Summary: The presumed by everyone (including herself) touch-averse Black Widow needs physical contact like anybody else. It only took you to show that to her. Now, she just needs to convince you that touch starvation isn’t the driving force behind her want to kiss you.
The idea started from this request
18+
Author's note: Some smut with feelings.
Part 2
It was a hard mission for Natasha.
No, it wasn’t just a hard mission; it’s been multiple. Over and over. Back to back.
She’s exhausted, and despite having just returned from one, she’s sure that tomorrow, she’ll be summoned for another. It seems like there’s just crisis after crisis these days. Infiltrate this organization, retrieve that intelligence data, handle and escort yet another asset across country lines… and do so through whatever means necessary.
She collapses onto the common room sofa, leaning back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.
It’s late. No one else is up. She just needs one moment to…
Natasha’s disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Her eyes reopen tiredly to find you gazing at her, confused and concerned. Well, no one else was supposed to be up.
“Rough mission?” you ask her.
She sighs. She doesn’t want to get into it.
You understand her exhale; you don’t push. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just coming to grab a glass of water. I’ll be out of the space shortly.”
“It’s alright,” she murmurs, and she’s not sure she wants to—she’s had quite the past 72 hours—but it’s you, and she’ll always be soft for you. “Anything in particular keeping you up?” she questions.
You hum. “Not sure,” you reply, “Anxiety, probably. Stress, maybe.”
Natasha gets that. “Wanna sit?”
“Sure.” You’re surprised at the offer—Natasha really looks like she’d prefer to be alone—but you accept anyway, unwilling to turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with some water before walking into the common room and settling on the couch beside the redhead, a comfortable amount of space between you two, perhaps a larger amount of space than usual for two friends.
Natasha’s not one for closeness, for intimacy, and she’s made that abundantly clear time and time again. It’s not uncomfortable, being this far from her, but you wonder what it would be like if she ever let you close the distance.
Her eyes fall closed once more, and silence blankets the both of you.
She looks so small right now. You want to offer something—anything—to comfort her, to soothe and alleviate whatever shadows from her mission may still be clinging to her.
But you don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk, and she’s always rejected physical contact before: Steve’s friendly pats on the back, Wanda’s hugs, your casual linking of arms as you walk side by side.
But tonight, she looks so small, so worn out. You can’t help but try, and you’re willing to admit that you could use some closeness as well.
“Do you maybe… want to come here?” you ask hesitantly, certain that she’s going to reject your offer, but your arms open to welcome her on the off chance she chooses to accept.
And although she doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even answer with certainty, to your shock, the redhead nods.
Maybe she senses that you need this, maybe it’s just for you, but she’s giving you it anyway.
It doesn’t take long.
Natasha’s head is pressed against your chest as she lets herself just be amazed by the steady sound of your heartbeat beneath her ear. Your arm is draped over her waist, keeping her flush against you, as you gently swipe your thumb back and forth across her hip. Your legs are tangled with hers as you two lounge together on the sofa, something on the TV playing quietly in the background, barely paid attention to by her in favor of reveling in your presence instead.
She’s trembling, everything within her at war. She’s never truly let herself get this near to someone else, and her instincts are both screaming at her to push you away and begging her to tug you even closer. Her nerves are on fire, every part of her body humming at the feeling of being in touch with another, and although lingering unease still swirls in her stomach, there’s also a sense of comfort that comes from being against you.
Everything is new, unfamiliar, and addicting.
She begins melting with each passing moment, relaxing into your hold, her tension unfurling as she surrenders to the sensation of just being held. Her own hands rise to settle around you, to grip at your shirt, the fabric clutched between her fingertips, and a soft sound escapes her, unbidden, as she nestles as if burrowing into your chest.
But it’s not enough. She needs to be closer.
So, Natasha situates herself more firmly against you, curling into you further, trying to gain even more physical contact. Her body moves without her thinking, acting on its own, shifting until she’s then fully on top of you, straddling you, her face soon back to being buried deeply into the crook of your neck, her nose nuzzling the curve of it, brushing the delicate skin there.
You suck in a surprised breath at the sudden change in positions, not having expected Natasha to make such a move. She’s been letting you take the lead, letting you guide her through all these new and hopefully gratifying feelings, but now, here she is, zero space between your hips and hers, her face tucked into you so close that you can feel every warm breath of hers on your throat.
Your hands instinctively grab onto her hips, trying to steady her, to settle her—you can feel the tremors in her body—and Natasha whimpers as the heat from your palms practically sears through her leggings.
You can sense the change, but you don’t understand it.
She grinds down lightly, testing without knowing it, and whimpers again at the ever so slight friction she receives. Her eyes flutter shut.
Your brows furrow at her neediness, but it’s not just neediness; it’s longing. Something is stirring within her, unlocking, making itself known, and you wonder…
You’re not sure you have a right to ask, not sure you have a right to know, but the way she’s acting right now—desperate, wanting, like she’s never felt the touch of someone who was touching her for her benefit—makes you think. “Have you ever…” you trail off.
“What?” Natasha asks breathily, eyes opening to look at you, trying to focus on your face and your words despite her hips still lightly grinding into your own. She can’t stop them.
“Have you ever…” you try again before rephrasing, “Has anyone ever made you come before?”
She stiffens in your arms, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve made so much progress with her tonight, gotten her to open up to you, to trust you, to let you touch her. You don’t want that to go away, but she does try to pull away, to sit up and move out of your arms, to remove herself from the vulnerable position she’s put herself in.
Your grip on her tightens minutely, attempting to keep her close, fingers resuming trailing soothing patterns along her as if that will get her to stay despite your misstep.
Neither of you two speak. You’re too worried about ruining what was already a fragile moment, and Natasha, she’s embarrassed, ashamed, not sure what she’s supposed to say in the face of the question that she is taking as an accusation.
She’s Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, known for using her body to get what she needs, known for seduction and sex and lust from others, and yet here she is, about to admit that she’s never been touched in a way that’s fulfilled her before.
“No,” she finally murmurs, quietly, almost inaudible, “It’s always just been a job. It’s always just been about the other person. I’ve never-”
You’re still silent, letting the new knowledge of how Natasha’s only ever been used sink in. You remember how her body moved against your own of its own accord, remember the whimper she made in response to her grinding. She needs this. You make a decision.
“Let me do this for you,” you murmur, pulling her upwards onto your stomach instead of your hips, beginning to mouth gently at the curve of her neck. You can feel her body still rigid in your arms, and although you don’t know if you should, you decide to press your luck, your tongue slipping out to hotly slide along her jawline. “Let me show you what real pleasure is. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.” Your words are said against her skin, and it makes her shiver with want.
Natasha’s eyes drift shut again, and for a moment, just like earlier when you offered her your touch, you think that she’s going to decline, that she’s going to roughly shove herself off of you and tell you to fuck off and never talk to her again, but then she breathes out a small “please”, and it’s all the permission you need.
You can already feel her pulsing along the muscles of your abdomen, so you waste no time. Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of her pants and underwear, dipping themselves into her folds, just feeling her wetness, taking in her heat, and Natasha shudders. It’s not the first time she’s been touched there, but it’s the first time it hasn’t felt like it was for somebody else.
You watch her expression soften as she surrenders to the sensations, and you soften as well.
“I’m going to show you just how good it can feel, just how good you deserve to feel,” you whisper to her, and Natasha’s body yields further, falling limp against you as she prepares herself to simply let herself feel and enjoy it this time.
It’s not a mission, not an assignment, not something that has to be done. This is a choice that she gets to make for herself.
“Tell me what you want. Anything you want, it’s yours,” you tell her as you start to circle her clit, just light circles before pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves more firmly, drawing a long whine from the redhead.
You continue teasing her, moving down to her entrance to gather more of her slick before returning to her clit, tapping lightly, swiping across it, using your two fingers to brush and skim and stroke with varying pressures.
For a while, Natasha is speechless, driven into an overwhelmed quiet by your ministrations, but her body aches, her pussy aches, and she needs you to fill her.
“Inside,” she finally gasps out, hips starting to rock up to try and get your fingers to slip into her hole, to delve into her and explore.
You immediately comply, your fingers swiftly entering her. You want to give her whatever it is that she needs. Tonight’s about her.
Natasha’s eyes roll back. She’s felt something similar to this before, felt the fullness and the stretch, but her pussy has never wanted to hold someone within, her pussy has never been desperate for more, her pussy has never throbbed for another person.
You drag your fingers out only to shove them back in, curling them to try and find the spot that the redhead needs, and a whine escapes her again.
Your eyes snap up to look at her face when she makes the noise.
“Right there?” you ask softly, and she nods, her head bobbing up and down multiple times.
“Right there,” she affirms, tone hoarse, voice shaky. Her hips are rolling to meet your every thrust, her body lighting up under your touch. Her hands grip at your shoulders as if that will stabilize herself as you continue pumping into her, and despite her thoughts scattering as the world blurs around the edges, she can’t help but think about one thing: she wants to kiss you.
One of her hands moves to tangle in your hair, to try and draw you closer, to try and pull your head toward hers so she can at first graze her lips against yours. It’s not that she hasn’t kissed anyone—she has many times before—but tonight feels different, this feels different, you feel different.
You acquiesce for a moment, dipping yourself forward until you realize what her goal is, and then you’re pulling away. Although there’s a smile on your face, it’s resigned.
You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Natasha whines for a third time, but this time, it’s out of petulance at being rejected, and she tries to tug your face back to hers again.
You speed up your motions to distract her from her current fixation on your lips, and Natasha’s body arches as you succeed. Despite your movements being restricted by her leggings, you’re quickly taking her up to the edge that she’s always heard contains nothing but pleasure, the pressure building fast and hot inside of her.
And then… it releases. It’s nothing like she’s ever experienced before. She wasn’t aware it could feel like this.
Natasha’s reveling, savoring, basking in the feeling that follows an orgasm—a real orgasm—but… it wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an orgasm given to her by you.
She’s almost recovered after a minute or so, her chest still rising and falling unsteadily, her heartbeat still thumping rapidly in her chest, and she falls back onto her side on the sofa to look at you, her eyes soft. You look so beautiful in front of her. Her hand comes up to frame your face, and you lean into the touch, smiling at the affectionate gesture.
Now’s the moment, right? You didn’t kiss her during the act, but that didn’t mean anything. You were busy; you were preoccupied.
“Can I kiss you now?” Natasha asks hopefully, gaze not leaving your face.
Everything about this moment is tender, the haze of all that has transpired still hanging over the two of you and throughout the room… or maybe just over her.
You pull away from her hand, and your eyes turn… not guarded, but acceptant of the belief you already have.
When you respond, your tone is still gentle, so gentle, but it makes the redhead flinch anyway. “Natasha,” you murmur, and she knows you’re going to reject her again before you even continue. “You’ve never had this before, never felt like this before. I know you needed this, and I’m happy to have given it to you, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you want me.”
Natasha’s heart breaks. After all this, you think she doesn’t want you?
When she doesn’t respond, you take her silence for confusion. “Don’t confuse your body’s need with what you want,” you explain more.
“No, no, that’s not-” Natasha breaks off, “I do want you. I do.”
You look at her with a mix of disbelief and sympathy, and it kills her. She doesn’t want your pity; she wants your trust.
“You think I would’ve let just anyone touch me?”
You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off.
“You think I would’ve let just anyone fuck me?”
“You’ve never-”
“It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been with someone like this before, I want you.”
“You’re just touch starved-” you protest.
“I’m able to tell the difference between touch starvation and feelings. You believe me. You have to believe me.”
She can tell by the look in your eyes that you don’t.
“Every other time, it’s always been for a job, with a goal in mind, but this time, it was a choice. I got to choose. Please don’t demean that; please don’t take that away from me.”
“Natasha,” you try one more time.
“After all that, don’t you… don’t you choose me too?”
It’s your turn to melt for the night, and your hand cups her cheek, fingers caressing her face as you finally lean in and give her what she’s been asking for.
You spent your whole childhood with Wanda and Natasha at your side, certain the three of you would never drift apart. Then you left for the city, and now coming home means facing everything your absence turned their yearning into.
details: country/west farmer!au, slow burn/story/it's like a movie!! fic, a lot of words... please prepare time to read this story, eventual smut, porn/smut w/ plot, childhood friends to complex to together, farmer girls x city girl trope, hurt/comfort, slight angst with comfort, very happy ending!, top!natasha, switch!wanda, switch!reader, dom!wandanat/sub!reader, naughty smut, slight injury (r sustaining), f/afab!reader, cigarette usage (natasha)
Many hate on trios, saying there’s always a duo in a trio. That one person left standing just slightly outside the circle.
It was never the case with the three of you.
One shy greeting shared between you all when your families were introduced after Wanda and Natasha moved into town, and somehow the three of you became stuck together as thick as honey. Impossible to separate after that.
You spent countless sunrises to sunsets together. Inside jokes so overused they stopped making sense years ago, yet still sent you rolling onto your backs in laughter with pine needles tangled in your hair. From ages five to eighteen, you watched one another grow up in all the quiet ways that mattered most.
You explored every inch of land surrounding town, knew every trail, every hidden riverbank, every broken fence and abandoned road. Played the same games one too many times.
Spent nights at one another’s houses whispering embarrassing stories into the dark until tears gathered in your eyes from laughing too hard. And sometimes those nights turned softer, quieter. Comforting hands resting on knees when secrets slipped out, insecurities revealed only in the safety of each other.
You grew up with one another. Blew out birthday candles side by side, exchanged stupid Christmas presents every year, learned to drive in the same rusted trucks, and crammed yourselves into diner booths after reckless late-night drives through mountain roads. The whole town knew the three of you together, like your names belonged side by side as naturally as the mountains belonged to the horizon.
Inseparable, never meant to part from one another. Photos of the three of you hung around each other’s rooms, tucked into mirrors and pinned to walls, always leaving space for another year, another memory. Until one evening.
It was supposed to be another sleepover, only older now. The three of you somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, curled up in familiar places with the television humming quietly in the background and empty soda cans cluttering the table. Comfortable in the way only years together could make people.
Then your mother stepped into the kitchen and asked softly if you had told them yet. Their eyes flickered toward you immediately, and your body ran cold.
You couldn’t say it. Could barely even look at them. So your mother did it for you. She told them you were moving away to the city.
And the room lost its warmth.
You had been in New York for almost five years now. You’d finished college, settled into your first full-time job, and quietly reached the point where your life stopped feeling like something temporary and started feeling like something built.
Somewhere along the way, you’d grown into a woman almost unrecognizable from the girl who once ran barefoot through riverbanks and mountain trails. Back home, you grew up in a place where cell service barely existed, where fashion meant whatever clothes survived the week and your father’s boots were just part of the outfit you threw on over pajamas.
Your friends in the city found your childhood charming in that distant, curious way people do when they’ve never lived it. Wine glasses balanced between their fingers as they asked you questions about horses and wide open land and how you could stand living somewhere so small everyone knew everyone. What it was like. Why you left. If you missed it. If you could ever go back.
You always answered lightly, laughing it off, turning your past into something almost like a story instead of something you had lived. But the questions stayed with you longer than they should have, especially the ones about why you left, because you never really had a clean answer for that anymore.
