitter, Y/N."

She turns around and picks up a scope. You narrow your eyes, silently trying to both find an argument and figure out whether you designed the gadget she grabbed. It's not the matte black one you handed to her a couple months ago. It's more clunky, less practical, the magnification range is probably less optimal as well.

She turns, the scope in her hands, and looks at you. You raise your eyebrows.

"You're sure that's the one you want?"

Natasha tilts her head, idly toying with the scope she's holding. "What's wrong with this one?"

You frown, irritated, and gesture at it. "Well, first of all, the magnification range is not nearly as good. Its system is also outdated. The reticle doesn't auto-adjust, which means that if the light conditions are less than optimal, you'll suffer from it. The thermal and night vision are also pathetic. I tested it, and it's no good."

"Sounds fine to me", she drawls. You narrow your eyes.

"Babe", you say, already turning around to grab the scope you personally designed from the shelf, "I spent half a year tinkering with this. I burnt my fingertips off twice."

"Appreciate the dedication", she says. You swap the scope out yourself, not breaking eye contact. "And the confidence, too."

"I mean it. This one's better. Ergonomic, biometric lock, the casing is great, and the internal shock buffers? Even Fury was impressed."

"You sound in love."

You bite back an 'I am', because she knows you are. Not with the damn scope, though. The scope is the result of being in love, and she knows it. But that's no reason to make her even more cocky.

You nudge her out of the storage room and lock it behind you. Safety measure — no need for anyone to get into her private stash. Even Fury needs permission, but in a less official way.

Natasha leans against the wall and watches you clean up. You wipe the workbench with a towel, arms flexing in a way that makes her wonder why you aren't joining. You fit in, she knows that already.

Then again, it'd make her job even more terrifying. She'd spent every second worrying about you.

"Five minutes", she reminds you.

"Right", you mumble. "Be careful. Make sure Valerie's doing her job or I'm doing it for her next time."

She wants to argue that you have no idea what it's like on the field. How dangerous it is, how much it differs from what you do every day. But you have been on the field before, years ago, when you were just starting out. Your talent has always been weapons and everything high tech, but when you got injured, you had no choice but to switch to what you're doing now.

You're good at it. Better than at field work. But she knows you sometimes miss it. Specifically those few months you got to spend alongside her, right after you met and before everything turned more intimate.

You can't protect her by being there anymore. But you can design tools that will make her job safer.

"I have your scope", she says, voice softer. "I'll be fine."

You can't help but preen at her words. You've been praised for your inventions many times, but it's only her opinion that really counts. When she says something, she means it.

"Be careful", you say. "The scope's good, but..."

"But it all boils down to the person using it", she finishes, grabbing her duffel bag. "I'll be fine."

"I know."

"Good."

"We'll stay in touch?"

Natasha steps closer to kiss you. It's fleeting, brief, and you know why. Quick goodbyes leave dry eyes. She'll be back soon, but what she does is risky, and you're never not scared that any goodbye could be your last one.

She steps out. You've watch her leave.

. . .

This time, you don't have to wait that long to see her.

Something goes wrong during the mission. Not horribly wrong — there are no accidents, no injuries, which is a relief. But one of the prototypes, a crucial one, malfunctions in the field. It's so tailored that nobody else can fix it, and since you're the one who designed and understands it, you're flown out.

The helicopter touches down in a remote area of the Catskills. You adjust your suit before jumping out and landing on thick grass. The forest is cold, the area foggy. Leaves that were once green have started to turn red. You exhale quietly.

A winding pathway leads to a small cabin. The exterior is hardly impressive, but the inside hides an entire bunker and an underground facility. Clutching your duffel bag, you walk towards the front door.

You're welcomed by a man in his 30s. Hair already graying, jeans, a flannel shirt. He stares at you and you stare at him. You can smell his stupid cologne.

"Want to let me in?"

"Who the fuck-"

"It's Y/N", a familiar voice says. Natasha. You can hear her from somewhere in the cabin. "Let her in."

"Oh", he says, stepping aside. "Right. The girlfriend. They told us you'd come by."

You push past him, not saying another word, and make your way into the cabin. Natasha emerges from downstairs, her hand on the railing. Her hair is curly and tied back, and she's wearing one of your old band hoodies. The sight is enough to let you forget about Mr. Wannabe-Lumberjack.

You meet her halfway. She hesitates, then decides it's worth it and leans in. You reciprocate the kiss and cup her cheek. She tastes like black coffee. It's way too short, but you can't really complain — you feel like you're being watched, whether that's actually true or not.

"Who's the guy?", you ask, following her into the lab.

"Agent Mintz", she says. "Formerly a lieutenant in the US army. Did you bring your little toolbox?"

"Little", you mutter, lifting the toolbox to test its weight. "This thing weighs 30 pounds. Lieutenant, you said?"

She flicks on a light and leads you to a workbench. You haul the toolbox up onto the top and open it. Natasha slides the prototype, a combat neural link, in front of you. You jack a tether into the side port and hook it up to a tablet to diagnose the problem.

"Tried to guess my body fat percentage", she says casually, right as you're running a scan. You pause. "He was off by one percent.”

You exhale, your fingers drumming against the surface of the workbench. "Of course."

"Very observant."

"Mhm", you mutter, looking at the data on the tablet. The prototype is desynced — her muscle memory has been outpacing the link's adaption rate. "Sounds like a great dude."

"He designs tech as well", she says, leaning on the workbench next to you. Her head is turned toward you, her voice softer and more sultry. "You know the GhostSuit?"

You bite your tongue and straighten up to brush Natasha's hair aside. "Hoodie off."

She hums and strips so you can access the link housing. You rearrange the central circuit array with tweezers and a soldering pen. You curse when your hand accidentally jerks.

"Burned your fingers again?"

"Crap", you hiss, shaking your hand. "What's this Mintz dude's issue, anyway?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, your body fat percentage? Is he kidding?"

"Pretty sure he wasn't."

Footsteps, on the staircase behind you. You whip around and glare. You should've expected it to be him — there's nobody else around — but his presence is still an unpleasant reminder that you aren't alone.

Arms crossed and tattoos showing, he leans against the railing and nods at Natasha. "Combat neural link?"

"Very much so."

"I designed it", you mutter, starting to re-upload the stored neural combat data. "Specifically tailored for her."

"Of course", he says, grinning. "Only the best for Ms. Romanoff."

You roll your eyes and plug in a thumb drive. Your hands brush over her shoulders.

"There", you say, ignoring Mintz's presence. "Want to test it a little? Just some quick movements."

Natasha nods, the neural link facing you. It's nothing huge, just a few kicks and balance shifts, but the prototype's lights glow smoothly again.

Agent Mintz raises his eyebrows. He steps closer, inspecting the little device, and almost runs his fingers over it.

