@natasharomanovasimp - Tumblr Blog

Broken Promise

alpha!natasha x f/omega!reader

After you ignore her rules to never go into a storm to save a filly, Natasha finds you and brings you back to the house. While you're both soaked and arguing, her angry scolding turns into her pulling your hair back and fucking you from behind against the door.

details: smut w/ some plot, farm!AU, ABO!AU (alpha!natasha/omega!reader), alpha females have dicks, top/dom!natasha, bottom/sub!reader, slight hurt/comfort, established relationship (mated, wives), oral (n & r recieving)/p in v/knotting, natasha smokes after ya'll fuck, r is a natasha's SAHW. (stay at home wife)

Three years on the farm had settled into something steady, something warm. Life moved quickly, but never too fast to notice the quiet happiness you shared. You loved her, there was no question about that. The way she reached for you at the end of every day, you knew she loved you just as deeply.

Evenings were your favorite. The work would be done, the air cooling as the sun dipped low, and she’d lean in to kiss you like it was a ritual, something as necessary as breathing. You tended the garden; she handled the crops and cattle. It was a rhythm that fit the two of you perfectly.

But today, like many others lately, a storm was rolling in.

You stood on the patio, watching the horizon darken as heavy clouds gathered, swallowing up the last of the sunlight. A quiet sigh left you. Something about the air felt off. Too still, too heavy.

The screen door creaked softly behind you. Natasha stepped out, her presence immediately grounding. She didn’t say anything at first, just closed the distance and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. It lingered, warm and familiar.

“I’ll be back before the storm hits, alright?” she murmured, her voice soft against your mouth. When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours.

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. She noticed, your unease was louder to her than the distant rumble of thunder.

Her hand rose, brushing against your cheek, thumb tracing lightly as if to smooth away the worry. “I promise,” she said quietly. “I just need to pick up the shipment with him. He’s right down the street. It won’t take long. Just stay here, okay?”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Alright.”

Her expression softened, relief flickering across her face. She leaned in one last time, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. Longer this time, like she was sealing the promise between you.

You stood there a moment longer, watching as she climbed into the truck. The engine turned over, loud against the growing hush of the storm. You raised a hand, giving a small wave as she pulled away, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

The truck grew smaller and smaller, swallowed by the winding road and the darkening sky, until it disappeared completely. Only then did you turn back inside, closing the door behind you. The house felt quieter without her. Still.

You drifted to the window, eyes fixed on the empty stretch of road where she’d vanished, the first low growl of thunder rolling in the distance.

The storm is arriving in full force now.

Wind thickening the air. It fills your lungs, heavy. You step back out onto the patio, scanning the distance once more, searching for her, for the glow of headlights cutting through the dark, but there’s nothing.

Your hand drifts to your arm, rubbing absently, a quiet, self-conscious habit. You move farther onto the patio, the boards creaking beneath your weight. Then, something. A flicker of motion at the edge of your vision, something that doesn’t belong.

Your gaze snaps toward it. A filly.

She stands there, impossibly, where she shouldn’t be. Somehow she’s made her way here. Far from the barn, far from the pasture where the rest of the horses are safely kept on your land.

God. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in the barn. Safe. Sheltered. The storm is only getting worse, the radio inside had made that clear enough, its warnings still echoing in your mind. This kind of storm can kill.

But you can’t leave her. You know Natasha wouldn’t, either.

You turn back inside, moving quickly now, grabbing a lead rope, one Natasha left hanging in the house who knows how long ago. Then you step out again, the wind tugging at your clothes, the light rain beginning to sting your skin.

A flicker of hesitation crosses your mind as you guide her toward the barn. By doing this, it does mean you are breaking one of the few rules Natasha has ever given you since you began courting. A rule meant to keep you safe.

Never go into a storm.

The words echo louder with every distant roll of thunder.

And yet, as much as you both care for this filly, you know the truth—losing you would wound Natasha far deeper than losing anything else. The thought tightens in your chest, stealing your breath as your pace quickens, your heartbeat falling into step with the growing storm.

Rain begins to fall, soft at first, almost gentle, before it steadily soaks through your clothes and darkens the filly’s coat. The air turns sharp and electric, the wind beginning to stir.

You press forward anyway, urging her on, your focus locked on the barn ahead. One step, then another. Driven by the hope that you can get her to shelter in time.

And that you’ll make it there, too.