Your parents had long since stopped arguing with you about New York. Now your calls home were softer, stretched out with pauses, your mother asking when you were visiting again and your father pretending not to notice how often you said you were busy. It hadn’t felt urgent before, life always pulling you forward too fast to look back.
But now, for the first time in years, the thought landed differently.
You could go home. There was nothing stopping you anymore.
You had PTO sitting unused, no deadlines pressing against you, no real reason not to leave the city for a while. You could just… go.
The realization settled in your chest in a way that made everything feel suddenly too quiet. That night you called your parents while sitting cross-legged on your couch, laptop open on your knees as flight searches loaded in the background, your finger hovering between dates as your mother’s voice filled your apartment from the speaker.
Your dad picked you up at the airport, giving you a hug so tight your lungs burned. You didn’t mind it. You just shoved your face into his shoulder and held on a second longer than you meant to, breathing in the familiar rough cigarette scent and something older underneath it was motor oil.
It hit you all at once how much you’d been holding back, how much you’d been pretending wasn’t there. How much you’d missed him. How much you still loved him in that deep, uncomplicated way that never really changes no matter how far you go.
When he finally pulled back, his hands stayed on your shoulders like he needed to make sure you were real. “God, look at you,” he said, voice thick in a way he tried to hide by laughing. “Look at my girl… you’re so grown up.”
You smiled at him, soft and a little watery around the edges, eyes matching his in that too-emotional way neither of you commented on. You squeezed his hands like you were grounding yourself through him instead of the other way around. “I miss you…”
“Me too, and so does your mother,” he said, giving your hands a gentle squeeze back as he nodded toward the exit. “Let’s go home… she’s waiting for you there.”
She gave you a just as tight hug, one you fully just broke into, tears slipping before you could even think to stop them. You held onto her like your hands had been waiting years to do that again, arms wrapped around her so tightly it almost felt like you were afraid she might disappear if you let go.
She didn’t rush you. Just held you back just as firmly, one hand steady between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like you hadn’t outgrown needing it.
You buried your face into her shoulder, breathing in her shampoo and lotion, the familiar softness of her sweater, the quiet warmth of her that somehow still felt like home even after everything. The air in the house felt different in a way you couldn’t quite place at first.
Cleaner, lighter, like it had been waiting for you to notice it again. And suddenly it hit you how long it had been since you’d taken a full breath without something sitting heavy in your chest.
You exhaled shakily, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes still glassy. “I’m home…”
“That you are,” she said softly, brushing a thumb beneath your eye like she was still allowed to do that without asking. “We’ve been counting down the minutes.”
Her smile was small, careful, like she was afraid too much emotion might break something.
“We’ve got dinner… please come in.” Then, after a beat, her gaze flicked over your shoulder toward the rest of the house, softer still.
“The house has changed a bit… as you might assume you notice.”
After dinner, when you finally parted for the night, you climbed the creaky stairs slowly, each step familiar in a way your body remembered before your mind fully caught up. They had said the house had changed, and you believed them, until you reached your bedroom door.
The moment you opened it, everything stopped. Your suitcase rolled softly behind you and came to rest in the corner, but you barely noticed. Your feet moved on their own, slow and careful, like you were walking through a memory instead of a room.
Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been replaced. It was all still there, held in time like someone had refused to let it become anything else.
The old quilt on your bed. The faint marks on the wall where posters used to hang. The dresser you’d carved into when you were younger and thought it was funny. The bookshelf still slightly crooked no matter how many times your father tried to fix it. Even the soft smell of dust and old wood and something unmistakably you.
You walked like you were in a movie you weren’t sure you belonged in anymore, fingers brushing over surfaces as things you had forgotten suddenly returned in fragments. Late-night conversations, getting ready for school, lying on your back staring at the ceiling thinking the world would never change.
And yet it had. Just not this room.
You flop onto the bed afe hearing the springs bounce under you. The ceiling stares back at you the same way it always did, familiar in a way that almost feels unreal after so long away. Your eyes drift to your vanity, spotting the photos there, and something in your chest tightens.
You sit up slowly, gaze lingering on them. Smiling faces caught in time. Too many memories packed into small frames, edges slightly worn from years of being looked at and never really put away. You, Wanda, Natasha. Always the three of you.
You wonder what they’re up to, where they are right now. If they’re together. If they’re laughing. If anything about them feels different, or if it’s just you who changed. If they moved on after you left.
Your throat tightens before you can stop it.
You reach over and turn your lamp off for the night before you can let yourself wonder about anything further.
You had some time to warm up to everything again before your parents mentioned that you should attend the city’s small gathering once more, just to greet everyone again, catch up, be seen. It had sounded like a good idea at the time. You missed people from the town you grew up in, missed the familiarity of faces that didn’t feel like strangers even after years apart.
Your parents were going too, a kind of quiet reassurance at your side in case you felt awkward or in case the town had decided you’d become the “city girl” who left and never quite belonged again.
A few hours later, and it had been a fine gathering for the most part. Shaking hands yet again, hugging occasionally, repeating the same softened version of your life until your smile started to feel practiced instead of real. The fire burned bright in the center of everything, casting warm light over familiar faces as the sun fully disappeared and the night settled in.
You excused yourself quietly, slipping away toward the bathrooms just to breathe for a moment, let your shoulders drop where no one could see.
That’s when a truck pulled up. Headlights cut through the dark for a second before shutting off, leaving the engine to tick in the silence. It caught your eye without meaning to.
The door swung open, and your heart stuttered in your chest.
The one with the short, messy hair stepped out first. Except it wasn’t short anymore. Long auburn strands spilled over her shoulders, catching the firelight every time she moved. A cigarette rested between her lips, smoke curling into the night air.
The habit struck you immediately. Unfamiliar against the version of her you’d carried in your head for years.
The second door swung open a beat later. You shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, not really, but the sight of her still knocked the breath from your lungs. She looked older now.
Taller somehow, steadier. Softer in a way that only time could carve into someone. Even her voice, faint beneath the noise of the party, had deepened into something calmer, more mature.
You could hear the two of them talking quietly amongst themselves.
Their names stirred in the back of your mind, dangerously familiar. You shoved the thought down before it could settle, forcing your steps to remain even as you continued toward the bathrooms, pretending your pulse hadn’t suddenly fallen out of rhythm.
Part of you hoped you’d imagined it. That maybe you’d looked too fast, caught the wrong angle in the flicker of firelight and smoke and familiar noise. Maybe she hadn’t seen you at all.
But fate had other plans.
For one fleeting moment, her gaze drifted lazily across the crowd. Casual, distracted. Then it found you right as you reached the edge of the building and stepped inside.
You pushed through the bathroom door quickly, the cold fluorescent light washing over you as you gripped the edge of the sink for a second longer than necessary. Your pulse still hadn’t settled. You turned on the faucet anyway, letting the icy water run over your hands just to give yourself something else to focus on, but you can't.
Five fucking years. You dried your hands slowly against your jeans as you stepped back into the mosquito-filled air, already planning to keep your head down and walk straight past them.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Guilt and awkwardness climbed up your throat so fast it almost made it hard to answer.
“Hi.”
The word came out quieter than you intended.
Silence settled between you almost immediately, thick and uncomfortable. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to her anymore—or if you were supposed to say anything at all. The two of you hadn’t spoken since the day you left for the city. No calls. No texts. Nothing except years of distance stretching wider and wider until it became easier to pretend it didn’t matter.
Maybe this was how things were supposed to go.
People faded. Friendships lost their grip. Not everyone you met was meant to become part of your foundation. Some people were only passing branches, temporary things meant to break away eventually.
You told yourself that was all this was. Five years was a long time to hold onto someone. You shifted slightly, already preparing to step around her and leave the conversation exactly where it stood. Brief, polite before Wanda spoke again.
"You changed your hair,” she commented, her eyes drawing carefully over you.
“Yeah, I did…” you breathed out, wiping at your bicep when you felt what was probably a mosquito land there.
“It looks nice. Seems like you’ve really been taking care of yourself.”
The compliment sat awkwardly between you. You shifted your weight, one foot already turning away like you were preparing to leave the conversation before it had the chance to become anything more. Still, you could feel Wanda’s gaze lingering on you. And another from farther away, heavier somehow, burning into your skin.
Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced toward the truck near the fire and found Natasha already watching you. The flame from her lighter illuminated her face for a brief second as she lit another cigarette, smoke curling past her lips as she leaned back against the truck.
“Not too sure,” you admitted. “However long I can stretch my PTO. I’m getting time with my parents.”
Something flickered across Wanda’s face at that. Small enough that you almost missed it. The mention of family. The quiet implication beneath your words. That you came back for them, not for this, not for her.
No mention of catching up. No offer to see each other again. Still, she smiled softly, the kind that felt more polite than personal now. “Well… it was nice seeing you.”
“You too.”
The words felt strange leaving your mouth.
Wanda gave a small wave before turning and heading back toward the fire, her figure slowly blending into the warm glow and drifting smoke. You started in the opposite direction, hands shoved into your pockets, but after a few steps you glanced back over your shoulder anyway.
It wouldn’t be a small town without its monthly farmer’s market.
Your parents had driven the three of you into town early that morning, and for once, you didn’t mind staying close to them. It gave you something familiar to hold onto. The market buzzed around you with soft music, overlapping conversations, and the scent of kettle corn drifting through the warm air. You pointed out different stands to your mom, teased your dad over overpriced honey, and exchanged polite smiles with a few familiar faces from years ago.
It almost felt normal.
By the time you stopped at the smoothie stand near the edge of the market, the heat had already settled into your skin. You held your mango smoothie in one hand while waiting for the larger one your parents planned to split, half-listening to the blender roaring behind the counter.
Then a voice slipped into the space beside you.
“Mango? Always been your favorite.”
Your stomach tightened before you even looked up.
Wanda stepped beside you casually, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket despite the warmth outside. Her hair was pulled back loosely today, auburn strands catching in the breeze.
“You ordering one?” you asked, trying to sound more relaxed than you felt. Almost pushing her away again.
She hummed softly, glancing up at the menu board. “Maybe. I’m deciding.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “This stand’s new. Only been here about two years.”
She glanced away from the menu for a moment, eyes settling on you. “How’s the city been?”
The question made your stomach sink unexpectedly, like there was too much wrapped inside those four words. Your fingers tightened slightly around the smoothie cup as you silently wished your parents’ order would be ready already.
“Uh, yeah…” you muttered, shifting your weight. “It’s good. A lot.”
Wanda smiled anyway, like she understood the awkwardness behind it. “Still overwhelming?”
“Pretty much all the time.”
“I can imagine,” she said softly. “Forty people in one gathering is about enough for me. I can’t imagine being surrounded by that many people all the time. Always somewhere to go.”
You hummed, feeling yourself loosen slightly at the subject. Talking about the city was easier than talking about yourself. Easier than talking about the five years sitting between the two of you.
“It’s not as bad as people think,” you admitted, glancing down at your drink. “Everyone kind of stays in their own lane. It feels like you actually get your own space there.”
You paused briefly before adding quieter, “Doesn’t feel as suffocating. Or like everyone’s watching you all the time.”
Your name was called from the stand. Relief flickered through you immediately. “That’s mine,” you said, half a step backward as you pointed toward the counter. You grabbed your parents’ smoothie when it was handed over, the cold cup grounding you in something simple again.
Wanda was still there. Feeling awkard to say goodbye, but even more not to say anything at all. You turned back to her, something small and almost unintentional softening your expression. Not quite a smile, not quite nothing either.
“Uh… it was good seeing you,” you said quietly.
Wanda nodded once, gentle. “Yeah. You too.”
You held her gaze for a second longer than you meant to, then shifted your weight away, your parents already drifting toward the next stall.
“Take care,” you added, voice lighter now.
"You too."
You lay in bed, covers pulled up to your chest, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of your room presses in around you. Your eyes drift again and again to the photos still pinned along your vanity mirror. Snapshots of a life that feels both distant and uncomfortably close.
You shift restlessly beneath the blankets, your thoughts swinging between extremes, almost hot and cold the way Wanda and Natasha feel in your chest.
Part of you circles the idea of mending it.
Of letting the distance soften, of allowing something polite and careful to form again. Something that doesn’t demand too much, just enough to acknowledge what you once were without pretending it never existed.
It's similar to Wanda, who's already reaching, in her way. Small steps. Easy conversations. A version of reconnection that doesn’t feel like it would swallow you whole if you tried.
The second part, one that looks at Natasha and feels that familiar finality settle in your bones. The part that questions why you would even try to rebuild something that already burned itself down so completely.
What would it even mean to go back there? What would you be rebuilding, exactly. Friendship, history, or just the echo of something you’ve already outgrown?
It pulls you in two directions at once, neither one fully letting go.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize it isn’t really about choosing between them. It’s about choosing which version of the past you’re willing to carry forward with you.
You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, watching the clouds shift into something ugly overhead. Thick, swollen, and dark enough to swallow the horizon. They rolled together into one continuous mass as far as you could see, the air turning heavy with the metallic scent of rain before it even started falling.
You tapped your foot against the floor near the counter, impatience building as you waited for the last of the payment to go through for your parents’ horse feed. One more errand. One less thing for them to worry about. That was the idea, anyway.
The cashier finally nodded toward the card reader. “You’re good to swipe or tap.”
“Thanks,” you muttered, relief already loosening your shoulders.
The bell above the door jingled as you stepped outside.
You had wished for no rain. And the sky answered anyway.
It hit fast. Cold wind first, then the first scattered drops, and then all at once the world opening up above you. You hurried toward the car, already regretting the jacket you chose, the timing, the entire day.
You had wished to get home safe. And the car responded by slowing like it was thinking about giving up entirely.
A sputter. A shake. Then silence.
“No. No, no, no—come on,” you groaned, gripping the wheel as if that alone could convince it otherwise. You slumped forward, pressing your forehead against it for a second before letting out a long, defeated breath. “Damn it… of course. God fucking damn it.”
Of course it was the old car. Of course it was your parents’ old everything. Old house, old roads, old feed store that took forever to get anything done.
You shoved the door open and stepped out into the rain immediately soaking through your jacket. Cold water ran down your arms as you moved behind the car, placing your hands against the trunk.
“Please,” you muttered under your breath, as if the car might suddenly develop empathy.You pushed.
At first it barely moved, tires digging into wet ground that was already turning fast into mud. You leaned harder into it, boots slipping slightly with each effort. Rain blurred your vision, plastering your hair to your face, soaking through everything faster than you could adjust.
More time passed. And your arms started to burn. Your breath came sharper. The car barely shifted an inch.
“Come on,” you hissed through clenched teeth, pushing again, harder this time.
The ground gave out beneath one step, your foot slid out from under you instantly. You hit the mud first—hard—then felt the sharp sting as your face followed, your lip splitting on impact. A copper taste filled your mouth almost immediately, mixing with rainwater as it ran down your chin.
You froze for a second, breath shaking, rain hammering down around you like it was trying to erase you entirely. Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing over your lip. No, your nose. Or wherever it is the blood had started to show after slamming into the back of the car.
“God,” you muttered again, voice rough as you pushed yourself upright, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. It didn’t help much. Everything was already soaked anyway. Rain, mud, and now a thin streak of blood that refused to blend in.
You turned back toward the car, still half-focused on trying to salvage the situation, when headlights cut through the storm in the distance.