You stare at the floor. You're not going to do anything — Natasha will break the guy's wrist if he crosses a line, and you stepping in would be unnecessary. You turn around and start to put your stuff back into the toolbox.

"Impressive", he says. "Doesn't take away from your beauty, either."

An explosion makes them both flinch. You give Natasha an innocent look and gesture at the test grenade that 'accidentally' rolled off the workbench, now on the floor and releasing smoke.

"Oops."

Natasha purses her lips to stop herself from smiling. Mintz just clenches his jaw, clears his throat, and steps aside.

"Alright", he says. "I'll see you later."

He leaves, but you don't turn around. You keep cleaning up, hands moving swiftly, until you feel her mouth right next to your ear.

"What was that?"

"Nothing", you say, closing the toolbox. Natasha's hands sneak under your zip-up hoodie, fingers digging into your abs. "Happy accident or whatever."

"You're not slick."

Your mouth opens and then promptly shuts again. Her lips are against your jaw, the kisses wet and warm. It's only been a couple days, but god, you missed this. Your bed's too empty when she's not around.

Instead of arguing, you let yourself melt. Even if just for a minute, you do. Her body's pressed up against yours, her touch familiar. She smells like your perfume, which confirms your suspicions that she's the one who grabbed it from the shelf in your bathroom.

The tech, the clothes, the perfume — all yours. You wonder if there's a part of her she hasn't claimed as yours yet.

She turns you to face her, her hands staying under your hoodie. Only then does she wrap her arms around your neck and pull you closer to kiss you. You hold her to you, nodding your head to deepen the kiss. Her heart beats faster, and so does yours, but you have a significant advantage — you're not attached to a link with stress-response sensors.

The tablet lights up. You glance at it, briefly pulling away from the kiss, and bite back a smirk. The device logged her rapidly accelerating heartbeat, her changing vitals.

"You know it records this stuff, right?", you mumble. "Heart rate, adrenaline spikes. Practically broadcasting your- ouch."

"Don't."

"You didn't have to twist my ear like that, you know."

Natasha laughs quietly, her lips brushing against yours. She doesn't feel sorry. Not at all. "That's what you get for embarrassing me."

"I'm not the one embarrassing you", you murmur, smiling, and kiss the corner of her mouth. She hums. "The device is."

"And who designed that device?"

You shake your head, but she cups your face and pulls you into another kiss. When the neural link sends another signal, she reaches behind her neck and tugs it off. It gives you enough time to grab her and spin around to set her down on the workbench.

Her thighs wrap around your waist. You mouth at her neck, hands slowly bunching up her hoodie around her torso. Slender fingers tangle in your hair, tug at the strands, and you move your lips back up to hers. She moans into your mouth.

"You do that one purpose", you mumble whenever you take a short break from kissing her stupid. Natasha hums against your lips. "To get a rise out of me."

"It works", she says, using her calves to pull you closer and closer. Your pelvis creates friction between her legs. "I wish I could put one of those neural links in you. See what your body does."

"Cruel", you mutter, pecking her lips. Your hand pushes past the waistband of her sweatpants. Her breathing gets heavier. "You already know what it'd say."

Your fingers find their target. You kiss down her neck, biting and nipping, and slowly thrust into her. Right as her hips buck against your hand, you hear someone hurry down the stairs.

You don't even flinch. You just sigh into her neck, hand still buried in her sweatpants. You're not stopping this unless someone's dying.

"What now?"

Mintz stares at you, frozen in place. He's uncomfortable, so much so that he keeps making himself even more uncomfortable by staring. Natasha bites her lips and grabs your wrist, guiding you out of her pants again.

"There's, uh, movement. We got ten minutes. Suit up."

You sigh and pull away. Natasha slides off the workbench and grabs the neural link again so you can attach it. You work fast, brushing hair aside and attaching it to the link housing again. She turns and reaches for her suit, and you pack your things.

She looks at you and hesitates. The injury, the accident, is still fresh in her mind. It may have been years since that happened, but she can't forget it that easily.

Blood on pavement, in your mouth. Coughs that sounded way too scary. Your hand shaking in hers, your entire body trembling.

You tilt your head. She's thinking, probably so much so that she's lost in whatever train of thought she's following. Natasha shakes her head when she realizes that she's gone quiet.

"It's fine."

You nod and look at Mintz. "Keep an eye on her and the neural link. She shouldn't go out with it untested in live combat, but it's a little late for that."

He shrugs, rubbing his jaw and starting to look for his gear. "Then go with her."

Natasha immediately looks at him. "What?"

"Yeah. Hell, no one knows how to fix that thing. Only she does. If shit goes sideways..."

"It won't", she interrupts him. "She knows what she's doing. The link is fine."

"Nat", you say, making her look at you. She blinks and averts her eyes again. "Hey. I'll be careful. Besides, it might be safer if I join."

"I don't want you out there."

"Well, too late." You walk up to the storage space with the suits and dig through heaps of old clothes. "Better be safe than sorry."

"Trust us", Agent Mintz says. He straps a knife to his thigh and adjusts his suit. Natasha shoots him a glare, her own suit zipped up halfway. "I've got overwatch. But if something happens with the link-"

"Nothing's going to happen", Natasha insists.

You reach for a vest and slip into it. "Don't be stubborn, baby. Doesn't even look good on you."

"This isn't a joke."

"Never said it was." You step closer to zip up her suit. She briefly closes her eyes. "Let me help you suit up. It's basically tradition."

She doesn't say anything as you step away again to swap your shoes for some combat boots. You reach out your hand, the set to her jaw cracks for a split second, and you lead her up the stairs and outside.

. . .

Natasha notices the neural link misfire when she gets out of the van.

Minutes ago, you were adjusting it. You brushed her hair aside, checked the prototype, made sure it's up to date and connected to your tablet. You seemed certain. You were, probably, otherwise you never would've let her out of the vehicle. The mission may be important, but she knows you'd never test her luck like that.

She jumps out of the van and approaches the building. SHIELD's abandoned black site, sitting in the middle of the forest. Not something they thought would be targeted, but ex-HYDRA agents found out about some data drive that was apparently forgotten her, and now they're trying to steal it.

As soon as she sneaks into a corridor, walking close to the wall, she notices an issue. She doesn't tell you anything, but she feels it. She feels it misfire in motion, feels the little glitch. It's not supposed to happen, and she knows it.

Too late now. There's not enough time to be running back to the van and get it fixed.

"You inside?", you ask via comms.

"Corridor on the east side of the building, approaching a staircase. Any news?"

"Copy. Sir Lieutenant is in position. Do they train them in the army for this kind of stuff?"

"No", he suddenly speaks. "We usually just die."