The rain is relentless now, the storm in full force. Thick clouds blot out the sun, casting everything in a dim, restless gray. Wind cuts sharp through the air, whistling as it drives sheets of rain straight into Natasha’s face the moment she steps out of her truck.

She exhales sharply, already soaked at the edges, and hurries to unload a few things, carrying them inside. “Should’ve been faster,” she mutters under her breath, chastising herself as she shuts the door behind her. Still, she made it. Just as the storm broke.

Inside, the house feels too quiet.

She sets her keys down on the table with a soft clink, shrugging off the damp from her jacket. “Hey—” she calls, her voice low, familiar.

Nothing.

Her eyes lift, a faint crease forming between her brows. She stills for a moment, listening—really listening—but all she hears is the storm pressing against the walls, the wind rattling the windows.

“…Hey?” she tries again, a little louder this time.

Silence.

A flicker of unease tightens her chest.

She moves deeper into the house, quicker now, checking room after room. Each empty space sharpens the edge of her worry, her steps growing faster, heavier.

By the time it settles—by the time she knows—you’re not there.

Her expression hardens instantly, concern flashing into something sharper, more urgent. She turns on her heel and strides back to the door, shoving it open. The screen door slams violently behind her as she steps back into the storm, rain immediately swallowing her again.

You’re soaked through by the time you reach the barn, rain clinging to your skin, your clothes heavy and cold. Your hands slip against the wood as you wrestle the door open, breath unsteady, but you manage it. You guide the filly inside, the familiar scent of hay and earth wrapping around you like a fragile kind of relief.

“Easy… easy,” you murmur, your voice softer now, steadier despite the storm raging just beyond the walls.

You duck into the tack room, grabbing a couple of worn towels, and return to the filly. You work quickly but gently, drying her off as best you can, brushing water from her coat, your touch calming her until she settles. Once she’s back beside her mother, safer, warmer, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You turn toward the door to leave, and that’s when it hits you.

Thunder cracks, loud enough to rattle the beams overhead. Rain hammers against the roof in relentless sheets, the wind howling through every gap and seam. You hesitate, one step from the door, your hand hovering near the handle. You could make it.

…Maybe.

Another crack of thunder splits the sky, closer this time.

“…Damn it,” you mutter, stepping back, the decision settling heavy in your chest. You pat your jeans on instinct—then freeze.

No phone. You left it in the house.

“Great,” you breathe, sharper this time, frustration curling tight. You shut the door firmly, turning back into the barn. Looks like you’re staying.

You drag over a bucket, flip it, and sit beside the filly, absently running your hand along her neck. The steady rhythm of your touch helps pass the time, even as your thoughts churn louder than the storm outside.

It’s only a couple of minutes later when the barn door creaks open.

You jerk upright, the sudden movement spooking the colt. “Hey—hey, sorry, girl,” you soothe quickly, giving her a gentle pat before turning toward the sound.

Your name cuts through the barn. You freeze—then recognize the voice.

“…Natasha?”

You step out of the stall just as wet footsteps echo across the barn floor. Then you see her, completely drenched, rain still dripping from her hair and clothes.

Relief hits you first. Fast. Strong. Then guilt follows close behind.

You swallow, stepping toward her. “Natasha… I—”

“What the hell were you thinking?” she cuts in, her voice tight, edged with something between anger and fear. She closes the distance quickly, eyes scanning you, searching. “Coming out in a storm like this? You could’ve gotten seriously hurt—are you hurt?”

“No—no, I’m fine, I—”

She’s already closer now, looking you over, hands almost reaching before stopping herself. Rainwater drips from her sleeves onto the floor.

“Natasha, please,” you start again, softer this time, urgency bleeding through. “Falin... the new filly.. got out somehow—she was—she was out in the open,” you finish, your voice softer now, the edge of urgency giving way to something quieter. “I couldn’t just leave her there.”

For a moment, Natasha doesn’t respond.

Her gaze follows your gesture, flicking past you to the stall. To the filly, now tucked safely beside her mother, both of them calm despite the storm’s fury outside. The tension in her shoulders shifts, just slightly, as she takes in the sight.

Her jaw tightens anyway again.

She exhales sharply through her nose, dragging a hand back through her rain-soaked hair. “So you decided to run straight into a storm—without even telling me,” she says, her voice lower now, but no less intense.

You flinch at that, the weight of her words settling in your chest.

“I didn’t have time,” you reply, quieter, but firm. “She could’ve been hurt. Or worse.”

Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, loud enough to make the barn creak. Neither of you flinches.