At first, it was just relief. Sharp and immediate. Someone. Anyone.
You held a hand over your eyes, squinting through the rain as she stepped out of the truck. Her boot sank slightly into the mud, dark water splashing around it, but she didn’t seem to care.
You opened your mouth to explain. Something halfway between it just died and I’ve got it handled... but she cut you off before you could get a word out.
“The hell are you doing?” Natasha’s voice cut through the storm, sharp enough to feel like it landed harder than the rain.
Something in your chest snapped hot immediately.
Not fear. Not embarrassment.
Frustration. Honestly, it might’ve even started the second you saw her truck.
“What does it look like I’m doing, you ass?” you shot back, wiping rain from your face again only for it to be replaced instantly. “The car stopped. It’s not starting again and I’m just trying to go home!”
She made it across the road, crouching slightly to peer into your stalled car as rain battered both of you. You stood there beside it, completely soaked now.
Tears dripping into your eyes, clothes heavy and clinging to your skin, mud tracking up your legs. Everything felt cold, uncomfortable, wrong. The only thing you could think about was a hot shower waiting somewhere on the other side of this mess.
Natasha straightened again, voice carrying over the storm.
“I can’t help you out here,” she called. “I’ll drive you back and tow your parents’ car.”
There wasn’t much room for argument in the way she said it.
The passenger seat of her truck felt like another world entirely. Your soaked clothes squeaked faintly as you sat down. You stared straight ahead for a moment, hands awkward in your lap, trying to settle your breathing. Time only moved forward, you reminded yourself. Second by second, and you're moving forward to this moment ending.
Natasha was already outside again, hooking your car up, rain running off her shoulders as she worked. Then she climbed back into the driver’s seat like the storm didn’t touch her the same way it touched everyone else.
The truck rumbled slightly as she started it. Silence settled in immediately after, just the low hum of the AC. The steady drum of rain against the windshield. The faint creak of metal as the tow line tightened behind you.
You stared out at the blurred world beyond the glass, rain streaking sideways in the headlights as the truck rolled steadily forward.
“Thank yo—” you started, the words catching in your throat before they could fully form.
Natasha hit the brakes. Hard.
The sudden stop snapped you forward against the seatbelt, breath punching out of your lungs as the world jerked into stillness. The tow line behind you creaked under tension. Rain hammered the windshield like it was trying to break through.
“I just can’t fucking believe that you’re back. Why in the world did you come back? You’re so incredibly selfish, you understand this?”
For a second, you just stared at her, rain and adrenaline still ringing in your ears.
“Excuse me?” you say, sharper now.
Natasha lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. She looks back out at the road like she already regrets turning toward you in the first place.
“Yeah,” she mutters, “excuse you.”
The wipers drag back and forth, useless against how hard it’s coming down.
You open your mouth again, but she cuts in before you get anything out.
“No, don’t… don’t even start explaining like there’s a good version to any of this,” she says, voice tighter now. “Not ‘I wanted to chase my dreams.’ You only told the two of us when your mom brought it up. Like something you were never even going to tell us until you just left. And I don't even want to know how you told your sweet parents."
“Natasha—!”
“Two friends, people who’ve known you since birth,” she continues, faster. “You don’t think we deserve an official goodbye? Any explanation? Before you get up and leave for five years? And oh yeah, 'I got your little things done, so let me just come back because I missed it?' You expect everything to just be fucking peachy dandy? Two people you’ve known for your whole life, who’ve been nothing but everything to you. You can’t even afford the decency to say goodbye? What a fucking joke you are.”
You throw your hands up, opening the car door. “I can’t do this.”
She’s out almost immediately, slamming her door behind her.
“Run away,” Natasha snaps after you, voice cutting through the storm. “Very you. Don’t confront anything head-on."
You whip around to face her.
“So what is it with you? Do you want to drive me home, or should I drive? Because this is—”
“This is what?” she interrupts, stepping closer. “You tell me. What is it with you? Why did you want to leave everyone here who’s cared about you? Truly?”
Her voice rises slightly now, not quite yelling, but close.
“How’re the fake friends in New York?” she throws in, sharp and quick. “You like the money? The title of being in New York instead of this nothing town?”
A beat.
“It’s all wonderful, right? Until you need to think about something that actually means something to you. That’s why you came back. You’re not truly satisfied there and you know it. Why the hell did you even lea—”
“Because Natasha, I’ve had nothing done nothing! My siblings have done outstanding things, and all I have ever done is mess around. I tossed pencils into a cup with you and Wanda instead of studying. My sister was in honors at my age, while I was covered in mud. My parents expect more. I can’t be the loose end in my family.... I.."
She huffs. “You know how much your parents missed you when you were gone? I made up excuses to come by just to try and cheer them up. They worried they messed up with you. Wondered why you left so far away when you seemed so happy here.”
You wave your hands. “Can we just… don’t…”
“Sure,” she says, tone flat, unimpressed, already done. Climbing back into her car.
The drive is even more silent than before, Natasha reaching to try to light a cigarette on the rest of the drive.
You glance at her. “Terrible habit, but I’m not surprised.”
She huffs, setting the pack back in the cup holder. “Wanda’s been entirely too sweet to you. I’ve been telling her."
She pulls up at your parents’ house, unattaching the car. She waves to your parents, who look worried on the front porch, before her car hums off into the distance, not a wave your way. But your heart feels warmer, soften even... despite the harsh words thrown at each other. You slept that night, feeling a little less like bricks were laying on you.
The argument in the storm had been the dam that broke everything. After that, something in the air between you all shifted. Not healed, but loosened just enough to breathe through. The past hurt feeling like a river cried, and the bridge beginning to form again.
Despite it all, you started smiling a little when you ran into them. In a small town, it was impossible not to. There were only so many places to go, only so many corners of town you could avoid before they stopped feeling avoidable at all.
At the diner, it was a brief wave.
At the little store downtown, it was Wanda holding the door open while Natasha lingered near the counter, pretending not to notice you.
At the gas station, it was a quiet exchange of “hey” that lasted a few seconds longer than it used to.
It wasn’t smooth. But it wasn’t as sharp anymore either.
Each time, you found yourself staying a little longer. Saying a little more. Laughing, sometimes, before you had time to stop yourself. The awkward edges didn’t disappear, but they softened enough that you stopped bracing for impact every time you saw them.
And slowly, without any real announcement, things started to settle into something that resembled a pattern.
Wanda always spoke first. Careful, warm, like she was still trying to build a bridge between where you were and where you used to be.
Natasha stayed quieter, but she didn’t leave. She lingered in the background of conversations more often than not, watching, listening, occasionally throwing in something blunt that cut through the softness without fully breaking it.
It confused you, how something so fractured could still hold together in motion. And eventually, even your parents noticed.
“You’ve been running into them a lot lately again,” your mom said one evening over dinner, her tone light, but threaded with something warmer. “It makes me really happy… I was happy your friendship could rekindle. I had hope.”
“It’s trying…” you said, a little uncertain.
Your mom hummed softly, poking at her food. “It was a hard time when you left. Hit them hard, as it did us. Sweet women, they are. They’d come and help us with some chores. The ones you used to cover. They’d ask how you were doing…”
She glanced up at you then, softer now.
“Well... anyways, I’m just happy you’re all talking again. They’re gold. Don’t let go of them, alright darling? True gold, not false. Rare."
It had begun to bloom.
Not in any sudden, obvious way. Nothing you could point to and name, but in the slow return of ease. In the way your shoulders stopped tensing when you saw them. In the way conversations started lasting longer without feeling like you were walking on glass.
You found yourself revisiting places you hadn’t thought about in years.
The riverbank you used to sit at as a kid looked smaller now, quieter in a different way. The water still moved the same, but everything around it had changed just enough to remind you how much time had passed. You pointed things out absently when they were with you, half-laughing at old memories you weren’t sure you should still remember so clearly.
Your bed felt warm, like home each time you laid your head.
While you felt free, the two women felt caged still.
A weight still sat on their shoulders. Something unspoken, something that hadn’t dissolved just because time had passed and you were back in the same rooms again.
It lingered in the things they didn’t say.
In the way Natasha’s gaze flicked to you when she thought you wouldn’t notice.
In the way Wanda’s anger never quite found a place to land. It rose, once, briefly. Then dissolved the moment she saw you again, as if relief outweighed everything else. As if having you in front of her made it impossible to hold onto anything sharp for long.
It lived in hesitation, too. In the smallest pauses before speaking your name. In fingers that twitched, almost reaching, then curling back into themselves like restraint was a habit they couldn’t break.
In how their hearts betrayed them in quiet ways. Faster when you laughed, heavier when you looked away, uneven in your presence as if something inside them had never learned how to settle properly without you.
It lived in the nasty habit Natasha took upon herself. Smoke easing into her lungs instead of you. Into the nights the two of them spent together, the silence after as they occasionally grieved your presence.
Living to see a photo of you on social media, but too scared to follow.
It felt finate, your friendship. But the love that resonates in their hearts is infinite. And your distance, only strengthened it.
Your PTO is to come to an end. And this time, you inform others of your possible upcoming departure. It was brought up when they asked, settled into your bedroom. With a sunken heart, you come to realize the impending return date. Less than a week away. It felt as if a timer had offcially started. A stop watch starting, cointing down the seconds. Raising a feeling underneath everything. A question, a conflict to be resolved… hoping to be.
A sunken feeling settled in your chest as the return date became real in a way it hadn’t been before. Less than a week. A line drawn too clearly now to ignore.
It felt like something had started counting down. Haunting.
Tomorrow is your flight.
You sit with the two of them, checking into your flight. The room had been lively, until now. The clock louder than ever before.
"Sad I have only a couple hours really left... But we have each other's numbers... We can always text, or call..?"
"Right, yeah..." they had responded, dejected.
You hugged them, smiling—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes—before you got into the Uber. You waved goodbye to everyone: your parents, Wanda, Natasha. The dust kicked up behind the car as it pulled away, carrying you toward the airport, toward the flight.
You bit your nail, watching the world blur past the window, something tight settling into your chest. Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, uneven in a way you couldn’t quite settle. You kept swallowing it down, shifting your focus, pinching at your skin just to stay grounded in something physical.
It felt off. Wrong, even.
You walk toward security, lugging your suitcase behind you. Each step feels heavier than the last, like the airport itself is pulling you forward whether you want it to or not. The noise around you fades in and out. Announcements, rolling bags, footsteps, until it all starts to feel distant, muffled, like you’re already halfway gone.
Your mind keeps catching on moments you didn’t realize you were holding onto. Wanda’s laugh in your room. Natasha’s voice cutting through rain. The way silence between you all had started to feel less like absence and more like something full. Something you hadn’t known how to name until it was already slipping out of reach again. Like you don't what you have, how you feel until it's gone.
You swallow hard, forcing your grip tighter on your suitcase handle, like that could keep you steady. Like that could keep anything steady. Each step feels slower. The clock in your head ticking down the last few seconds you didn’t want to hear.
Your body is tense, too aware. Too tightly held.... until your name is shouted behind you.
For a second, you almost don’t believe it.
Then again.
Louder.
You turn, as something in your chest breaks loose before you can think about it. You drop your suitcase immediately and start moving before you even realize you’ve started running.
The space between you disappears too fast. And then you’re there, hugging the two women.
Hugging them tight, like if you let go too soon it would confirm every fear you’ve been trying not to name. They pull you in just as close, like neither of them had any intention of letting you be the one to hold on alone.
The pressure builds in your chest all at once. Too much feeling, too much time compressed into a single moment, and it spills over before you can stop it. Tears blur your vision, warm and sudden, and you don’t bother hiding them.
You don’t want to go home.
Because home isn’t the airport, or the city, or the life waiting for you past security.
Home is right here in your arms.
Wanda's or Natasha's home. You’re unaware and uncaring of whose it is as you're shoved inside with passion.
Your arms are wrapped around Natasha's neck, lips pressed to one another. The kiss is deep and unmoving. Her body pins you to the wall, and she grabs your thigh to wrap it around her waist. She holds you close, tightening her grip as she pulls you in. She tastes like the smoke she’s always inhaling and some unnamed, basic brand of chapstick.
You gasp, tugging at her hair as you melt into the kiss. Your body feels so warm and tingly that you believe you're floating. Wanda shuts and locks the door, coming up behind you to slide her hands down your chest while her lips lock onto your neck, listening to the little sounds you make.
Your shirt is tossed aside by Wanda, bra is shoved down so she can feel along your chest. To feel your nipples harden from her fingers tracing them. Your legs buckle under their touch, and they catch you to lead you toward the bed.
You fall back onto the bed, looking up at the two of them with lidded eyes, dressed only in your bra and bottoms. Wanda removes her shirt and lays over you, mumbling quiet comments about your body.
She whispers how gorgeous you are and how you’re stunning, "like a dream."
She tells you how good you look under her as she climbs on top, slotting her lips against yours. You reach a hand up to tug at her hair, squirming under the weight of her body. Pushed into the mattress by her hips slotting between yours. Hips grinding against one another.
Wanda kisses down your body, her lips latching onto your nipple for a moment.
"Mm—!"
You jolt, a whine escaping you at the contact as your thighs rub together. You're seeking more already, which brings a cocky, knowing look to her expression.
She continues to kiss down your body and across your abdomen. She skips over the area you want, instead kissing up your inner thighs while her thumbs hook into your underwear.
"This alright?"
You nod. "Mm... 's alright..."
She slides them down while keeping eye contact, creating a deeper sense of heat. You reach out to cup her cheek, pulling her up to kiss you for another moment before she heads back down again to hover over where you want her most.
She blows against your clit, watching you as you shiver, your hands clutching at the sheets. It takes no longer than a minute to have you clutching at the headboard, moans slipping from your lips as she slides her tongue between your folds.
She presses her tongue against your clit, rubbing it there and making it feel almost as if it's vibrating. You keen and whine, rolling your hips against her face. You smear your arousal around her face as if it isn't already dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.
Your chest rises and falls, your back arching. You give her a view she wishes could be captured in a Renaissance painting.
As you come down from your high and the pressure is released from between your hips, she gives you zero time before sliding a finger into you.
"O-oh—!"
"So tight," she teases. "Squeezing my finger..."
She licks at your inner thigh, biting down and littering the skin with hickeys, bruising it. She slides in a second finger, moving it alongside the one already inside you. You shove your face into the side, moaning into the pillow to muffle the sound.
"God...!" you squeak, mewling. "There...! There, please... oh...!"
She hums, kissing your collarbone. She places sweet kisses there before adding a third finger, one that stretches you delightfully well. Wanda seems gentle, as she is, but her fingers are large and she is something else in bed.
Watching you come down from your high a second time, Wanda slides her fingers out, licking the excess off. She looks back, noting Natasha's presence and the strap settled on her hips.
She moves to you, seeing the breathless, dazed expression on your face. Natasha manhandles you onto your back, raising your hips.
"Mm..! 'tasha...!"
"Keep 'em there," she commands, her hand resting on your hips to indicate exactly where she wants you to hold yourself. She rubs the length between your folds and against your ass, watching it catch your arousal almost like lube before she presses it fully at your entrance. She pushes all the way through, until she hits the hilt.
Noting how you rub your hips back as if you were in heat, grinding against her, she grips your ass and pulls back before pushing in again. She brings you to a keen, your mind completely lost.