"Oh really? And you're still here?"

"Y/N, I am begging you", Natasha hisses. You shut your mouth. "Focus. Both of you."

"Sorry, babe.”

Your mumbled response would've been enough to make her smile in just about any other situation, but right now, she's too on edge to react. The neural link glitching, the shuffling noises, the fact that you're outside, in a van and basically alone.

She keeps her back pressed against the wall. Mintz mumbles instructions into her ear — go left, down the hallway, go right, down the stairs — and you're checking the neural link's feedback via your tablet.

Someone pops out from behind a staircase. Natasha, not having to think twice, ducks right as he shoots. It's combat, and she knows what shes doing. She's been trained for this. The neural link usually helps, too.

This time, it doesn't. What it does is worse than it not helping.

Right as she's about to kick him and twist the gun out of his hands, her shoulder locks. The neural link misfires, again, lasting only a split second but still long enough to almost get her shot. She curses quietly.

You stare at the tablet, unable to believe your eyes for a moment. You're not sure what happened, but very briefly, everything glitched and you lost signal. Now that it's back, though, Natasha's vitals have spiked.

Which doesn't have to mean the worst, obviously. The vitals spiking is normal, especially during missions. But the glitch? The signal going poof? Bad signs.

"Natasha", you say, already desperately tapping on the screen to see if you can do anything, "what happened?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it. I found the vault."

"Okay", you say, packing your stuff and hopping out of the van. Into the corridor, go left, down the hallway, etc. Thank god you listened to Mintz as he gave her the instructions. "Be careful."

"I said don't worry."

"You said don't worry about it", you mutter. A gun in one hand and your most important tools in the other, you're easy meat. "What do you see?"

"Desks", she says, eyes scanning her surroundings. "Computers. Deposit boxes."

The signal is lost for another short moment, making her voice sound chopped. The feedback displays another glitch. Your heart beats faster and you hurry up.

"Right. Column five, row ten", Mintz adds. "Iris scan, ten digit password and a keycard. You got everything?"

No sound comes through. Then, a grunt. Something breaks, possibly a chair or a table. Whatever it is — it has you speeding up, running, searching for the stupid vault. But you reach it and the door is locked.

You glance at the screen. Bleeding located.

"Nat?", you say, rummaging through your tools. Maybe you have something that'll help you unlock it. "Any updates?"

Again, nothing. You curse and grab a hairpin, but this is SHIELD's abandoned black site. The doors are designed to keep trespassers out.

You end up grabbing the little grenade you packed. It's tiny, usually only enough to take out one person, but it'll have to do. You attach it to the door, active it, and quickly move backwards.

It blinks three times. It explodes, the door bursting open, and you exhale and run into the vault.

Blood, and a lot of it. It's soaked the right side of her shoulder. Right as you move to help her, someone wraps their arm around your neck and squeezes. You gasp, choking, and start clawing at their forearm.

Natasha barely manages to move enough to point her gun and shoot. The pressure on your airways disappears and you fall to the floor, wheezing and gasping for breath. You crawl to her side and put both hands on the bullet wound in her shoulder. Thick blood seeps between your fingers, and you take off your vest to ball it up and use it to stop the bleeding.

"You're okay", you say, voice shaky. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shakes her head. "Get the data drive."

"No", you say, keeping the vest pressed to her shoulder. You speak into the comms. "Mintz, you there?"

"What happened?"

You swallow, fingers digging into the fabric of the vest. "The neural link, it- it glitched. Misfired. Natasha got shot."

"On my way."

You nod, still putting your entire weight on the wound, still watching her every breath. She seems stable enough, but speaking from experience, it's not a good idea to rely on the hope of something happening.

There are two things you're thinking about.

One: she could die. Right here, right now.

Two: you designed the neural link. You 'fixed' it. If anything happens to her, it's your fault.

Earning her trust seemed to be the biggest honor once. None of your achievements seemed as valuable as getting someone like Natasha to trust you, getting to watch her open up and show you sides nobody else had ever seen. In that moment, however, you curse it. If she'd never trusted you, she wouldn't have worn the neural link. She wouldn't have gotten hurt.

. . .

It's quiet in medbay. Natasha's better now — the wound has been treated, the bleeding has been stopped, she's stable. But the heavy feeling in your gut remains.

She's asleep right now. Her cheeks are rosy instead of pale, her curls have flattened a little. You reach out and brush your fingers against her jaw, then you get up.

The neural link has been in your pocket ever since you got her to medbay. It's sitting there like a mass that's pulling you down, defying the laws of weight.

You reach into your pocket and pull it out. The surface shimmers in the dimmed lights of the room, your initials carved into the side. You ball your hand into a fist, clutching it, then leave the room. Natasha barely stirs.

Your steps are quick and filled with silent anger. Boots thud against vinyl flooring, your throat bobs with every despaired swallow. You push open the door to your lab and slam it shut behind you.

You reach for the hammer before you can think twice. The neural link shatters into tiny pieces, bursting to the sides and falling to the floor. Breathing heavily, you put the hammer aside. Then, the tears come.

They're silent, unthreatening. Rolling down your face in drops, staining your hoodie. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and pause, hand still against your face, when your phone buzzes.

It's the nurse, telling you she woke up and asked for you. You hesitate — do you want to go back there? Does she, despite asking for you, actually want you back there?

It was a mistake. It could've happened to anyone. But when Valerie made a mistake that got her shot, you lost your mind. But who's going to do that to you? Who's going to chew you out?

Nobody. Not even Natasha. You'll get away with it.

Sighing, you make your way out of the lab and back to medbay. It smells clinical, like disinfectant and cleansing chemicals. Metallic, too. You feel nauseous.

When you approach Natasha's room, you see a figure enter and close the door behind themselves. Heart starting to beat faster, you hurry up. You push open the door only to find Valerie standing next to her bed. That's when you lose it.

"Get the fuck out."

She barely even looks at you. "I'm just checking in on her. Making sure she's okay. Heard what happened."

"I said get out."

"Valerie, leave."

Both your and Valerie's heads whip around. Your first instinct is to be petty and make sure she knows it, but Natasha is injured, and you truthfully have other things to worry about.

She exhales sharply, then turns around and leaves. The door shuts loudly.

Natasha looks at you, not saying anything. She's studying you — you can tell that much. It's what she's always done. You shift, then hesitantly sit down on the edge of her bed.

She tilts her head. A soft breath leaves her lips. "Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You broke the neural link."

You blink a few times. Oh, so that's how observant she truly is. Or maybe she just knows you really well.

"Well, I...", you trail off. "It's useless anyway."

"No", she says, voice quiet. "You spent months working on it. It worked."

"It didn't. It's the reason you almost..." You rub your face. "You could've died, Nat. Because of me."