Natasha stares at you for a long second, something conflicted flickering behind her eyes—anger still there, but tangled tightly with relief. Fear. The kind she doesn’t say out loud.

“You don’t get to decide that your life is expendable,” she says finally, the words sharper now, cutting through the space between you. “You could've been hurt, or worse."

The weight of that lands heavier than the storm.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you start, but the words falter. Because there isn’t a clean defense for it. Not one she’ll accept.

Her expression softens—just a fraction—but it almost makes it worse.

“You could’ve called me and asked me what to do,” she continues. "Before putting both your lives at risk."

That lands.

“I didn’t think—” you admit, then shake your head, the words falling apart as you try again. “No… I did. I just thought I could make it there and back before it got bad.”

A beat stretches between you.

Outside, the storm keeps raging, wind and rain hammering against the barn like it’s trying to get in. Inside, everything feels suspended—quiet, heavy, the kind of silence that presses in on both of you as you sit near the hay bale, you shifting slightly beside her while she stares ahead, jaw tight but no longer speaking.

Time passes in fragments, measured only by distant thunder and the slow easing of the wind.

When the storm finally loosens its grip, Natasha doesn’t say much. She just rises first, then offers you a hand that lingers a moment longer than necessary before she leads you out.

The walk home is slow and careful. Mud sucks at your boots as you both make your way down the small hill, the sky still bruised and low above you. Her hand stays on you the whole time. Steady, guiding, as if she’s afraid you might disappear again if she lets go.

You think, maybe, she’s come down from it. That whatever storm was in her has passed with the weather.

You think wrong.

The moment the door shuts behind you, she’s there. Pushing you back against it, close enough that you feel the impact in your breath more than your body. There’s no hesitation in her this time, only something raw and immediate, all the restraint from before snapping loose at once.

Her hands find you, her presence crowding yours, and then she’s kissing you—hard, breathless, furious in a way that isn’t anger so much as everything she held back finally breaking through.

"A-alpha? mm.." you tried to protest, but she kisses you again. cutting you off.

The sound of the storm outside is nothing compared to Natasha’s pulse against your own. The adrenaline that had kept her moving through the rain has curdled into a dark hunger.

Her hands are cold from the rain, but her skin burns where it meets yours. She shoves your chest flat against the wood of the door, the impact jolting through your spine. Before you can even catch your breath to apologize again, she's tilting your head back in a way so her mouth is back on yours. Crushing, desperate, tasting of salt and rainwater.

"Don't," she growls against your lips, a low command that vibrates in your chest. "Don't you dare talk."

One hand entangles in your wet hair, fingers winding tight near the scalp and pulling your head back. The angle exposes the pale line of your throat, and she doesn't hesitate, burying her face in the curve of your neck. You whimper, your knees turning to water as your instincts flare in response to her actions.

She groans, a sound of pure, frustrated need, and her free hand drops to the waistband of your soaked jeans. There is no gentleness in the way she hooks her thumbs into the denim. She peels them down with a frantic efficiency, the wet fabric clinging to your skin until she forces them past your hips, letting them heavy-thud to the floor.

"You think I care about the horse?" she mutters, her voice thick and ragged as she grips your bare hips, her fingers bruising the skin as she hauls you backward. She creates a sharp arch in your spine, pulling your backside firmly against her own damp clothes, making you feel every inch of her hardening dick. "I care about this. About you..."

She doesn't wait. With a sharp tug on your hair to keep your head tilted back, she guides herself into you. You gasp into the empty air of the room.

It’s raw and unrefined. Natasha isn't the steady, quiet farmer right now; she’s the Alpha who almost lost her mate. Each thrust is heavy, driving you back against the door, the wood rattling with the rhythm of her desperation. She’s fucking into you with a possessive ferocity, her breath hot and ragged against your ear.

"You're mine," she pants, the words a vow and a threat all at once. "You stay where I put you. Do you hear me?"

Your hands dig into the door in front of you, fingers searching for purchase as she overwhelms you. The wood of the door is cold against your chest, but Natasha is a furnace at your back.

The rhythm is unrelenting. Each heavy drive sends a jolt through your frame, forcing a broken, rhythmic sound from your throat that is lost against the panels of the door. She isn’t being careful, her teeth graze the sensitive skin where her mark sits on your shoulder, a white-hot spark of pleasure-pain shatters your remaining focus. You can feel the tension in her thighs, the way her breath hitched every time you tried to push back against her.