Your face is smudged into the sheets, gripping them and making a mess as you take her the best you can. Wanda comes to the other end of the bed, leaning in to kiss you deeply.
You kiss back as best as you can. "I... I love you... I love you..."
Her expression softens, and both of theirs do. Wanda brushes her thumb against your cheek. "And we love you, so much."
"I... mm! Mm.. n-not leaving... e-ever—oh!"
Wanda hums, leaning back. She slides herself forward, her pussy on full view in front of you. You can feel the heat as her legs spread wide, opening herself up for you.
Before you can take anything into your own hands, Natasha’s hand shoves your face down into Wanda's cunt. You moan, rolling your hips back and liking the gesture. Your lips and nose are shoved into Wanda's cunt, while Natasha stretches you out around her length.
Wanda’s head is tilted back. "Ohhh baby, there... mm... dreamt about this."
You use your tongue and lips to worship her, driven by the rhythmic, heavy thrusts of Natasha behind you. The friction of the strap-on and the heat of Wanda’s skin create an overwhelming sensory overload. Your breath is hitching, muffled against Wanda’s thighs, as you work to keep pace with the frantic movement of your own hips.
Natasha leans over you, her chest pressing into your arched back as she whispers darkly into your ear. "If you don't make Wanda come, you get nothing else tonight. Focus on her."
The threat, or promise, sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through you. You double your efforts, your tongue flicking and swirling with desperate precision until Wanda’s hands lock into your hair, her hips jerking upward in a sudden, violent spasm. She cries out your name, her walls clenching around your face as she reaches her peak.
Seeing Wanda shatter is the final straw for your own control. As she collapses back against the pillows, Natasha delivers several hard, deep lunges that hit exactly where you need. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your internal muscles seizing as your own climax crashes over you.
The room falls silent, save for the heavy, synchronized sound of three people catching their breath. Natasha pulls away, sliding out of you and collapsing onto the bed beside you both, pulling your shaking body into the middle of their warm, protective tangle
You spent so long trying to leave this town behind, but looking at them now, you know you’re never going to find a reason to say goodbye again.
note: Omg you made it? you read this whole thing? about 8k? thank you and congrats too. Hope you enjoyed! this took me two days to write... im legit struggling to keep my eyes open. I MEAN IT. i have to get up in 5 hours for work oops.
I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.
Summary: Being told not to fall in love with someone is difficult, especially when that someone is Natasha Romanoff—and especially when the warning comes far too late.
Warnings: fluff, angst, implied sexual themes
Words: 8244
The music pulses through the floor of the club like a second, louder heartbeat, trying to drown out your own.
Lights fracture across the room in restless bursts of color, slicing everything into shifting pieces. Faces appear and disappear, hands are thrown into the air, and bodies collide and reform in rhythm.
Everything blurs into noise, into heat, into something wild and uncontained.
It's chaos.
And you sit just outside of it.
Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this.
One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.
A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.
"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"
"Nope."
You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.
"Keep walking."
He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.
"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.
You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.
A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor.
"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.
Because she's there.
Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes.
"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.
The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.
You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead.
There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.
Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.
"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.
Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.
"Shut up."
You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.
"That took a while," you comment casually.
Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.
"Line was long."
"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.
You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.
"Let me guess…new number?"
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.
"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."
You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.
"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."
Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.
"We'll see if I feel like it."
You smile faintly into your drink.
That's always her answer.
And you already know how it ends.
By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.
And in the morning?
She'll be gone.
Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.
Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.
"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now.
"No," she deadpans.
You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you.
"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."
Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.
"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."
The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression.
It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.
Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.
Even you.
And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.
You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.
"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"
Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.
"I know what people want to hear."
You make a face.
"That's such a cop-out answer."
Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.
"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"
You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.
And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.
"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.
You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.
"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"
For a split second, there's silence.
Then Natasha laughs.
It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard.
Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.
And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.
You're just watching her.
Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.
"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.
You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.
"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."
You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time.
It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.
Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.
"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."
You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus.
This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.
Only then do you meet her eyes.
"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"
Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.
Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile.
There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.
"Go ahead."
With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed.
Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.
"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"
Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.
It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.
But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.
"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."
There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.
Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.
"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."
Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.
"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"
Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.
"Mhm."
Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.
It shouldn't affect you.
She hasn't even touched you.
And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.
"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.
Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.
"Someone interesting," she says.
Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.
"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.
There's a pause as she lets her words linger.
"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."
Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.
"Oh, is that all?" you tease.
Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.
"Think you can manage it?"
The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.
So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.
"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."
"I do," she admits without hesitation.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.
"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.
Her response isn't what you expect.
There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms.
It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.
Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.
"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."
You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.
"Maybe I am."
For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.
Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.
It just…stays.
Like she's waiting.
Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.
And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.
Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.
Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.
And then everything shifts.
Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.
That's what breaks the trance.
You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.
And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.
Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.
Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.
Your breath catches.
When did you—
For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.
But there isn't one.
Just the quiet realization that it already has.
A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.
"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."
Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.
"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."
Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.
"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"
"Convincing?" she offers lightly.
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
"Dangerous," you correct.
She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.
Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.
"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."
You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."
"Good."
The word lands differently.
You glance at her.
She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.
"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.
It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.
But you hear it anyway.
It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.
Her smirk slides back into place like armor.
"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.
"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."
And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.
The best friend.
The one who is never supposed to cross that line.
The one who already did anyway.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement.
It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.
"Not that good?"
The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.
Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates.
Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.
"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"
You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.
"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"
You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.
She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.
"Of course," she says. "Take your time."
That almost makes it worse.
You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access.
The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.
You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.
For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.
Because this should be working.
She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.
By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.
And it is.
So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?
Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.
Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.
Back to her.
Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.
When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.
When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.
And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.
But all you could think about was the difference.
The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.
"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.
This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.
And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.
You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.
This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.
The line rings once.
"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.
It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.
You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.
"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."
There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.
"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.
You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.
"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."
You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.
"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."
There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.
"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."
It's not a question.
Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.
"Maybe," you concede.
A beat passes.
"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.
And that's the problem.
Because you know she means it.
She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.
The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.
Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.
"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.
"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.
You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.
"Do you want me to?"
It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.
Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.
You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.
"I–"
"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in.
There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.
Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising.
Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.
So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?
You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.
By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.
"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.
You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.
"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.
It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it.
And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.
"Something like that," she finally replies.
You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.
"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."
The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.
You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.
"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.
There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.
"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.
You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.
You straighten, pushing off the counter.
"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."
Another beat.
"…right," she replies, quieter this time.
You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.
"Enjoy your night, Natasha."
You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.
Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just…heavy.
Like something quietly settling into place.
You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable.
Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.
The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.
The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.
At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity.
This time, you don't hesitate.
You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.
And it feels good.
There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.
It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.
You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.
There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.
She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.
You know this moment. You've been here before.
You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable.
Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.
But then your thoughts drift.
You think of Natasha.
You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.
She just acts.
And for once, you decide to do the same.
You lean in first.
The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.
But it doesn't stay that way.
She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.
You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.
It isn't empty.
It isn't meaningless.
But it isn't her, either.
And maybe…it doesn't have to be.
Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.
You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.
Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.
For a brief moment, it almost works.
It almost quiets everything else.
You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.
When you pull back, your breath is uneven.
Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.
"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"
There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.
"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."
The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.
Slowly, you turn your head.
Natasha stands a few steps away.
One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it.
There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.
Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.
"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain.
"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.
And just like that, the moment collapses.
"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."
You don't stop her. You don't even try.
"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."
She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.
"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.
Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.
The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.
You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.
"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.
"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.
You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.
"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."
Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.
"That didn't seem like you," she says.
Something in your chest snaps.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.
"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."
You scoff, shaking your head.
"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."
Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
"That's different."
"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"
"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."
"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."
"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.
"Then what is it?" you press.
Natasha doesn't answer.
And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.
"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"
"Stop," she warns, her tone low.
But you can't.
You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.
"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"
At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.
Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there.
Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.
But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.
The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.
Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.
"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.
And suddenly, you're exhausted.
Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.
Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains.
"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."
For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.
You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.
"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"
"I love you."
For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.
"What?"
Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.
"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.
Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.
This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.
You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.
"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.
Nothing makes sense.
"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.
"I meant it."
"Then what the hell is this?"
Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.
"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."
She gestures between the two of you.
"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.
You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.
"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"
Her silence is answer enough.
You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.
Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.
"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.
She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.
Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.
A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.
Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.
Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.
Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.
"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"
She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
"I always lose them," she says.
Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.
"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."
No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.
The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice.
You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.
"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"
Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.
"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.
Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.
"And yet, here you are."
She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.
Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.
The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort.
The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.
With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.
You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.
"Hey."
"God—Natasha!"
You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.
"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.
Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.
A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.
"I did say something."
You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.
Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.
"I thought you left," you admit.
Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.
"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."
The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.
Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.
You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.
In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.
Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.
You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.
When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.
Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.
"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."
You glance toward her.
"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.
A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.
"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."
There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.
At herself.
You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.
Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.
"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."
There it is.
Not I don't want you.
Not I don't love you.
Just:
I don't know how to survive being loved.
Her hands clasp together tightly.
"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."
She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind.
Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.
"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."
Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.
Protect you. Protect herself.
You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.
"I know," you say softly.
Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.
You turn your head toward her again.
"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."
That gets her attention fully.
Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:
"Just trust me."
"It'll be different."
"You have to let people in."
As though fear is solved through persuasion.
But you don't try to take hers away.
"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."
Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.
You offer her a faint smile.
"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."
Her expression tightens slightly at that.
"But I can promise something else."
You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.
She doesn't.
Your voice lowers softly.
"You never have to earn a place with me."
The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.
"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."
A shaky breath leaves her quietly.
"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."
Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.
"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."
That one almost breaks her.
Because what you're offering isn't pressure.
It isn't an obligation.
It isn't forever demanded upfront.
It's safety.
A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.
Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.
"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."
A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.
Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.
And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.
Just less alone inside of your love.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: this one got longer than I expected 😅, one day I won't chicken out on writing the sex scene like I originally planned (though it didn't felt like it needed it in the end). Again thank you for reading and now I disappear into my WIPs once more 😂
Summary: The process of coming back is hard, yet not impossible, especially since Natasha is right by your side through it all. And you finally get your happy ending.
A/N: Okay, with this, we say goodbye to this series. From this point on, there will be no more chapters. However, I will make one-shots to dive deeper into the healing process and show parts I didn't show or talk about, things you're curious about. As always, you're more than welcome to leave comments, feedback, requests, ask questions, etc. Enjoy. And if you see typos, no, you didn't.
Warning: +18, nightmares, maybe mentions of ptsd, etc. Some very, VERY suggestive part at the end.
Word count: 7.5k+
[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]
The days in the medical wing pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. Time feels warped — too fast in some moments, agonizingly slow in others. You sleep in stretches, eat when they tell you, and endure tests and scans and soft-spoken assessments. They tell you your body is healing well. No major infections. The weight loss is significant but expected. Dehydration is corrected. You’re stable.
But you-you don’t feel that way.
The ceiling tiles blur into a single repeated shape. The bed is too soft. Too still. There are no rustling trees, no ocean wind, and no birds to mark the sunrise. Just the mechanical hum of machines, the occasional beep of monitors, and the muffled footsteps of nurses outside your door.
You find yourself waking in the middle of the night, expecting smoke, thunder, and the sound of waves. But there’s nothing. Just silence. You wonder if your body forgot how to feel safe.
Natasha comes every day.
She doesn't hover. She doesn’t overwhelm. She just is. Always there, curled in the chair near your bed, boots kicked off, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee, flipping through a book without really reading it. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she doesn’t. Mostly, she just watches you. Like, she still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here.
There are moments when she reaches for your hand and hesitates, catching herself like she’s afraid she’ll break you.
On the sixth day, the doctors tell you it’s time.
“You’re stable,” the lead medic says gently. “We can continue monitoring from home and give you instructions. It’s entirely your call, but… We think you’re ready.”
You’re not sure what “ready” is supposed to feel like. The idea of leaving the room you’ve come to accept as a kind of purgatory doesn’t make you feel free — it makes your chest tighten.
You nod anyway.
Natasha is quiet as she helps you dress. Civilian clothes. Soft. New. The fabric feels too thick, too unfamiliar. You move slowly, your body still remembering scarcity. Still conserving energy. Still unsure it’s safe to let go.
She kneels to help with your shoes and pauses when you flinch at the contact. You recover quickly, hand on her shoulder. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be,” she says softly.
As you stand together at the doorway, your discharge papers in a folder under your arm, Natasha glances down at your hand and laces her fingers through yours.
You hesitate. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I don’t know how to—”
“I know,” she says. Her grip tightens. “We’ll go slow. Whatever pace you need.”
You nod, even though your chest still aches with uncertainty.
The elevator ride down feels surreal. You’re not used to enclosed spaces with buttons and polished metal reflections. Your heart skips once, twice — Natasha notices.
“We can go back upstairs,” she offers quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
You shake your head. “No. I just… need to get used to it again.”
When the doors open, the light is different. Sharper. Louder. There are more people. Too many. The security staff nods respectfully as you pass, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in a hallway mirror.
You don’t look like the version of yourself that disappeared. You’re thinner. Your eyes are sharper, older somehow. There’s a haunted look to your posture, even when you try to stand tall.
Natasha opens the car door for you. It feels strange — being helped. Being ushered. You slide into the seat and keep your eyes forward the whole drive, watching a world that moved on while you were gone. So many people, so much motion. Bright lights. Noise. Life.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asks softly, not pushing.
You shake your head at first.
Then, quietly: “It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Like… I left the world for a while, and it forgot me. And now I’m trying to remember how to belong to it again.”
She nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”
You glance at her. “Yeah?”
“I lived in shadows for a long time. It’s different. But I remember what it’s like to come back and not recognize the shape of your own life.”
That lands. You stare out the window. “And what did you do?”
She looks over at you, eyes soft. “I made new memories. With the people I loved.”
The apartment building comes into view. It’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. You remember the smell of the hallway, the way the light slants through the windows in the afternoon. You remember the doorframe, the number on it, the chipped edge of the paint. Home. Kind of.
Your hand pauses on the doorknob. Natasha’s close behind you, silent.
You whisper, “What if I don’t know how to live in it anymore?”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently says, “Then we make it new. Together.”
You open the door.
Inside, everything is neat. Intact. Untouched. Maria must’ve kept it clean. Your things are still where you left them: photos, books, and your coat hanging by the door like it had been waiting for you.
You step inside slowly, eyes scanning everything.
Natasha doesn't push. She just follows quietly, giving you room.
In the corner, you spot something unexpected — a small carved figure, worn and faded. Red. Maria must have brought him from the med facility. You walk over and hold him in your hand, brushing your thumb along the ridges of the coconut’s face.
Natasha watches you with something close to reverence.
You finally turn to her.
“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.
She steps closer, placing a hand gently against your back. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
You nod, your eyes wet but steady.
And for the first time in a long time, you believe her.
You stay near a window for a while. The apartment is quiet, every sound soft and unfamiliar. You’re still holding Red, fingers absently brushing the worn coconut shell, when Natasha’s voice cuts gently through the stillness.
“Do you want to take a bath?”
You glance toward her, surprised by how simple and kind the question sounds. A bath. It’s been… years. And for a moment, the idea makes your chest feel tight — not because you’re afraid of it, but because it feels too gentle, too civilized, too far from where you were.