"That's not true."

"But it is."

"That thing helped me", she insists. "I wore it because I trust you. Because I love you. And you just broke it?"

You stare at the floor, jaw set. There's no way to explain what's going on in your head. All these years, you tried to be the one who protects the one person who claims she doesn't need protection. The one who protects everyone around herself — you, too.

When you got injured all those years ago, it was Natasha who got you out of the battlefield safely. She carried you to the field medics, she went to medbay with you. She stayed until you were better.

You would've kissed her. Neither of you were ready, though. But she was worth the wait.

"I fixed it", you say, glancing at her. She softens. "I tried to fix it. I swear. I don't know what went wrong."

"Accidents happen."

"Not like this", you reply, raking your fingers over your thigh. The denim feels overstimulating against your fingernails. "Not to me. Not when it comes to you. Valerie makes mistakes, and Mintz, and Ward, but-"

"And you're flawless? Perfect?"

You shut your mouth. No, you're neither of those things.

"If I were, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

Natasha scoffs. You refuse to look at her, so she shifts in bed despite knowing she shouldn't. It's a plan, though — a plan that works. You quickly lift your head.

"Don't even try", you say, already trying to gently nudge her back into bed. She smiles and you know what she's done. "Oh, fuck me."

"Not while I'm injured."

You roll your eyes, but what she's doing seems to work. You smile, one hand still on her waist and thumb rubbing circles into her side. She flops into the pillows again, a tad more dramatic than others would expect her to do it.

"It was supposed to help", you say softly. "I wanted it to be safer for you. Easier. It almost got you killed instead."

Natasha hums. "You're right", she says. "It did. But how many times did it save me?"

"That's not important."

"Oh, but it is. And I'm not just talking about the neural link. You've invented a dozen of these nifty little things, and how many times were those faulty?"

You shift, refusing to answer. You could say it — never. They were never faulty, never malfunctioned so badly. Sure, there were some issues and minor problems every now and then, but Natasha was always able to keep going despite those. This was a one time thing. An unlucky coincidence.

You feel her fingertips trail down your back. You sigh and then smile tentatively. "Alright. Fine. You got me."

She stays silent for a moment, her fingers glued to your back for no specific reason. She's touching you, and that's enough.

"You didn't invent your way into my life, you know."

You look at her, frowning. Those are words you didn't expect. "No?"

"No." Her fingers drum against your spine. "The gadgets are great. Truly. But they're not the main appeal here, and they never were."

"It's just..." You swallow. "You saved me. It's like, I don't know."

"A debt?"

"Maybe."

Natasha doesn't say anything. She just moves her hand, reaching for yours. When you give it to her, she tugs you into her side.

You know she's being serious. She doesn't need the gadgets. You'll keep inventing them, anyway.

. . .

There's a bandage around her shoulder and a tiny bandaid above her eyebrow, but she's still attracting attention from everyone in the room. You know she is. She always does. You pull her into your side and lead her through the hallway.

"They're staring", you mutter, gently squeezing her upper arm.

"I wonder why."

"You're beaten up and they're still staring." You enter your lab and walk right towards the little couch in the corner. Natasha sits down without arguing, which is a miracle. Getting her to do just about anything that'd be beneficial for her injuries is like fighting a very stubborn bear.

She shifts until she's comfortable, her injured arm resting on a pillow you tuck against her side. "So?"

"Nothing", you say evasively, closing the door now. You're pretty sure no one's going to come by anyway, but you're not keen on taking that risk right now. "Need anything? Water, a granola bar?"

"I'm good." She tilts her head. "You gonna keep me locked in here until they stop staring?"

Hand around a water bottle, you pause. You're crouched in front of the mini fridge.

"Well..."

"Oh god."

"I'm kidding."

She laughs and, despite saying no earlier, accepts the water bottle you hand her. "Hey, at least feel sorry Valerie quit."

"Feel sorry?" You snort and step up to your workbench. You grab the new neural link you've been working on and the stack of data necessary to program it so you can get to work. "I don't do that."

"No, of course." She leans back and watches you work. You adjust wires, program the link using your tablet, test it a few times.

It took two days for you to get up and get started on another neural link. You've barely been sleeping, and Natasha knows that's the case, but you're relentless. Having experience with this prototype, creating an updated, better one hasn't been hard. That doesn't make the process less painful, though. You've burnt your fingertips again already.

"I'm relieved, you know", you mumble.

"Mhm?"

"Valerie really was incompetent."

The cap of the water bottle hits you in the back. But she's smiling, trying not to laugh, and you turn around.

"I mean it."

"She's not even here anymore", she says. "Dial down the jealousy."

"It's not jealousy, it's me disliking her."

"And why do you dislike her? Because you're jealous."

You walk up to the couch and sit down. Hands cup her face, fingertips burnt and wrapped into little bandaids so they'd hurt less, and your breath fans against her lips. You lean in and kiss her, but briefly enough to leave you both wanting more.

She sighs, eyes lazily trailing across your face. "That's not an answer."

"I'm not in the mood to argue. I need to work on your new neural link."

"Better not make any mistakes this time."

You give her an unimpressed look like, Really? You know how much that destroyed me. But she just smiles and tugs you closer.

"I told you I trust you", she says. You roll your eyes. "Don't give me that look, or I'll start using someone else's scope."

"Oh, don't even-"

"Kidding", she cuts you off. "Again."

You narrow your eyes at her. But with the bandaid over her eyebrow, and her bandaged shoulder, you can't be too mad. You sigh and press a kiss to her mouth, your hand on her cheek. She smiles against your lips, hand resting on yours, fingers tangling with yours.

"You're beautiful, you know", you mumble, placing another kiss on her mouth. "No wonder they're all staring. Can't blame them."

"Mhm? Beautiful, you say?"

"So so beautiful." You run your hand down her arm and lightly squeeze her wrist. "It's not fair. You're all beaten up and you still look like you escaped some frame in a museum."

Natasha huffs a laugh. Her forehead rests against yours, her thumb brushes against the side of your hand. You scoot closer and the cushion dips slightly beneath you. She rests one leg over your lap.

"Not jealous anymore?"

"Oh, fucking mental", you say, nodding. "But Valerie's gone, so that helps."

"Terrible."

"Honest."

She scoots and ends up fully in your lap, her weight welcome and familiar. You wouldn't be able to guess her body fat percentage (that detail still leaves you stunned whenever you think about it), but you don't need to see or hear her to recognize her.

Your hand trails down her side and slips under her hoodie. She's warm, her body nestled against yours.

She smiles and nods at the workbench. The neural link lays abandoned, at least for the time being.

"You're stalling again."

"No", you mumble, kissing her shoulder. "Just taking my time."