"Look at me," she rasps, her hand moving from your hip to your chin, forcing your head around so she can see the blown-out haze in your eyes. "Tell me you're staying. Tell me."

You can barely get the words out, the friction and the depth of her taking you to the very edge. "Staying... Natasha, please—"

The plea is all she needs. With a low, guttural growl, she surges forward one last time, her body locking tight against yours. The sensation is overwhelming, a tidal wave that crashes over you, sending your head back against her shoulder as your own climax hits, violent and dragging. She follows you over the edge seconds later, her name for you dying into a ragged exhale against your neck.

She pulls back just enough to turn you around, her eyes dark and searching. Slowly, she sinks to the floor, leaning her back against the very door she just had you pinned to. She doesn't have to say a word; the way she looks at you, the silent command in her posture, tells you exactly what she needs.

You sink to your knees between her legs, the cool air hitting your damp skin. As you take her into your mouth, tasting the salt of the storm and the essence of both of you, she lets out a long, shaky breath, her fingers threading through your hair.

She watches you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight, her hand occasionally tightening when you hit the right depth. Her fingers still tugging your hair, pulling you in. Until she finds her release again, a sharp shudder wracking her frame as she marks you one more time.

"Clean," she murmurs, her voice returning to that low, farm-steady rumble. She guides you to finish, her touch turning softer, more grounded.

Before the chill of the entryway can settle in, she’s lifting you. She carries you through the quiet house like you weigh nothing. She lays you down, but instead of joining you immediately, she hovers over you, her tongue tracing the lines of your body, tasting the aftermath of the entryway. She works with a slow, agonizing patience now, licking and nipping at your thighs until your breath hitches into a sob, driving you toward a second, softer peak that leaves you shaking.

Only then does she move back over you. This time, there’s no frantic rush. It’s deep, slow, and deliberate. She watches your face as she slides home, her expression softening into something devastatingly tender. As the friction builds, her body begins to change, the base of her thickening, locking the two of you together.

Her knot anchors you to her, a physical manifestation of the bond you’ve shared for three years on this land. You wrap your legs around her waist, pulling her as close as humanly possible, drifting off into the hazy, warm afterglow of the tie.

Much later, after the shower has washed away the salt and the mud, the house is truly still.

The window is cracked just a sliver, letting in the smell of wet earth and night air. Natasha is sitting up against the headboard, her chest bare. You’re tucked firmly against her side, your head resting on the steady, slow beat of her heart.

She reaches for the nightstand, sparking a match. The flare of orange light illuminates the sharp line of her jaw before she settles back, the familiar, herbal scent of her hand-rolled tobacco drifting through the room. She takes a long drag, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, and then exhales, the last of the day's tension finally leaving her shoulders.

Her arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer. She doesn't apologize for the roughness—you both know it was the only way she knew how to process the terror of the storm. She just kisses the top of your head, her hand resting heavy and protective over your hip.

“Thank you for saving her. I know you didn’t have bad intentions going into the storm like that… I only—”

“I know,” you say softly, looking up at her, your face scrunching slightly as a stray puff of smoke drifts between you. The moment earns the faintest quirk at the corner of her lips despite herself.

But it doesn’t last.

Her expression shifts again—softening, then steadying, like she’s choosing something she needs to say more than anything else. She closes the distance and kisses you, slower this time, less fire and more certainty.

When she pulls back just enough to speak, her voice is quiet against your mouth. She murmurs, “I love you, and I can’t imagine a world without you.”

You exhale, your forehead almost brushing hers again.

“I love you more,” you answer softly. “And I’ll never put myself in danger like that… so long as you will too.”

“I left way earlier and would’ve been back in time,” she starts, exhaling as she pulls back just slightly, “and I have my truck. If not for—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you cut in gently, a faint, tired amusement in your voice.

That earns you a look.

Not sharp this time—just familiar. A little exasperated, a little fond.

She huffs under her breath, shaking her head as if to let the argument go where it belongs. Her hand, still warm against you, loosens its grip but doesn’t let go completely.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters.

“You started it,” you reply.

A beat.

Then her mouth twitches again, that same reluctant softness breaking through the last of her frustration. She leans in, pressing a quieter kiss to your temple this time—slower, steadier, like she’s grounding herself more than anything.

note: eh I hate this bit I finished it so here's crumbs ig... Also I was informed by an amazing anon that a colt is a young male horse, so i went through and edited it out. if anyone catches where it still says colt instead of filly, please tell me.

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