You swallow. “Yeah, but would you… stay with me?”
Her face softens. "Yeah, of course.”
She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world — like she hasn’t missed you every second of the past three years. Like she wouldn’t drop everything to do exactly that.
Natasha walks you to the bathroom without fuss. She starts the water, adjusting it with practiced motions, quiet in the way she always is when things really matter. You sit on the closed toilet lid, watching steam curl toward the ceiling, already letting the warmth pull at the edges of something inside you.
Once the tub is full, you strip slowly, wrapping a towel around yourself as she turns away to give you space. You can’t help but smile at that, even if it’s faint — Natasha Romanoff, world-class assassin, averting her eyes with her cheeks slightly blushed, like you’re some delicate painting she’s afraid to damage.
You step into the water, easing down with a quiet hiss of breath as the heat envelops you. Your muscles scream and then slowly, slowly, begin to relax.
You lean your head back against the porcelain edge, eyes half-lidded. Natasha sits beside the tub on a folded towel, elbows on her knees, just watching you with a small smile and eyes full of unshed things.
After a minute, her voice breaks the calm.
“Can I help? With your hair?”
Your throat catches. You didn’t expect the offer, not like that — not so softly.
You nod. “Yeah. Please.”
She moves closer, sleeves pushed up, and gathers a little shampoo in her hands. Her fingers slide gently into your hair, slow and careful, massaging your scalp in delicate circles. It feels so good it nearly makes you cry — not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because you didn’t know something so simple could still feel like this.
Her hands are steady, rinsing with warm water cupped between her palms, careful not to splash. She never rushes, never speaks unless it’s to quietly ask if something’s okay.
And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.
“You’re here,” she murmurs. “You’re really here.”
You rest your cheek on your arm along the tub’s edge. “It still feels like I’m dreaming.”
“I know,” she says. “Me too.”
You sit in the cooling water a little longer, side by side in silence that no longer feels empty. Eventually, she helps you out, wraps you in warmth, and leads you back to the bedroom with the kind of patience that doesn’t ask anything in return.
And through it all — the quiet, the closeness, the simple human contact — you begin to believe that maybe you really did come home.
And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.
—
Later, you’re on the couch, curled in on yourself. You hadn’t wanted to lie down in the bed just yet. Natasha didn’t question it—just handed you a throw blanket, sat beside you, and let the silence settle. She doesn’t crowd you. But she doesn’t leave either.
You stare down at the ring around your neck. The chain is cool against your collarbone.
“I thought about you every night,” you say, voice low, almost ashamed.
Natasha turns her head toward you. “So did I.”
You swallow hard. “I pictured you. Waiting. And then I started wondering if I’d made you up just to have something to hold onto.”
She shifts closer. “I thought I’d never see you again. Every day I told myself I had to keep moving because if I stopped, I’d have to admit you were gone.”
Your voice is a whisper. “And now I’m not gone. But I don’t know how to be here either.”
Natasha reaches over and takes your hand, slow and deliberate. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Then we’ll figure it out together. There’s no right way to do this.”
You lean your head against her shoulder. It feels like touching solid ground after months in open water.
“I missed you so much it hurt,” you say.
She presses her lips to your temple. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
—
That night, after takeout and too many emotions to name, you stand at the bedroom door again.
The bed is made. The pillows fluffed. But it feels like walking into a memory.
Natasha waits patiently, giving you the space to choose.
“I want to try,” you say quietly. “But only if you stay.”
“I was never going to leave.”
She pulls back the covers and slides in beside you, and you crawl in with careful movements, still half afraid the walls might collapse if you breathe too loud.
You both lie on your backs, eyes open in the dark.
“Do you hate that I changed?” you ask.
Natasha’s voice is soft but certain. “I don’t care how you changed. I only care that you’re still mine.”
You roll toward her. Her arm is already there, waiting for you to curl into. You rest your forehead against her collarbone, heart racing like it hasn’t calmed down in years.
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
“I know,” she says, kissing your hair. “Me too.”
But she holds you all the same.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall asleep.
The room is dark and quiet. Natasha’s breath is steady beside you, warm, familiar, and grounding. You count each inhale, each exhale, like an anchor, like maybe if you focus hard enough, the rest of you will settle too.
But it doesn’t.
The bed is too soft. The mattress, the pillows—it all feels like it’s swallowing you whole. Your muscles are tense, your jaw is locked, and your breath is shallow. It’s not the silence that unsettles you. It’s the stillness. Too comfortable. Too easy. Too alien.
You lie there for what feels like hours, heart thudding loud in your chest, staring into the darkness.
Eventually, you slip out of bed as quietly as you can. The floor is cool under your feet, grounding in a way the mattress never could be. You lower yourself slowly, cautiously, and lie flat on your back beside your side of the bed, the wooden floor pressing firm and unyielding against your spine.
It feels… real. Familiar. You exhale, finally.
And that’s where Natasha finds you five minutes later—when her hand reaches across the bed and touches only cold sheets.
Her breath catches, and then you hear the mattress shift as she scrambles up, switching on the bedside lamp. Her voice is low but tight.
“Y/N?”
You blink up at her from the floor. “I’m here.”
She sees you and stills. Her shoulders drop slightly with relief, though her expression softens with worry.
“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you say quietly. “The bed felt wrong.”
She doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, without asking, she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, kneels beside you, and drapes it gently over your body. Her fingers linger a moment against your arm.
“Next time, wake me. Please.”
You look at her, eyes tired. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not a bother,” she says immediately, voice low and raw. “Not now. Not ever.”
A beat passes. Then Natasha shifts down beside you, lying flat on the floor without hesitation. The floor creaks beneath both your bodies. She glances at you sideways, head tilted on the hardwood.
“You’re really doing this?”
“You’re down here with me, aren’t you?”
A small smile plays on her lips. “Of course I am.”
Another pause.
“You know,” you murmur after a while, staring up at the ceiling, “the floor reminds me I’m real. That I’m here. The bed’s too forgiving. It’s too easy to think I might be dreaming all this. Or worse—dead.”
Natasha’s face turns toward you, open and quietly aching.
“I used to sleep on the floor too,” she says after a long beat. “First few years out of the Red Room. I couldn’t take the softness. The quiet. I felt like I didn’t deserve comfort.”
You nod, your throat tight. “I get that.”
“But you do deserve it,” she continues. “Even if it takes time to believe it.”
You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t let myself hope.”
She reaches out slowly and links her pinky with yours. “Hope’s stubborn. Just like you.”
The silence that follows is heavier, but not suffocating. A kind of understanding passes between you without needing words.
Eventually, you roll onto your side, facing her. She mirrors you instantly, and your foreheads touch lightly. Her hand finds your waist, pulling you close beneath the blanket.
This close, it’s easier to breathe.
“Thank you for not giving up on me,” you whisper.
“I could never bring myself to,” she replies, barely audible.
And with her warmth against your chest, her breath against your cheek, and the floor beneath you steady and real—you finally drift into sleep. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But peacefully, for the first time in a very long time.
Together.
You wake slowly, eyes still closed, warm under the blanket, the floor beneath you solid and cool. For a second you forget where you are, panic fluttering at the edge of your chest—until you feel a thumb brushing slow circles against your side, and the scent of Natasha’s shampoo grounding you more than the floor ever could.
“Morning,” she whispers.
Your eyes flutter open. She’s already awake, head propped up slightly on her arm. Her gaze is soft, red hair a little wild from sleep.
You blink at her, throat dry. “You didn’t move.”
“Didn’t want to leave you alone,” she says simply.
You shift a little, wincing faintly from the stiffness. “You’re going to have back problems, Romanoff.”
She smiles, one of those rare, real ones. “Too late.”
You lie there in silence for a bit longer, the light beginning to slip in through the curtains.
“Part of me feels stupid,” you admit eventually, your voice still hoarse from sleep. “Sleeping on the floor, avoiding a bed like it’s a trap.”
“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “It’s survival. You’re adjusting. That takes time. However long you need—I’ll be here.”
You stare up at the ceiling. “Everything feels different. Like I’ve got to learn the world all over again.”
“Then we’ll learn it together.”
That brings a lump to your throat. She must see it, because she reaches up and brushes your cheek with the back of her hand.
“I missed you so much,” she murmurs. “Every single day.”
You nod, voice tight. “I kept thinking about you. I kept wondering if I’d ever… just see your face again. Even once.”
She leans in slowly and kisses your forehead, staying there for a beat. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”
A small laugh escapes you, and it feels good. Rusty, but real.
You finally sit up, stretching out your sore limbs, and Natasha follows suit, brushing out her tangled hair with her fingers. You glance at the bed, then at her.
“I think I want to try the bed again tonight.”
She smiles. “I’ll be there, too. We’ll face it together.”
It’s still strange—this new normal, this second chance. But in the quiet morning light, sitting beside her on the hardwood floor with a blanket draped over your shoulders and your heart a little less guarded, it doesn’t feel so impossible.
Not with her.
Not anymore.
The next night, it happens again. You try the bed. Last a little longer. Then move to the floor.
And again, Natasha follows — no questions, no sighs, no trying to coax you back.
The third night, she doesn’t even wait. When you quietly slip down to the floor, she follows moments later with a pillow tucked under her arm.
By the fourth night, you wake up and realize you haven’t moved at all.
You’re in bed. Still in Natasha’s arms. And for the first time since the island, you don’t feel like you have to run from peace.
—
A few months later.
The apartment is lived-in now. There's a plant on the kitchen windowsill that Natasha insists is thriving, even if it leans a little sideways. The couch has a dent where you both usually sit. Red is perched up on the shelf under the TV next to some decorations and framed photos of you and Nat, now forever a part of your life. And you smile every time your eyes land on it. Always a reminder of what you endured.
You’re healing. Not in a straight line, not without setbacks, but with intention. With her.
Some mornings are harder than others. You still wake up drenched in sweat sometimes, heart racing with ghosts. On those days, Natasha doesn’t try to fix it. She just hands you tea, brushes a hand through your hair, and sits close until your breath evens out.
There are good days, too. Days where you wake before her, cook something new, and even laugh freely. Days you catch her looking at you like you’re made of something rare and whole. You still don’t quite believe it, but you try.
You’ve been seeing a therapist SHIELD recommended. You hated it at first—too many questions, too much stillness. But eventually, it became a space you didn’t dread. You’ve started talking about the island, the silence, the routine that kept you sane.
You and Natasha still dance around some things. She hasn’t pushed you for intimacy beyond what you offer. She reads your cues like second nature—holding your hand when you’re overwhelmed, giving you space when your shoulders go rigid, curling beside you in bed when you reach for her without a word.
But it hasn’t been easy.
There was a week when you barely spoke after an argument. She’d gone on a short mission without telling you until the morning of, and you’d panicked, snapped at her, shut down. When she returned, you couldn’t look at her, too afraid of how much you need her. Too afraid of what needing someone means.
It was Natasha who finally broke the silence, sitting beside you on the couch and saying quietly, “You can be mad. I’ll still come back.”
That night, you cried in her arms for the first time in weeks. You hated that it helped. You loved that she held you anyway.
You’ve started working again. Slowly. First from home, reviewing field reports, helping analyze strategies—things that reminded you of who you were. Maria checked in regularly and, once, even told you she missed getting her ass handed to her during briefings. You laughed.
You and Natasha are different now. Not in a way that’s broken, but in the way that time remakes things—gently, with wear and meaning. You cook together more. You argue over whose turn it is to do laundry. You fall asleep facing each other now, not with fear, but with something like trust.
There’s still hesitation in both of you. Moments where your voices lower, not out of secrecy but out of reverence for how fragile things once were. You talk about the future, sometimes in fragments. A trip somewhere quiet. A garden. A place where you both might feel steady.
You're learning how to live again—with her and within yourself. The island isn’t gone. The pain, the scars—physical and not—aren’t either. But the ache isn’t everything anymore.
Love, you’ve learned, isn’t just the reunion. It’s the staying. The choosing.
And every single day, she chooses you.
—
The apartment was quiet one night.
It had been months now. Months of rebuilding, of learning how to be again—how to sleep through the night, how to laugh without guilt, how to let someone reach for you without flinching.
The bad days hadn’t disappeared, but they came fewer and further between. Now, most mornings started with coffee, soft light through the windows, and Natasha wrapped around you in sleepy warmth. Now, you could walk into a room without scanning every exit. Now, the weight on your chest was no longer constant.
And tonight, the stillness didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like rest.
You sat on the couch together, a half-watched movie flickering on mute, both of you tangled under the same blanket, your legs draped over hers. Her fingers lazily traced circles against your calf, like she was touching you just to remember you were real.
You watched her—her profile illuminated by the glow of the screen, soft and calm and so achingly beautiful in that quiet way you’d come to treasure.
You hadn’t said it out loud, not yet.
But it had been on your mind lately. That ring. The one that used to mean someday. The one that had waited carefully in a thin yet resistant chain around both of your necks for years now, quiet and patient.
You shifted a little and leaned your head against her shoulder.
"Hey," you said, voice soft, hesitant but steady.
She turned her head toward you, the question already in her eyes.
You reached for her hand under the blanket, fingers slipping between hers. “Do you ever think about it? The wedding, I mean.”
Natasha blinked. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “I used to,” she said, almost a whisper. “Every day. When you were gone, I—I’d think about what it would’ve been like. What we lost.”
You leaned into her a little more. “And now?”
Her hand squeezed yours gently. “Now… I think we might be ready.”
You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah?”
She nodded, shifting to face you more fully, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You feel it too, don’t you? That the worst is behind us. Not gone, but… no longer in control.”
You swallowed thickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just didn’t know if I could say it without jinxing it, I guess.”
Natasha’s expression softened, her eyes shining just a little in the low light. “Say it now.”
You looked down at your joined hands. “I want to do it. The wedding. I think… I think I’m finally ready. I feel safe again. With you. With us. I want to stand with you and mean it in front of everyone. I want that day.”
She reached out and cupped your cheek, pulling you into a kiss—gentle, lingering, a promise wrapped in silence.
When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath. “Then let’s do it.”
You smiled, your eyes damp, but your heart light. “We waited so long.”
“And I’d wait forever,” she said, pressing her forehead to yours. “But I’m really fucking glad I don’t have to.”
You laughed through your tears, and she kissed you again—this time with more certainty, more heat, and more joy. You curled into her chest, hand tightly holding your ring still proudly on the chain around your neck, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt steady for the first time in years.
And there, in the hush of your shared home, you both knew: it wasn’t just about a wedding. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when the world fell apart.
And now, finally, you were ready to celebrate that choice.
Together.
It was almost funny how simple it was in the end.
No announcements. No grand gestures. Just two people holding hands on a porch swing, sipping coffee while the sun rose over the Barton farm.
Clint had seen it the second you stepped out of the car with Natasha, your fingers linked, a soft calm in your posture that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a knowing smirk, clapped you on the shoulder, and ushered you both inside where Laura was already pulling something out of the oven.
The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapped around you like a blanket. It felt safe there, like nothing bad could happen under that roof. Maybe that’s why you found the words so easily.
“So,” you said slowly, sitting at the long kitchen table with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, “we’re finally going to do it.”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”
Natasha leaned in a little, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile. “The wedding.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Laura let out a quiet, happy gasp and reached for your hand.