[widowofchaosx-deactivated202604]

The Mafia's Princess

Prologue

You were supposed to meet your friends for drinks. Instead, you were sent the wrong bar, dim lights, cold stares, and two women behind it who own far more than just the liquor license. Wanda and Natasha take one look at you, soft, upset, dressed too pretty for a place like this, and decide you’re theirs.

Word Count: 4.8 K

Master List

Natasha Romanoff was born into a world that didn’t do lullabies.

No warm blankets. No soft toys. No bedtime stories that ended in happy ever afters. Her world smelled like gunpowder and expensive perfume. It rang with hollow threats and polished lies. She grew up cradled in the lap of power, sharpened by shadows, taught not to cry, but to calculate.

Her mother was Melina Vostokoff. The name meant fear. The silence that fell when she entered a room wasn’t out of respect. It was survival.

Her father was Ivan Romanoff. A charming liar. A well-dressed serpent with wine-dark eyes and a voice that could sell poison as perfume. He smiled in every photo. He held Natasha in every room. He kissed Melina’s hand like she was royalty, until she turned away.

Natasha had her mother’s mind. Her father’s smirk.

She learned early which one would save her.

At age four, Natasha sat at a round oak table while men twice her size stumbled over their words under her mother’s glare.

At age five, she corrected an underboss’s math during a meeting, and Melina laughed, not sweetly, but with pride so sharp it could cut a man’s throat.

At age six, she saw her first gun up close. Not in training. Not by accident. But because Ivan left it loaded on the kitchen counter during an argument. Melina didn’t flinch. She picked it up, removed the magazine, and aimed it at Ivan with a smile.

He didn’t sleep in the house for three nights.

The Romanoff estate wasn’t a house. It was a fortress. Three floors, ten bedrooms, hidden staircases, reinforced walls. There were guards who saluted when Natasha passed. Security cameras disguised as birdhouses. Panic rooms built behind bookshelves.

But inside?

It was all glass chandeliers and silk drapes. Luxury with teeth.

Natasha had nannies. Tutors. Trainers. But they came and went, discarded the moment they disrespected her mother, underestimated her daughter, or stepped one inch out of line.

Melina was ruthless. Ivan was reckless. And Natasha? She was learning which one she’d have to outgrow.

At seven years old, Natasha watched her father kiss another woman’s wrist at a dinner party.

The woman wasn’t discreet. Neither was Ivan.

Melina saw it. Everyone did.

She didn’t say a word.

Not that night.

Not even the next.

But three days later, Ivan was gone.

No explanation. No goodbye.

No funeral.

Just vanished.

The staff said nothing. The guards said less. Even the kitchen grew quieter, as if mourning something no one could name.

Natasha asked once where he’d gone.

Melina’s answer was soft. Icy.

“Dead men don’t deserve your questions, dorogaya.”

She never asked again.

But she knew.

The whispers came later. When Melina was gone, when the guards thought she wasn’t listening.

“He messed up a shipment.” “Melina found out about the mistress.” “He was leaking information to the Italians.” “He thought she wouldn’t notice.” “He thought he could outsmart her.”

He thought wrong.

Natasha didn’t cry.

She sat on her bedroom floor that night, staring at the empty frame where her father’s photo used to be.

In its place: a note, handwritten in Melina’s precise, slanted script.

Weakness is a luxury our name cannot afford.

Natasha read it once. Then again. And again.

She never forgot it.

After Ivan disappeared, things changed.

Melina stopped wearing perfume. Stopped attending public events. Stopped speaking unless she absolutely had to.

She cut off her hair.

She wore black for a week, not in mourning, but in warning.

Then she went back to work.

Natasha trained harder.

She woke at five without complaint. Tied her own boots. Made her bed with military precision.

She learned five languages by age ten. Could field-strip a gun blindfolded by eleven. Memorized every name in their network by heart, and could recall who owed them favors, who feared them, and who needed reminding.

By the time she was eleven, most of the men in Melina’s empire looked her in the eye only when forced.

She wasn’t the boss.

Not yet.

But she was already the threat.

Her childhood wasn’t stolen.

 It was traded. For safety. For control. For a legacy soaked in secrets.

She didn’t go to school dances.  Didn’t have sleepovers.  Didn’t cry when her goldfish died because Melina had already taught her how to bury a body.

What she had were lessons.

One per day. More, if Melina was home.

Never be the last to speak in a room full of men.

Never show a weapon unless you’re ready to use it.

Never say you’re sorry unless you mean to make them bleed after.

And never, ever let someone lie to your face more than once.

She missed her father sometimes.

Not the man. Not the cheater. Not the coward. Not the traitor.

But the idea of him. The hands that used to lift her off the floor. The voice that used to tell her stories. The warmth that used to tuck her into bed, before the lies caught up.

Melina never told her exactly how he died.

She didn’t need to.

Because one night, in the middle of winter, when the pipes groaned and the wind slipped under the door, Natasha walked past her mother’s office and heard something strange:

Laughter.

Melina. Alone.

Laughing.

She didn’t ask why.

By the time Natasha turned eleven, her place in the empire was unquestioned.

She wasn’t just the Romanoff daughter.

She was the Romanoff heir.

And Melina?

She was already planning for what came next.

By the time Natasha Romanoff turned eleven, she already knew people could vanish without warning.

She wasn’t surprised when her mother tried again.

Dmitri Belova showed up in a black car with a briefcase full of forged credentials and a smile that looked polished but hollow. He was tall. Too thin. Talked too much. Wore suits that were a little too nice for the money he claimed to make.

He wasn’t mafia-born. That much was obvious.

But he had connections, charm, and a pretty enough face to slip into Melina’s favor, at least for a while.

The wedding was small. Quiet. No headlines. No celebration.

“Second marriages are strategic,” Melina told Natasha without looking up from her desk. “Not sentimental.”

Natasha didn’t ask what the strategy was.

She already knew.

Yelena came with him.

Eight years old, blonde, wiry, all sharp elbows and bruised knees. Her shoes were scuffed. Her jeans were ripped. She had a scar above one eyebrow and a chipped front tooth she didn’t bother hiding when she smiled.

She didn’t cry when she arrived. Didn’t flinch at the guards, or the guns on their hips. Didn’t look confused when the driver addressed Melina as Madam.

She simply stepped out of the car, looked up at the estate with a smirk, and muttered under her breath, “This place better have a gym.”

Natasha had her doubts. She didn’t like change. Didn’t like sharing. And she especially didn’t like the idea of a stranger calling Melina “Mama.”

But Yelena didn’t act like a stranger.

She walked into the house like she owned it. Touched everything. Asked questions no one expected from a child.

“Are those real diamonds?” “Who taught your guards to stand like that? They’re crooked.” “Do we get weapons or just fists?”