Clint blinked. “For real this time?”
You nodded. “For real. We’re ready.”
Natasha didn’t say anything, but she reached over, laying her hand over yours on the table. That said enough.
Clint leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a proud grin. “Took you long enough.”
You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh. “You’re one to talk. You and Laura eloped.”
Laura grinned. “And we regret nothing. But you two? You deserve a day. A real one. Something good.”
You hesitated. “We were thinking… maybe here?”
Clint sat up straighter. “Here? Like—here, here?”
Natasha glanced out the window, eyes softening as they landed on the old barn at the edge of the property. “Yeah. It feels right.”
Laura squeezed your hand. “We’d be honored.”
Clint’s grin only widened. “We’ll string up some lights and clear out the barn. Get the kids to stop shooting arrows for five minutes. It'll be perfect.”
You smiled, something warm blooming in your chest. “Just a few people. Small. Family. Maria, Fury, and the team. Phil, if he’s back from the field. That’s it.”
Natasha leaned her head against your shoulder. “Just us. The ones who stuck through it all.”
Laura stood and kissed Clint on the temple. “Then it’s settled.”
The next few hours passed in a blur of light laughter and soft plans. Talk of fairy lights and music. Maybe Lila could make some signs. Nate would be the ring bearer if he could sit still long enough. There was talk of food, dresses, suits—or not. Just something simple. Something real.
You stepped outside after lunch, barefoot in the grass, the wind soft through your hair. Natasha followed, her hand slipping easily into yours. You stood in front of the barn, weathered wood and high beams, the kind of place where new chapters felt possible.
“This is really happening,” you said, voice quiet.
She turned to you, her eyes bright and steady. “Yeah. It is.”
You smiled, then leaned in, forehead against hers.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath.
The days that followed passed in a gentle rhythm—slower than you'd expected, but full of meaning. No frenzy. No rush. Just two people returning to themselves and to each other.
The dress fittings happened in a softly lit boutique that Maria insisted on renting out for the afternoon. “You deserve this,” she said simply when you protested. “And besides—this’ll be fun.”
And it was.
Natasha stepped out of the dressing room first, hesitant, smoothing her hands down the fabric of the ivory gown. It was elegant and minimal, with a soft sweep of silk and lace. Not overly formal. Not flashy. But it stopped your heart in your chest.
You stared for a moment longer than you meant to. “You’re going to ruin me,” you murmured.
A rare flush crept up her neck. “You like it?”
You crossed the small space to her, brushing a hand down her arm. “I love it.”
She reached up to cup your cheek. “Wait until you try yours on.”
You laughed, but when you returned a few minutes later in your own dress—simple, flowy, perfectly you—Natasha just stared.
She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like she was memorizing something holy.
“Say something,” you whispered.
She blinked. “You’re real.”
The next few weeks were filled with quiet preparations. You helped Clint hang fairy lights in the barn while Laura stitched small details into the table linens. Lila painted wooden signs. Even Tony, who initially joked about throwing you a Stark-sponsored blowout, settled into his role of unofficial bartender for the night with only mild grumbling.
Fury didn’t say much when you told him the date—just clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, “It’s about damn time.”
Coulson smiled like he knew this would always be the ending.
And Maria—Maria just hugged you tightly, fiercely, as if she'd carried the weight of hope for both of you all this time. The night before the wedding, you and Natasha sat side by side in bed, each holding a notebook of vows you'd been scribbling in for days.
“Want to hear mine?” she asked quietly.
You nodded, heart thudding softly.
She read aloud words about almost losing you, and you coming back- About how she never stopped carrying you with her, even when she didn't believe in anything else.
You cried before she even finished.
Then, with trembling hands and a steadier voice than you expected, you read her your own. Words about the island. About how you survived and how she had helped you live again when you thought you wouldn't.
“I’m not promising easy,” you told her. “But I am promising you everything. Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours.”
That night, you slept in each other’s arms. And for the first time since you returned, there were no dreams.The morning came soft and slow, light pouring in through the farmhouse window. Natasha left early to get ready in the Barton house, Maria dragging her off with a garment bag and a mischievous wink. You stayed with Laura, sipping tea and letting Lila braid your hair while your dress hung by the window, glowing in the sun.
You should’ve felt nervous. You kind of did. But more than that, you felt… ready.
Whole.
Alive.
The barn had been transformed. The fairy lights flickered above rows of chairs filled with people who loved you. The air smelled like wildflowers and pine. There was music playing—soft, old, familiar.
And then, there she was.
Walking toward you down the aisle, in that same ivory dress, barefoot like you, a tremble in her lips and eyes glassy with tears.
You didn’t remember moving—only that you ended up in front of each other, smiling like the world had finally exhaled.
The vows came easy. No shaking. No fear. Just truth.
Natasha reaches for your hands. She holds them like they might disappear — like she's still, even now, making sure you're real. Her thumbs trace soft circles over your knuckles. Her lips press together for a moment as she breathes in, slowly.
Then she begins.
"I didn’t grow up believing in forever," she says, her voice quiet but sure. "Or softness. Or in anything that lasted. I’ve been a weapon. A shadow. A ghost meant to not be seen." You feel her hands tighten around yours. The crowd is gone, fading into a blur. It's just her. Just this.
"But then there was you. And somehow, you saw through all of it. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You loved me back into a person."Her eyes shine, green and wet with unshed tears. Her voice doesn't tremble. "I thought I lost you. And I would have carried that for the rest of my life. But here you are. Here we are."
She pauses, breathes.
"So I promise — not just to stand beside you, but to grow with you. To fight for the life we've built. To listen even when it’s hard and to speak even when it scares me."
A single tear breaks loose and rolls down her cheek.
"You are the only home I’ve ever believed in. You are the peace I never thought I’d deserve. And you’re the only person I will ever want to spend forever with. So I vow to be yours. Without armor. Without fear. With everything I am."
You take a breath.
You hadn’t expected your hands to shake. But they do. And Natasha, as always, notices. She gives them the smallest squeeze —I'm here.
And you begin.
"I used to believe that surviving was enough," you say, and your voice is soft but strong. "That making it through was the victory. But you, you reminded me that surviving isn't the same as living."
You feel Natasha’s grip tighten again, like her heart is answering yours.
"You brought me home, even when I didn't know how to walk through the door." A few sniffles ripple quietly through the small crowd.
"I promise to keep learning how to live—with you, beside you, for you. I promise to wake up every day and choose this. Choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then." Natasha’s lips tremble now, but her smile holds steady, and she looks at you like you’re the center of the universe.
"You are my safest place. My sharpest truth. And the first light I saw after so much darkness. I’m not promising perfection. I’m promising honesty. Growth. Love — always, unshakable, enduring. Quiet when it needs to be. Loud when it matters." You pause. "Whatever I have, whoever I become, it’s yours. Always has been. Always will be."
When the officiant says the words—"You may kiss your wife"—Natasha wastes no time.
Her hands come up to cradle your face as yours curl into the fabric of her dress. The kiss is not rushed, but full. Steady. Like breath coming back after being held for years.
And when you part, the barn is full of quiet cheers and wet eyes and smiles that feel carved from joy.
Clint lets out a loud “Finally!” that breaks the spell just enough to make everyone laugh.
You kissed her like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted to do. And it really was.
And when the music picked up, when the sun dipped and the lights above danced in the wind, when your friends clapped and toasted and swayed—
You held her close under the string lights, her forehead pressed to yours, and whispered,
“We made it.”
Natasha smiled. “We start now. I love you,” she whispers, too quietly for anyone else.
“I love you,” you whisper back and know — without doubt, without fear — that this is only the beginning.
—
The cabin sat at the edge of a lake that shimmered silver in the moonlight. It was small, nestled between tall trees and a quiet sky, wrapped in a hush that seemed to exist just for the two of you. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world had finally stopped spinning.
It was your first night here.
No one else. No duties. No beeping medical machines. Just Natasha and you. Just soft blankets and the smell of pine and a fireplace crackling low in the hearth. The lake was still. The wind was kind.
Dinner had been quiet — not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence was full of the kind of peace you'd both fought for. Natasha had held your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your wedding ring as if to reassure herself it was really there. You’d done the same.
Now, inside the bedroom, you stood at the window, fingertips resting on the wooden frame, looking out at the dark.
Natasha watched you from across the room. You could feel her gaze, warm and gentle, resting on you like a blanket. She didn’t speak right away. She never rushed you. Not since you came back.
You turned around slowly, and when your eyes met, there was something unsaid in them, something shared. You crossed the room with bare feet and a steady heart. Stood in front of her. Let her take your hand.
“I missed this,” you whispered.
Her hand tightened around yours. “Me too.”
No rush. No sudden movement. She leaned in and kissed you, soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Her other hand rose to your cheek, anchoring you there, letting you feel it — that you were wanted. Loved. Safe.
You touched her face in return, fingertips featherlight on her jaw, and said, voice barely a breath, “I’m ready.”
Natasha’s eyes flickered with emotion, and she nodded. “Okay.”
And in that word — just okay—were a thousand I love yous.
She helped you out of the soft sweater you’d pulled on earlier. Her hands were reverent and steady, asking with every inch of movement. You nodded when she looked to you for permission, and you undressed her too, slowly and carefully. It was the first time in so long that it hadn’t been out of necessity, or urgency, or desperation — but because you wanted each other. Because your bodies had been through war and survival and time apart, and you were choosing each other again.
She guided you to the bed, and the moment you lay down together, it was like something clicked into place. Natasha’s lips brushed your collarbone, your pulse, and your jaw. Her touch was gentle yet firm, a reminder of the love and passion that had always been between you. As you held each other close, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders, leaving only the warmth of her body against yours.
She slowly removed your shirt , revealing the scars and memories that marked your skin. But instead of recoiling, Natasha's eyes softened with understanding and acceptance, making you feel truly seen and loved in a way you had never experienced before. With each touch, each kiss, it was clear that this reunion was not just about physical desire but about healing and rebuilding what had been broken. The same followed for the rest of your clothes, each layer shedding away the pain and insecurities that had built up over time. As you stood there vulnerable and exposed, Natasha's embrace felt like a safe haven, a place where you could finally let go and be yourself without fear of judgment.
Her hands trace every curve, every scar, every piece of skin as if it were the first time. Soft, gentle, memorizing every new part of you. Her fingers dipped low from your collarbone, down to the small of your back, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort in their wake. With each touch, it felt as though she was erasing the past and creating a new beginning for you both. Her kisses followed your body from your neck to the valley of your breasts and down to your hips, igniting a fire within you that had long been dormant. In her embrace, you found solace and acceptance, a sense of belonging that you had never experienced before.
Natasha looks up to your face, silently asking for permission to continue exploring the depths of your desires. You meet her gaze with a nod, giving her the go-ahead. One of her hands reaches up for your hand, intertwining your fingers with hers, before she finally leans down to your center.
As she delves deeper into your pleasure, you feel a wave of ecstasy wash over you, surrendering completely to the intimacy of the moment. Natasha's touch is both gentle and confident, guiding you to heights of passion you never knew existed.
There were no words for a while. Just breath, skin, quiet affirmations. You whispered her name like a promise. She said yours like a prayer.
When it was over, and the room was full of warmth and the soft scent of pine and skin and shared love, she held you close, one hand trailing up and down your spine.
“Was it okay?” she asked quietly, her voice husky and a little breathless.
You nodded against her shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.
“It was everything.”
Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she leaned in to kiss you again — slow and deep and grateful.
You fell asleep that way. Skin against skin. Her heartbeat beneath your ear. No more running. No more surviving. Just two hearts, still learning to heal, finally at peace.
Request by @lilyeyama - R gets injured while protecting Natasha during a mission.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
Except you’re not technically playing, because you already chose truth (dare is too risky if Tony’s daring you to anything) and had to confess your tactical suit tore right down the middle when you threw a kick at a HYDRA agent that got a glimpse of your underwear before falling down a staircase.
And of course, Natasha wants to be dared. She’s never one to shy away from showing the boys who’s got the bigger balls in the team. Nothing’s too scary, too embarrassing or too risky for her.
Apparently, that includes kissing you. Because that’s exactly what Sam dares her to do.
“Wait, what…?” you chuckle, but no one’s laughing. Do they know you have a crush on her? Is this some cruel, high school shit they’re pulling on you?
Then, Natasha just smiles at you, holding your cheek gently as she kisses you. It’s longer than you expected, but you’re still breathless by the time you break apart.
You almost let out a whine when she pulls back, hands balled in fists at your sides to keep you from touching her.
“Your turn” Natasha says and you tilt your head to the side. “Truth or dare”
“Oh. I… no. I think I should call it a night. Too drunk”
No one comments on how fast you get up from the couch, practically running back to your room. It’s either that or letting them see how flustered you are.
And for the rest of the night, you replay that kiss in your head, until you’re eyes are heavy and your mind exhausted.
—
It’s getting ridiculous.
You’ve been thinking about the kiss non stop.
Her lips are softer than you imagined.
The way she commanded you to surrender was completely expected.
And the way it happened? Disappointing. A dare, a stupid, drunken game among Avengers.
Let it go.
You’re hoping that an intense workout session, followed by a very cold shower can ease your mind.
And that hope is tossed out the window when you see Natasha in her tight workout clothes doing push-up rows. The way she groans as her arm pulls the dumbbell to her body makes you scramble around, looking for a way out of the gym.
But of course she listens to you and turns around, smiling.
“Hey”
“Nat” you nod your head towards her, walking past to do anything other than staring.
“Wanna spar?”
You startle at that, dropping the weight that you were trying to drag to a bench.
“I… uh…”
“You ok? You seem jumpy. And yesterday, you left in such a hurry…”
“Yesterday? Oh, the party. Yeah. I was tired. That’s all” you lie.
“If it’s about that game we played, don’t sweat it. We all have our embarrassing moments. Forget it ever happened”
So kissing you is embarrassing and she wants to forget it happened.
Cool.
“If that’s what you want” you mutter.
“Well, what I meant was…”
In that moment, Wanda walks in, calling for you.
“How did the mission go?” you ask when she hugs you. Natasha nods her way, still hovering.
“I’m exhausted. Want to get some food when you’re done?”
“Let’s go now” you say, eager to get away from Natasha.
“So, did anything fun happen yesterday at the party?” she elbows you and you try to hide the hurt from your face.
“No. Nothing at all”
—
The universe is out to get you.
First mission ever since the party fiasco and you’re paired with Natasha. Steve’s there too, but that’s hardly helpful. He rarely makes small talk, and usually, you and Natasha would tease him endlessly for his outdated speech.
Now you’re not even sure you can look at Natasha without feeling like the biggest loser in the world.
And that’s exactly why you never wanted to risk your friendship. Being around her was intoxicating in the best possible way. She’s fun, smart, fearless. You knew that if you ever confessed your feelings and she rejected you, it would be nearly impossible to go back to the way things were.
Yet, here you are, in this awful situation.
“Good to go?” Natasha asks when the Quinjet lands.
“Yeah, comms and ammo are good” you nod.
“That’s not what I meant… you seem distracted. Don’t want you getting hurt”
“I’m fine, Natasha” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
Luckily, the plan requires the three of you to split up, accessing different parts of the building to retrieve information. In your case, and for the sake of this mission, it’s to install a bug encrypted in a hard drive to infiltrate a security network across the world.
Nerd stuff, Natasha would call it. You always thought she meant it in a playful way, but now as you type and set everything up, you wonder if she saw it as less important than taking care of things with a couple of knives and guns.
An explosion pulls you out of your thoughts and you look around the computer room.
“Who blew up what?” you ask, worried about your friends.
“That was me, a couple of grenades” Steve says, punching a few people to clear the way.
“You are a magnet for those things, Cap” you tsk, completing the infiltration. “Done here, see you back at the Quinjet”
“Romanoff?” Steve says, but there’s no reply. The silence stretches until he calls for her again.
“I’m in a… tricky situation” she says, and you can hear her out of breath, a metallic sound in the background.
“Where are you?” you ask, turning to one of the control screens. Then, you see it. The explosion set off an emergency lockdown, pushing water down the hatch where Natasha is right now. “We have to disable their emergency system, keep trying to push the hatch open, ok?”
“The explosion alerted them, guards are coming in fast. Can you handle it?” Steve asks and you confirm, though you’re not the best at hand to hand combat.
You won’t let your team down.
—
Natasha is getting anxious. Not at the possibility of drowning, but at the fact that your comms went silent while trying to get her out of her little predicament.
She’s looking around, trying to figure out if shooting at the metal walls around her might help her escape when the hatch above her head clicks open.
“I’m out, thanks Y/N” she says, breathing with a sigh of relief. Ok, maybe a small part of her was scared of drowning.
Especially because she has decided to stop being a coward and tell you how she feels about you.
“Steve, do you have eyes on Y/N?” she insists, as you’re still not answering.
“Get back to the Quinjet, now! I have Y/N” he says, out of breath.
No, he’s full on panicking.
Dread invades Natasha and she gets to the Quinjet, setting coordinates and alerting the team of your return.
“Let’s go” Steve says, and she doesn’t need to be told twice. Eyes trained on the dashboard, she waits until they’re on the air to get up from her seat.
Nothing could ever prepare her for what she sees in the small medical wing.
Steve’s suit is covered in blood -your blood- and he’s frantically looking for gauze and other stuff to stop the bleeding from your abdomen.
“It’s a stab wound. I think she was also shot but there’s too much blood, I can’t find…” he begins to rant, hands shaking.
Steve never loses his cool, but he cares about you, everyone does.
Natasha doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think, because if she does, she’ll be terrified and paralized at the thought of never seeing your smile again.
So, she pushes him out of the way, patching up what she can, and hooking you up to the machine to at least get a reading of your vitals.
“BP is high. We need to hurry” Natasha manages to say.
It’s all a blur as they land, a group of doctors rushing in and taking you away. The entire team is already waiting for you as Natasha and Steve rush to the Medbay.
“You should go take a shower. Both of you” Wanda says, chewing on her finger.
“I’m not leaving” Natasha begins to protest.
“There’s blood all over your hands and suit, it’s making naseous just thinking about it. It’s her blood. Go wash it, Natasha” Wanda insists, her accent slipping as she tries to keep her cool.
Natasha makes it a quick shower, closing her eyes to avoid the sight of red washing down the drain. Your blood in her hands.
How fitting. She pretended that kiss was not a big deal, because she thought she’d end up hurting you. And yet, you’re still hurt and it’s all her doing.
“Don’t do it” Steve warns when they’re back.
“Do what?”
“Blame yourself. She would have risked her life for any of us. That’s who she is” he says.
“But if she had risked her life for you, wouldn’t you feel the same?”
He doesn’t get a chance to reply, as the doctor comes back to give them a status update.
“We’re transferring her to the recovery area. I’d say her condition is critical but I’m staying positive. You kept her stable enough on the flight back. I’m just…” the doctor hesitates.
“Don’t scare us, Doc” Sam pushes, arms crossed.
“I’m worried about the concussion and the high blood pressure. We won’t know if there was any damage until she wakes up. The brain just works differently than the rest of the body”
“Let’s just take it one step at a time” Steve says, standing up and offering his hand to the doctor to thank him.
The team alternates in shifts to stay with you, Natasha always taking longer than the rest of them. It’s no use to convince her of anything else, so Wanda stops by with food and Steve stays on the other side of the room, reading one of the many things he has to catch up on.
“The Hunger Games?” Natasha comments when he gets in one day.
“She told me to read it” he gestures to your bed. “Get some rest. I’ll stay by her side”
“I don’t rest. Not here, not at the Compound. I won’t until she’s awake” she confesses, her hand reaching out to move a strand of hair from your face.
Steve is about to say something; something incredibly inspiring, optimistic and wonderful, Natasha can imagine, but it’s not good enough. Nothing is as good as your laughter or the way you squeeze her hand when you’re trying to get her attention. Natasha needs you back, and she’s not sure she can take much more.
Maybe her thoughts are so loud and her longing so deep that it shifts something. Because she’s sure you’re starting to blink, and then you’re complaining, trying to breathe on your own.
“Get a doctor, now” she says, and Steve’s out the door, shouting. Two doctors and a nurse move Natasha out of the way as they crowd around you, removing things from your body and shinning a light on your pupils.
“Take it easy. Easy” one of the doctor insists when you try to move and sit up. “Welcome back, Agent Y/L/N”
—
Even Tony got here from his conference in D.C. in record time. They’re doing some tests to make sure you’re ok, but no one’s had a chance to talk to you yet.
“Try not to overwhelm her. She knows the basic things. Her name, what she does for a living, what year we’re in… about you, or the specific of her relationship with each one, I’m not so sure” the man speaks in a calm tone, like a parent trying to ease his children before a big event. He nods to confirm that everyone understands, and he opens the door.
“Hey” you say, a weak smile on your face. Wanda ignores everything the doctor asked, running to hug you. “Easy, witchy. My side still hurts”
“Do you remember the name of your teammates?”
“Steve, Tony, Buck… uh…” you stop at Sam, and his eyes widen. “Just messing with ya, Wilson”
Everyone laughs, but your eyes are already on the last person, and your heart beats faster at the sight of those deep green eyes and her fiery hair.
“And of course, Tasha”
“Welcome back” she says, trying really hard to keep her voice from shaking.
The doctors examine you, and you keep answering their questions, but you hesitate when they get to some other stuff. Like your favorite color. Or the name of your childhood pet.
“We can try something easier, maybe” the doctor suggests as you get increasingly anxious. “What did you do the day of the mission? Or the week before your injury?”
“I… I can’t remember. I mean, of course I know everyone’s names. But anything specific, anything that requires more details, I… can’t” you say, shoulders slumping.
“It’s ok, it may take a while. You just woke up. Take it easy. Just go back to your routine and it will come back, little by little” he suggests.
Everyone seems optimistic or delusional, because Natasha sees beyond the doctor’s smile and his appeasing tone. You getting your memories back is not a certainty.
Natasha asked you to forget about the kiss, didn’t she?
Well, wish granted.
—
It’s been a couple of days since you’re back at the Compound. The place is quiet and the environment heavy. You’re always in your room, and only leave when the common areas are empty.
You're worried about doing or saying something wrong. You have some notion of who you are, like the time you joked about forgetting Sam’s name. But then, you try to delve deeper into your memories, your routine… and it’s like trying to catch fog in your hands. It slips away, and you’re left with nothing but a vague sense of self.
Those are the thoughts in your mind when Natasha walks in the kitchen. She stops for a moment, considering if it’s best to leave you alone.
To be honest, she’s still struggling with the guilt of being responsible for what happened to you. And above all, the regret of pretending the kiss meant nothing to her.
She missed her chance to have something with you, and it’s all her fault.
But as much as she’d like to run away, you’re looking at the coffee machine like it personally offended you, arms crossed and a frown clouding your features.
“Good morning” she clears her throat, and you smile at her, though it’s barely noticeable. “Everything ok?”
“I’ve been trying to… for the past couple of days to make coffee. It’s always too bitter or too hot, or too sweet. I drink coffee, I know that. But I just can’t seem to get it right”
“I see. May I?” she walks up to you, and you step aside. Natasha squeezes your hand to calm you down, and you try to ignore the tingling sensation the contact leaves.
“Usually, you take a hot latte and add some vainilla extract. Like this” she says, showing you how to do it. “But if you didn’t get the chance to drink it before training, you drink it cold with breakfast”
Natasha offers the cup of steaming coffee and you close your eyes, enjoying the scent. After taking a sip, you gasp, laughing.
“Oh, my God! It’s perfect! Nat, thank you” you smile, feeling like a small piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“Of course” the redhead nods.
Maybe she can be of help after all.
—
The entire team bands together to help you go back to normal. Wanda is happy to spend the evenings showing you the movies you like. Bucky trains you based on your strenghts and what he knows works best for you in combat.
But there are small things, the ones that come up when you’re alone and feeling restless, that no one really knows about and you’d like to understand.
One day, Natasha finds you scrolling through pictures on your phone. Your eyes linger on some of them, as if you’re hoping they’ll magically fill in the blanks of what’s missing.
“Hey” she sits at the end of the couch where you’re curled up.
“Hey, Natty” you say.
Natasha’s taken aback by that.
Once, many weeks ago, the pet name slipped out of your lips, making you blush and apologize. Natasha assured you only you could call her that. And so, you did when it was just the two of you, because you knew the rest of the team would give her shit for it.
Maybe you don’t remember the conversation, but you certainly remember the feeling behind it.
“What’s wrong?” she nudges your side.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“You always wiggle your toes like that when you’re mulling over something” she points to your feet and you immediately stop moving them, feeling exposed. “Come on, you can tell me”
“It’s stupid”
“It isn’t if it’s bothering you” she says with a soft smile, and you sigh, finally speaking.
“Well, I was just thinking I wanted to go out for a change, do something fun. Leave the Compound. But I don’t know where to go”
Natasha nods, standing up. You think she’s leaving because your dilemma is in fact, stupid, but instead she turns around.
“Meet me at the garage in ten. We’ll go around the city”
“Really? You’re not busy?” you say, mood improving at the idea of exploring New York with Natasha.
“Not for you” she says, and all you can do is nod, allowing her to get changed while you wait downstairs.
When Natasha meets you by the entrance, you are about to hand over the car keys, because you actually remember she doesn’t let anyone else drive. But your eyes catch sight of her motorcycle.
“What?” she says, nervous about that mischiveous smile.
“Well… can we?” you nod your head torwards the BMW sport motorcycle. “Funny enough, I do recall you promised me a ride once”
“Oh, that you remember” she mutters, but you laugh so freely that it makes her own lips turn upwards.
Without another word, she pulls out two helmets from the locker, and reminds you you’re supposed to climb from the left side.
“In case the motorcycle noise is too much” she offers her airpods. “Hold on tight”
You immediately put your arms around her waist, fingers lacing by her front. Natasha tries really hard to focus on anything other than the way your body fits perfectly against hers.
The experience is almost cinematic, the wind in your face as you hold on to Natasha and drive around the city at sunset. By the time you reach your destination, your head is set against Nat’s shoulders, completely relaxed.
“Are you getting down or what, princess?” she jokes and you snap out of it.
“Will you teach me how to drive?”
“We’ll see” she hums, taking your helmet.
“What? You don’t think I can do it?”
“I know you can do it. I just don’t want you getting hurt” she says, and you nod.
“Right. Hit my head again and forget how to walk”
“Y/N” she says, and you laugh.
“Just kidding”
“Not funny” she says in a low voice. Something shifts in her demeanor, and you reach out for her hand, apologizing with a squeeze.
“Where are we going?”
“Let’s walk around. You like this neighborhood. Said you’d live here if you found the right place”
“I can’t imagine living outside the Compound. Not now, at least” you admit, walking down the sidewalk. The place is nice, full of restaurants, galleries, some old bookstores.
Natasha follows you around, commenting on some things as you stop at certain places.
“No one can handle their spice as good as you, so you usually get food from this place when you come by that bookstore”
“They won’t deliver that far just for one lamb masala” you nod, remembering. “But sometimes you order some chicken curry just so I can get my delivery”
Natasha smiles, and keeps walking. It’s strange, how much you seem to remember about her, specifically. Conversations, promises, inside jokes.
All this time, you knew and shared so much with each other, but she had been the one to screw it up. To pretend it was nothing.
And if you remember what she said, how she shrug it off as a stupid game… would Natasha get a second chance to prove to you she didn’t mean that?
“Tasha” you call for a second time, and she snaps out of it. “Let’s take a look here?”
You walk around the little bookstore, gravitating towards the history section. You also look around some art books, pausing at Monet.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the water lillies” you say to yourself. “Maybe that will be my next adventure”
Natasha nods, hoping she can be with you during that. Somehow, she’s sure you’ll remember the artworks and every single detail of the museum. You seem to remember a lot of what comes naturally to you.
“I love Mary Oliver” you whisper when you stumble upon an edition of Dog Songs. “I don’t know if I should read it, though. It will probably make me think about Gordo too much”
“Gordo?” Natasha asks, noticing how more things are coming back to you.
“Yeah, my childhood dog. Had it until I was fifteen. He was a white poodle. He loved eating Cheetos and had a yellow octopus that he'd carry everywhere” you say, reading through one of the poems.
Just when you’re about to place the book back in the shelf, Natasha takes it from your hands.
“I think we should take it. Come on” she says, leaving no room for argument as she pays for it.
“I’d buy you ice cream to thank you, but on top of my recent memories, I also forgot my wallet” you sigh, and Natasha chuckles.
“Come on, I’ll buy today, you buy next time”
The man behind the counter greets you with a smile, which must mean you’re a frequent customer.
“The usual?” he offers and you nod. You watch him scoop mango and raspberry ice cream. His hand pauses when he reaches for the chocolate sprinkles. “I always forget, do you like sprinkles?”
“I…” you say, panicking. It’s just ice cream, why are you feeling so…?
“Extra sprinkles. Y/N here has a sweet tooth. I’ll have a mocha ice cream, please” Natasha intervenes, and you take your ice cream with a grateful nod.
For the next couple of minutes, you eat in silence, walking back to Natasha’s motorcycle.
“It feels like it’s two steps forward, one step back” you finally speak, sighing.
“You’re doing great” Natasha eases your mind, her arm around your shoulders. “It’s not easy, but you got this”
“And I got you. You helped me remember a lot, Tasha. Thank you”
“Here, put this on” she takes off her hoodie. “You always get chilly after eating ice cream. And you always forget to bring your own coat”
“Ah, so I was a little like this even before the accident” you joke, smiling. You shake your head no when she offers the airpods. “No, thanks. But great music taste, though”
“It’s a playlist you made for me” Natasha explains, and something about the way she smiles makes your heart beat faster.
There it is again. The feeling that something is almost within reach… but you can’t get there just yet. Something about you and Natasha.
For the rest of the ride, you think about how she knows so much about you. More than anyone else on the team, even Wanda. There’s a feeling that maybe, a part of you liked Natasha more than as a friend.
But did she like you back?
Was it even something worth talking about?
As you go back to your room, you decide that it’s best to leave some things as they are. Even as you squeeze her hand and say goodnight, wishing it was a kiss instead of a touch of your hand, you push those thoughts away.
But when you’re getting ready for bed, taking off her hoodie, you remember something else.