She didn’t knock when she entered a room. Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t lower her voice.

Natasha should’ve hated her.

But she didn’t.

Not exactly.

It took three days for the first fight to break out.

Yelena had followed Natasha into the training room, ignored the warning look, and picked up a practice knife.

“You’re holding it wrong,” Natasha said.

“Then show me.”

Natasha did.

Yelena bled first, but she didn’t whimper.

She wiped her hand on her jeans, grinned wide, and said, “You’re fast. I like that.”

Natasha didn’t grin back. But she didn’t throw her out either.

That was enough.

Dmitri, meanwhile, tried to play the role of father and loving husband. He bought gifts they didn’t want. Tried to sit at the head of the table. Called himself “the man of the house.”

Melina didn’t correct him.

But her silence had weight.

And when Natasha noticed the small inconsistencies, missing envelopes, numbers not adding up, guards being reassigned without her mother’s approval,she said nothing. Not at first.

She simply watched.

Because Melina didn’t miss details. She waited.

She let people hang themselves.

One night, Natasha walked past the study and heard voices, quiet, sharp, urgent.

“You think I don’t see it?” Melina’s voice, cold as winter steel.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dmitri replied.

Wrong answer.

“You think you can steal from me?” she hissed.

“Melina-”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice the off-shore transfers. The phantom invoices. You thought marrying me gave you access. And maybe it did.”

Natasha stopped breathing.

A pause. Then-

“But access doesn’t mean survival.”

The next morning, Dmitri didn’t come to breakfast.

By evening, he was in bed with a fever and vomiting blood.

Doctors came and went. Melina stayed in her study. Yelena asked once what was wrong.

Melina just said, “He’s not strong enough for this life.”

Dmitri died four days later.

There was no funeral.

No burial.

No questions.

Natasha asked Melina, “What will happen to Yelena?”

Melina’s answer was immediate.

“She’s meant to be a Romanoff, not a Belova.”

Natasha blinked. “That’s your reason?”

“She’s tough,” Melina said simply. “And she’s mine now.”

Yelena didn’t cry.

She didn’t ask where her father went.

When Natasha offered her a seat at the training table the next morning, Yelena took it without a word.

The two of them sparred for thirty minutes. Yelena got a black eye. Natasha got a split lip.

They both laughed.

Later, Natasha saw Yelena slip into the study, muddy shoes and all, and drop something on Melina’s desk, a bundle of cash she’d swiped from one of the lower-level lieutenants who didn’t count it carefully enough.

“Consider it a loyalty offering,” Yelena said.

Melina looked up. Smiled. “Welcome to the family, Маленький Лис.”

Little fox.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “That better not stick.”

But it did.

Melina remarried twice more in the years that followed.

A third husband. Then a fourth.

Natasha didn’t bother to learn their names.

Neither lasted more than a year.

One moved out with a broken nose and a non-disclosure agreement. The other disappeared on a Tuesday and was never spoken of again.

But Yelena?

Yelena stayed.

She became Natasha’s shadow. Her sparring partner. Her co-conspirator. Her annoying, brilliant, relentless little sister.

They didn’t talk about love. Or grief. Or fathers who disappeared.

But they didn’t have to.

They had blood.

They had bruises.

And that was enough.

_____________________________

Some nights, the city felt like a weapon.

It hummed beneath Natasha’s boots as she moved through the alleyway, alert as always, hands in her jacket pockets, steps silent on uneven concrete. The deal had gone off clean, just as she’d planned, money moved, threats neutralized, a few bruised egos but no blood. Still, she didn’t like using middlemen. Didn’t like loose ends.

So she doubled back. Quietly. Alone.

At sixteen, she already outranked half the men in Melina’s empire. People didn’t question her presence, they moved out of her way. That was what being the Romanoff heir meant.

But tonight, someone wasn’t smart enough to do that.

Someone was following her.

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t turn. Just listened.

Footsteps, light. Soft. Close. A shift in air pressure. A hand, reaching-

She spun, caught the wrist mid-motion, and slammed the figure against the alley wall with practiced force.

A girl.

Smaller than Natasha, but not by much. Pale skin smudged with dirt. Dark waves of tangled hair. Her green eyes were sharp. Too sharp for someone trying to steal from the wrong person.

And then Natasha saw it.

The faint red shimmer pulsing under the girl’s skin, just beneath the surface, like a candle behind glass.

“What the hell?” Natasha breathed.

The girl didn’t look afraid. She looked curious.

“I wasn’t going to keep it,” she said. “I just needed to know how heavy it was.”

Natasha stared at her.

“Your wallet,” the girl clarified.

Still pinned, still held. But so calm it was eerie.

Natasha tightened her grip. “You followed the wrong girl.”

“Maybe,” the girl said. “But maybe I was supposed to find you.”

Her hand flickered again, and the red glow sharpened, like smoke forming claws.

Natasha recoiled just enough to let her go.

“What are you?” she asked.

The girl stepped back, rubbing her wrist. “Wanda.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

Footsteps echoed down the alley from behind.

Natasha tensed, until a boy slid into view, moving faster than a human should.

Silver-blond hair. Bag slung over one shoulder. Sneakers with holes in the toes. He stopped beside the girl and immediately grabbed her elbow.

“Wanda,” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Pietro.”

He stared at Natasha. “You touched her?”

“She touched me first,” Natasha said coolly.

The boy’s eyes narrowed.

“She’s fast,” Wanda said, almost admiringly.

“She’s a ghost,” Pietro muttered.

Natasha looked between them. “You live out here?”

Wanda nodded. “Since we were thirteen.”

“Parents?”

Wanda’s face shuttered.

Pietro answered: “They don’t get to be called that anymore.”

Natasha didn’t press.

She knew that kind of silence.

They walked.

Not far. Just a few blocks, toward a hollowed-out church that had long since been condemned. The girl, Wanda, explained it had been dry most of the year. They slept in the bell tower. Avoided cops. Avoided gangs. Avoided being seen.

It was near that church, she said, that everything changed.

The company logo was long faded. The barrels rusted and unmarked. The rainwater had pooled around them. The twins didn’t know better.

“Three days later,” Pietro said, “her hands started glowing.”

Natasha frowned. “And you?”

“Speed. Eyesight. Reflexes.”

“You think it was the waste?”

“We know it was,” Wanda said. “I can see things now. Through things. Feel emotions. Push people.”

Natasha didn’t speak.

Wanda went on. “The first time it happened, I made a man drop his gun just by thinking about it.”

Pietro added, “She made another guy walk off a roof.”

Wanda’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That wasn’t on purpose.”

Natasha stared at her.

“They were trying to hurt us,” Wanda said.

The words weren’t defensive. They were just true.

Natasha crossed her arms.

“You’re dangerous.”

“So are you,” Wanda said without blinking.

They spent hours talking.

Natasha couldn’t explain why she didn’t walk away.

She’d met dozens of street kids before. Runners. Pickpockets. Fighters.

But this, this was different.

Wanda’s eyes were sharp in a way that saw through people. Pietro’s mouth was fast, but his hands never stopped moving. And both of them had the kind of presence that couldn’t be faked.

Survivors. Weapons. Unclaimed.

Natasha thought of Melina’s lessons.

Don’t fear the unpredictable. Learn it. Own it.

She brought them home.

Not with an invitation. With a decision.

The car was silent as she opened the door. Wanda slid in without hesitation. Pietro hesitated, just for a second, then followed.

Neither of them asked where they were going.

They knew better than to ask questions in someone else’s car.

The estate was quiet when they pulled up.

Late. Dark. But not asleep.

Melina never slept early.

She was waiting in the front foyer in a silk robe and bare feet, drink in hand, eyes razor-sharp.

Two guards stood behind her.

Natasha walked in first, standing tall.

“I found something.”

Melina looked at the twins.

Pietro stared at the floors.

Wanda met her gaze.

Melina tilted her head. “Explain.”

“They’ve been on the street. For years. No ties. No parents. They were exposed to something, chemicals. Wanda has psychic abilities. Pietro’s fast. Really fast.”

“And?”

“I want to train them.”

Melina’s smile was not kind. “Of course you do.”

She gestured with her glass.

“Put them in the guest wing. Separate rooms. Full security. No one touches them but you.”

“Understood.”

Melina looked at Wanda again.

“You’re not afraid.”

“Of you?” Wanda asked.

Melina’s smile widened. “That’s a mistake.”

Wanda didn’t flinch.

Melina turned away. “Let’s see how long they last.”

They lasted.

Longer than anyone expected.

Wanda took to training like a flame takes to dry wood, quiet at first, then devouring. She could disarm a grown man in seconds. Could stop a fight with a word if she really focused.

Pietro learned every corridor in the estate by day three. By day five, he was moving too fast for the security cameras to catch. By week two, he was running errands for Melina before she even asked.

Natasha watched them both. Closely. Every day.

She didn’t trust easily.

But she believed in usefulness.

And they were useful.

More than that They were hers.

The staff kept their distance.

The guards whispered about the new girl with red hands and the boy who moved like wind.

But Melina said nothing.

Which, in her world, was the closest thing to approval.

One night, three months in, Wanda stood on the balcony of the training wing, barefoot, arms folded across her chest.

Natasha joined her silently.

“You’re different,” Wanda said.

“You’re not the first to say that.”

“But I mean it.”

Natasha tilted her head. “How?”

“You don’t smile much. But you never lie. Not really.”

Natasha looked away.

Wanda didn’t press.

“You trust me?” Wanda asked after a long pause.

“I don’t trust anyone.”

Wanda smiled.

“That’s okay,” she said softly. “I don’t need you to.”

She stepped closer.

“You’ll love me anyway.”

Natasha didn’t answer.

But she didn’t walk away.

It started with blood.

Of course it did.

________

Wanda’s hands were red up to the wrists, eyes darker than usual, chest rising and falling like she was still half in the moment.

The man behind her was unconscious, maybe dead. Natasha didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

They’d moved together, silent, efficient, devastating.

The job was clean. The extraction precise. Wanda hadn’t flinched when it got messy. She never did.

Afterward, they stood on the rooftop as the city cooled beneath them.

The air was damp. The sky was bruised. Wanda’s hair was stuck to her cheek, and Natasha was twenty-two and tired and hadn’t blinked in too long.

“I should say something,” Wanda murmured.

“Then don’t.”

That was the first time they kissed.

Not slow. Not sweet.

But quiet. Absolute. Like an unspoken vow.

They didn’t talk about it afterward.

Not because it didn’t mean anything.

Because it meant everything.

Wanda slept in her own room that night.

The next, she didn’t.

Neither did Natasha.

There were no labels. No confessions. No “what are we.”

Only bruises they cleaned off each other. Only nights they came home sore and tangled, falling asleep half-dressed on the same couch. Only missions where they didn’t need comms because one glance was enough.

Natasha had been trained not to trust. Wanda had been raised not to hope.

But they made exceptions. For each other.

Yelena noticed first.

She walked in on them tangled on the floor mats after sparring, looked at them, tilted her head, and said, “Gross.”

Wanda threw a towel at her. Natasha didn’t even pretend to deny it.

Maria pretended not to notice. Pietro said, “Finally.”

Melina didn’t comment.

But she did give Wanda a pearl-handled knife that had belonged to her own mother.

No one got knives from Melina. Unless they were staying.

Years passed. And the empire grew.

At thirty-five, the shift came. Quiet. Deliberate. Permanent.

Melina didn’t make speeches. She simply left the command room one morning and never returned.

In her place, Wanda and Natasha sat side by side.

No announcement. No war. No resistance.

Because everyone already knew.

The Romanoff-Maximoffs were in charge.

And no one dared challenge them.

They wore the same last name now, Romanoff-Maximoff. Real. Absolute. Lived in every room of the estate.

They were co-bosses. Co-commanders. Co-sovereigns of a kingdom built in shadow.

And they ruled like it.

Natasha restructured everything.

Her first act was replacing two of Melina’s aging captains. The second was reassigning supply chains and burning out every leak in their network. The third was making sure their name meant obedience on first contact.

She handled weapons. Discipline. Boundaries.

If her name crossed your lips, you prayed you weren’t next.

Wanda didn’t need prayers. She didn’t give warnings.

She knew where to strike, politicians, bankers, witnesses, weak links.

She didn’t always kill. She made you wish she had.

She rewrote the playbook. Psychological warfare. Blackmail. Illusions that broke minds more than bones.

But at night?

She was warmth in silk. Scarlet fingers tangled in Natasha’s hair. A voice in the dark whispering, “We’re untouchable now, detka.”

The crew around them was loyal. Loyal by fear. Loyal by love.

Maria Hill ran operations. Ice cold. Never missed. Never late. Carol Danvers kicked down doors before people had a chance to lock them. Yelena Belova laughed through shootouts and demanded post-mission snacks. Pietro ran faster than anyone could keep track of, messages, bodies, whatever they needed.

Tony Stark built high-end security systems that looked like jewelry. Bucky Barnes made things disappear. Quietly. Completely. Steve Rogers shook hands in public while blackmailing politicians in private. Sam Wilson made the city talk. Even when it didn’t want to.

Clint Barton didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

When Wanda and Natasha spoke, everyone else listened.

At home, they kept it simple.

Dinner at the long table. Wine on the balcony. Check-ins every day, no exceptions.

Their rules weren’t about control.

They were about protection.

Natasha made sure no one raised their voice at home. Wanda made sure no one lied in their presence.

They didn’t allow chaos in the house.

They allowed peace.

Even if they had to burn the world to keep it.

They never had a wedding. But the empire was their vow.

Every room they conquered. Every kill they ordered. Every life they saved, silently, behind closed doors, was another brick in the foundation of what they built together.

Wanda once said, “They call us monsters.”

Natasha replied, “Then let’s give them reason.”

Together, they built something more dangerous than a mafia.

They built a family.

And soon They would find its final piece.

_______

You were supposed to meet your friends for drinks.

That’s what the text said. Group chat blowing up with emojis. “You better be there!” “7:30 sharp or we riot”

You took extra time getting ready. Curled your hair. Put on the outfit you’ve been saving for something special, black skirt, soft blouse, lip gloss that still smells faintly like strawberry.

You wanted to feel pretty.

You wanted to feel like you belonged.

So you spent some of the last bit of your money on an Uber across town, walked through the sticky summer night, heels clicking on cracked concrete and stepped into a bar that immediately felt wrong.

Too quiet. Too cold. Too dark.

The lights are dim, the music barely a murmur. There’s no line. No crowd.

You pause in the doorway, glancing at your phone. No new messages.

Maybe they’re running late.

Maybe you’re early.

You settle into a booth near the back and order a cheap cocktail, the kind that tastes mostly like syrup and melted ice. It costs more than you wanted to spend, but you smile at the bartender anyway and leave a tip that hurts.

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it, hope curling in your stomach- But it’s not from them.

Just a delivery promo.

You sip your drink. Check the time again. Still nothing.

So you open your apps, Instagram, Snapchat, and the truth hits harder than the alcohol.

They’re not late.

They’re at a different bar. A louder one. A trendier one. Glasses raised. Flash on. Tagged location: Downtown District. You’re miles away.

And no one told you.

Your eyes sting.

You set your phone face-down on the table, trying not to let it show on your face. You’re fine. It’s fine. You’ll finish your drink and go home.

You’re used to being an afterthought.

But still- It hurts.

You glance around the room.

A few men linger by the pool table. A woman in a red dress laughs too loudly. The bartender polishes a glass like it offended him.

No one notices you.

Except

Two women behind the bar.

One leans casually on the counter, wine glass in hand, watching the room with the kind of attention that doesn’t look away unless it wants to. Her eyes flicker over everything, then land on you, and stay there.

The other stands behind her, darker, sharper, speaking quietly to the bartender before turning toward you like she felt you looking first.

They’re beautiful. Terrifying. Like something expensive you’re not allowed to touch.

You look away.

Then back.

They haven’t looked away.

You finish your drink too quickly.

The ice clinks in the empty glass.

You’re pulling out your phone again, tapping at the rideshare app, checking the price for an Uber home. It surged. You’ll have just enough left in your account to cover it if you walk part of the way.

You don’t realize someone’s approaching until you smell the perfume, warm, floral, almost dizzying.

“Looks like you need something stronger.”

The voice is velvet. You glance up.

It’s her.

The redhead.

She’s taller up close. All leather jacket and unflinching eyes. She slides into the booth across from you like she owns the seat. Owns the whole bar. Owns the air in your lungs.

You blink. “I- sorry, what?”

She doesn’t repeat herself.

Because she doesn’t need to.

A second voice interrupts, soft but firm: “You’re in our bar.”

You turn.

The brunette is here now, sliding into the booth beside her. She doesn’t ask permission. She doesn’t hesitate.

Neither of them do.

You sit there, too stunned to speak.

“Don’t worry,” the redhead says. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Not unless you want to be,” the brunette adds with a smile that doesn’t match the chill in her eyes.

You try to smile. “I think I got the wrong place.”

“No,” they say at the same time.

You blink again.

“You’re exactly where you need to be,” the brunette says.

She reaches out like she’s going to touch your hand, then stops short. Not because she’s hesitant. Because she’s gauging.

“I’m Wanda,” she says.

The redhead nods. “Natasha.”

You give your name a little too quickly. It sounds small in your mouth.

Wanda repeats it like a secret. Natasha repeats it like a vow.

You tell them what happened in pieces.

Not on purpose.

But they ask all the right things. Or maybe they don’t ask at all. Maybe they just look at you like they already know. Like they saw the sadness when you walked in and decided it wasn’t allowed to stay.

Natasha orders you a new drink, something smoother, stronger, and definitely not on the menu. The bartender doesn’t even blink.

Wanda orders dessert. Chocolate torte. The kind that comes with gold flakes and should cost a whole paycheck.

You try to object. “I’m okay, really. You don’t have to-”

“We know,” Wanda says gently, cutting you off.

“You’re used to being let down,” Natasha adds.

“But we don’t do that here,” Wanda finishes.

Time blurs.

You sip the drink. You take a bite of the cake. You laugh. Once. Then again.

Natasha smirks when you tell a joke.

Wanda watches you like she’s memorizing every flicker of emotion on your face.

They don’t ask what you do. They ask what you like.

They don’t ask what you want to be. They ask what you’re running from.

It should feel invasive.

But it doesn’t.

It feels warm. Like being wrapped in something soft. Like being seen, finally, by people who don’t want to fix you. Just keep you.

You check the time.

Late.

Your phone’s battery is low. The Uber prices are even higher now.

You start to pull out your wallet. “I should probably-”

Natasha’s hand moves fast. She pushes your hand back before you even open the zipper.

“You’re not paying.”

“I- no, I insist.”

“Don’t,” Wanda says softly.

“But I-”

“You spent your last bit of money to come here,” Natasha cuts in. “We saw the hesitation in your tip. The price of your drink. The way you checked the ride cost before you even finished.”

You freeze.

“We watch everything,” she adds.

You don’t argue again.

When you open your phone to check for a ride, they both lean in.

“You’re not calling anyone,” Wanda says.

“You’re coming with us,” Natasha says.

You blink. “Wait, what?”

Natasha’s gaze sharpens. “Do you want to walk home?”

Wanda tilts her head. “Do you want to wait out there, alone, in a dress, in this part of town?”

You go still.

They see it.

Wanda softens. “We’re not strangers anymore.”

You want to argue. But the truth is, you’ve never felt safer with anyone.

You nod slowly.

And just like that, you’re following them out the door.

You don’t know where this ends.

But something inside you knows this isn’t a coincidence.

This isn’t random.

This is the kind of night your life splits in half over.

_______________

Taglist: @nanou4204 @introverted-author

[marvelfilth]

Playing cod for the first time in ages and WHY THE FUCK HAS NO ONE TOLD ME ABOUT FARAH

Foaming at the mouth