You always forget to bring your own coat.
That’s what Natasha said. But you never forgot. It was the excuse you used to wear her hoodie.
And just like that, you wonder how much more there is you don’t remember about Natasha, and how in love you are with her.
—
A few weeks later, everything is mostly back to normal. Though there are things you still don’t remember, the things that do come back are enough to make up for it.
Steve allows you to go back to the field, though it doesn’t escape you how everyone hovers around you, and there’s always at least one person that provides backup. None of this happened before the accident, but you understand the team is being protective, and it has more to do with them worrying about you than it does with concerns over your skills.
Still, no one is more worried when you resume missions than Natasha. If it were up to her, she’d be on every single one of your assignments.
Part of you wonders if it’s because she feels guilty, blaming herself over what happened last time. Another part, a quiet, hopeful voice keeps thinking that maybe she sees you as more than a friend.
Either way, as life goes back to normal, you begin to venture into the city more, and when you do it on your own, you relish in the feeling of finding old pleasures, and enjoying them as if it were the first time.
After a gruelling mission, you decide a trip to the park is what you need. Before leaving the Compound, you knock on Natasha’s door.
“Hey, you ok? How was the mission?” she rushes to say, eyes scanning your face for any sign of injury.
“Natty, I’m fine. I came back to give you your hoodie. It’s been ages but I… forgot about it”
Lie. You’ve been wearing it every day since she let you borrow it. But now it doesn’t smell like her anymore, so you gave it back, hoping you can steal it again some other time.
Totally normal behavior.
“Thanks” she says, taking it. “And that?”
“Oh, this. I know this isn’t mine but it was in my drawers. I asked everyone. Does it look familiar?”
You show her an old Joan Jett t-shirt.
“Yeah, it’s mine. Maybe you don’t remember, but we went on a mission and we had to stay the night in a shitty motel. Your tactical suit was torn around the middle, so I gave you my t-shirt…”
“Because you always pack extra clothes” you remember. “Well, I’m sorry I kept it for so long. I’m starting to think I have a thing for stealing clothes”
Only Natasha’s, apparently.
“I gave it to you” Natasha smiles fondly. “You said it was the most comfortable you’d ever been”
“Oh. Well, thanks” you blush, putting it in your bag. Natasha notices the ice skates hanging from the bag and looks at you, frowning. “What? I can do it. Saw a picture of all of us last year at 30 Rock. It’s like riding a bike”
“It’s not at all like that. I’m coming with you” she decides, and you laugh. “Just to be safe”
Still, you let her drive your car all the way to Central Park, and watch as she rents a pair of skates. The first thing she does when you stand on shaky legs is frown, muttering.
“I don’t like this”
“It’s fine” you insist, gliding along the ice. And at first, it is totally fine. But then, you’re losing your balance and honestly, how the fuck do you stop moving when you’re doing this? “I take it back, it is so not like riding a bike”
Natasha comes to the rescue a second later, taking your hand and pulling you along. Of course, her movements are graceful and she smiles at you, as her arm goes around your waist to keep you steady.
“Is there something you suck at?” you say, mildly annoyed at how good she is. To be honest, you’re more focused on her hand in the small of your back.
“So many things” Natasha says, sneaking a glance at your lips.
She sucks at honesty and vulnerability. She sucks at relationships.
But still, Natasha wants to try with you.
That’s all she’s thinking about when she leans forward, meeting your lips and desperately hoping you can understand how much she’s wanted this.
Your hands go through her hair, and you sigh when you feel Natasha’s hands sinking in your hips, pulling you closer.
And then…
A memory.
Another kiss. Shorter. Less passionate. And Natasha’s words.
Forget it.
“What’s wrong?” she says when you pull apart, eyes full of tears.
“You told me to forget it. That it was stupid. And I…” you wipe away a tear, turning away from her. Your face is burning with the shame of the memory.
“Let me explain,” she says, trying to reach for your hand.
“I need to be alone” is all you say, not turning back to look at her.
Natasha stands there, watching you walk away.
--
It all comes back to you so suddenly, you feel dizzy. The mission. How you held on to the last second, through getting shot and stabbed, just to make sure Natasha could escape.
That was the easy part.
The party was a whole different story. You can almost remember the taste of Natasha’s lips that night, a mix of the gin from her dirty martini and white wine. How she shrugged it off the next day.
Why did she kiss you again? Out of pity?
You pinch the bridge of your nose, and only open your eyes when you feel someone sitting next to you.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Favorite childhood movie” Natasha points at the statue of Balto.
Of course.
“Please let me explain” she says, and you nod, because you don’t even know what else to say. “I… was scared. Of my feelings for you. That night you practically ran away after the kiss, and a part of me thought that it was because you were uncomfortable. Even if I knew that wasn’t probably the case. But that small possibility of rejection was enough to make me feel… too exposed. So I told myself I was giving you an easy way out, but that’s not true. I was being a coward”
“So, that night at the party…”
“I guess I just thought it was the perfect excuse to get closer. It’s stupid, I know”
“It’s not exactly romantic, to have your first kiss from a truth or dare game” you say, but can see that Natasha’s being honest. “I don’t remember a lot of things still, but ever since I woke up, I looked at you and felt safe. Even when I forgot a lot about me, I could still remember you”
“Would you give me another chance?” Natasha says, reaching for your hand. It takes you a moment, but you nod, smiling when she moves closer, lips inches apart. “How about a third kiss that’s way better than the first two?”
“I’m open to the idea” you smile, meeting her lips. It’s full of feeling, and honesty and you can finally appreciate the way Natasha holds you, knowing she wants this.
She wants you.
And if you ever forget it, she’ll be more than happy to remind you how much she loves you.
A mission goes sideways when you’re poisoned by a neurotoxin designed for slow, agonizing death. With no backup and no time, Natasha breaks every rule to keep you alive, administering a volatile antidote that burns through your veins like fire.
Contains: Graphic depictions of poisoning, medical emergency, seizures, pain response, CPR, needles, panic attacks, and emotional trauma.
Written July 20-26 2024
(5016 Words)
------------------------------------------
The lights in the briefing room are a kind of sterile that makes your skin itch. Bright, buzzing fluorescents overhead. No windows. Four walls. No clocks. Time doesn’t exist here, just orders, gear, and the cold press of inevitability that comes before any high stakes op.
You sit on the edge of the long table, boots planted wide, pretending like your body isn’t wound tight from the inside out. Fingers twitch. One leg bounces, restless. You're trying to look calm, calm and professional. Natasha’s across from you, and that makes it impossible.
She’s reading the file like it personally insulted her.
The silence between you is loud. Familiar. Full of everything that hasn’t been said in weeks.
She hasn’t looked at you yet, not really. She’s scanning the mission brief like it contains a hidden threat, flipping each page with surgical precision. You don’t know how she can be so still. You wonder, not for the first time, if she trained herself to stop fidgeting. Or if she ever did it at all.
Your knee bounces again.
“You’re twitchy,” she mutters.
You don’t flinch. “I call it ready.”
That earns you a look. Her eyes finally lift, and when they meet yours, you feel it in your stomach. Natasha doesn’t just look at people--she studies them. Dismantles them. You’re not exempt. Never have been.
“You call everything ready,” she says, voice flat, low. “Even when you’re not.”
That one stings. You smirk anyway. “And yet I’m still alive.”
She hums softly, no smile. “For now.”
You shift your weight, lean back on your hands, let your head tilt just slightly -- defiant. “You nervous, Romanoff?”
She turns another page. “Not for me.”
That shuts you up.
There’s something in her tone. Not sarcasm. Not clipped or cold. Something quieter. Heavier.
You sit with it for a second.
You’re not sure who breaks the silence next. Maybe it’s both of you. Her hand closes the file at the same time your boot squeaks against the floor. She stands, tucking the folder under one arm, other hand dropping to her thigh holster with ease. Always armed. Always precise.
You stay sitting, watching her check gear like it’s instinct.
“Mission’s tight,” she says without looking up. “Compound’s low grade, underground. Hydra splinter. Intel says they’re close to releasing the nerve agent. Target has the formula and the samples.”
You nod slowly. “We intercept, extract, and torch the rest. Silent entry. No kill unless provoked.”
She nods. “One vent point. Two entrances. No backup. You and me.”
Just you and her. Like it always is when it matters.
You feel your throat go dry.
She continues. “Preliminary scans show traces of an unidentified neurotoxin. Weaponized, possibly air-based. Could be absorbed on contact. Most likely internal dispersal through blade, syringe, or microdose powder. Symptoms could be delayed.”
“Symptoms?” you echo, heartbeat slowing.
She finally looks at you again. That same unreadable calm. But her eyes-- her eyes are molten steel.
“Paralysis. Hallucinations. Nervous system breakdown. Slow death, not quick.”
You stare. “Sounds like a party.”
“Not a party I’m letting you die at,” she says sharply, too fast, too raw.
You blink.
It’s the first time she’s slipped.
Her jaw tightens. She adjusts her gloves like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.
You step off the table, slow. Move to the bench where your gear waits. You buckle your vest, still feeling her gaze crawl across your shoulders. It burns more than the lights.
“So what’s the play if one of us gets tagged?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.
“Immediate evac,” she answers without hesitation. “There’s a bunker inside the north wing. Medical station. Supposed to be cleared. If we get hit, we get out. Fast.”
You hesitate. “And if only one of us gets hit?”
She doesn’t answer.
You turn. She’s standing too still now, eyes unreadable.
“Natasha.”
Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark and low.
Then.... “Then I carry you.”
The words drop like a blade.
You don’t move. She doesn’t flinch. There’s something between you now--buzzing, electric, unbearable. Not new. Just exposed.
You try to speak, but she’s already reaching for her sidearm, strapping it tight. Her movements are clean, practiced, but her hands shake just once--barely a tremor.
“Don’t get cocky,” she says again, voice soft. “And don’t be stupid.”
“I’ll try if you do,” you fire back.
She steps close.
Too close.
You feel her breath, smell the faint metallic oil of her gear. Her hand brushes past your shoulder as she picks up your earpiece. She holds it out to you between two fingers, like a dare.
You take it slowly, keeping your eyes on her face.
Her voice is a whisper now. “You ready, detka?”
The word sinks into your chest.
You want to say yes. You want to say always. But the way she’s looking at you, the weight in her gaze like she already knows something’s going to go wrong, it steals your voice.
So you nod.
She turns without another word.
You stare at the empty space where she stood.
And your heart doesn’t slow until you’re in the quinjet, five thousand feet in the air, staring down at the lights of a compound you’re going to walk into side by side.
And maybe not both walk out of.
The quinjet lands like a whisper against the backdrop of midnight fog.
Your boots hit the earth with a muted crunch-- mud, wet leaves, something darker. Fog curls around your calves in heavy tendrils. The compound looms ahead like a bunker out of time: slabs of decaying concrete, overgrown with ivy and moss, hunched in silence. You can't even see the stars. No moon. Just that dull gray pressure in the sky, like the whole world is waiting to hold its breath.
You breathe through your mask. Natasha lands beside you, silent as a shadow, her silhouette barely more than a shift in the mist. You catch a glimpse of her profile, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the treeline, already calculating exits and ambush zones. She's wired. More than usual.
You follow her to the compound’s eastern breach, a rusting utility panel half-covered in vines. You crouch beside her. The air smells like mold, metal, and ozone. She slips a fiber optic camera into the crack and studies the interior. Her breath barely stirs the fog.
She taps her comm. "Two guards, perimeter. Cameras looped for six minutes."
You nod. No words. The rhythm between you doesn’t need them.
You breach low. Silent takedown. The first man doesn’t even grunt before you’ve got his weight cradled to the ground, Natasha already dragging the second into the brush with a nerve pinch that leaves him twitching.
Inside, the compound is colder. The hallway smells like ammonia and rot. Overhead fluorescents flicker, half powered, some buzzing. The sound of your boots, soft-soled and careful, blends with the steady hum of unseen generators. You track together like wolves.
You take point. Natasha follows close. Close enough that you can hear her breathing through the comm.
You turn a corner and pause. Hold up one hand. Two guards. Talking in hushed Czech at the far end of the corridor. Natasha slides past you, calm, slow, predatory. You admire how easily she moves--like she’s dancing with ghosts. Within seconds, the guards slump silently to the floor.
You keep going. Left. Then another left. Then a flight of stairs that smell of oil and chemical burn.
The lower levels are worse. Damper. Darker. A faint blue light pulses under the lab door. You know it before you open it: this is where the poison lives.
"Scan for tripwires," she murmurs.
You sweep the frame with a small UV torch. Nothing. It’s almost disappointing.
"Too easy," you murmur.
She doesn’t reply.
You slip inside first. The lab is bigger than expected--long tables covered in sterile cloths and scattered notes, beakers, syringes, unmarked vials. The overhead light casts everything in a washed out, antiseptic blue. Shelves of equipment line the walls. An exhaust system hums in the ceiling.
Natasha peels off toward a terminal, hands flying over the interface. You start moving through drawers, lockers, storage bins. You find a canister sealed with four steel clamps--filled with clear vials, each bearing only a biohazard symbol.
You hold one up. "Found your death juice."
She glances back. "Don’t open it."
"Wasn’t planning to."
"Then don’t joke."
Her tone makes you pause.
You meet her eyes. There’s something in them. Something sharp. But she turns away too fast.
You secure the canister in your pack.
A noise. Behind you.
You pivot--weapon up. It’s a lab tech. Unarmed. Late 40s. Balding. Panic in his eyes. He lurches forward like a man with nothing to lose.
You intercept easily. Grab his wrist. Twist. Drive him into the wall.
He flails, and for a second, you think it’s over, until you feel the sting.
A flick of steel. A knife. Small. Coated with something faintly oily.
You slam your elbow into his face. He collapses.
You look down.
A slash along your ribcage. Not deep. Not even painful yet.
You exhale. Roll your eyes. “Asshole got a lucky scratch.”
But Natasha is already beside you.
“What happened?”
“Knife. Didn’t even feel it.”
She peels your suit open before you can stop her. The cut is dark already, edges rimmed in angry red, skin swelling fast.
“Fuck,” she hisses. “You’re dosed.”
“What? No, it’s--”
Then your hand starts to tremble.
You try to grip your weapon. Miss.
The ground tilts.
“Y/n.”
You hear her voice like it’s underwater.
Your knees buckle.
She catches you.
Your vision tunnels.
Cold tile under your spine. Lights bloom too bright above.
“Y/n. Hey. Stay with me.”
She’s kneeling beside you. Her gloved hands move fast--checking your pulse, your pupils. You see panic blooming in her face, cracking through that iron surface.
“I’m fine,” you slur.
“You’re not.”
You try to sit up. Your muscles ignore the command.
Natasha curses under her breath. She rips off her glove and touches your face. Her hand is warm. Grounding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”
You reach for her wrist. Miss again.
“It was just a scratch…”
“Not with this compound. They laced it. Probably aerosolized it, too.”
You blink slowly. The room spins.
“I don’t want to die in a place that smells like feet,” you mumble.
That gets the smallest sound out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Shut up,” she says gently. “You’re not dying.”
She hoists you up into her arms.
You sag against her chest, your cheek against the stiff fabric of her vest. Her heart is pounding like a war drum.
“Hold on,” she whispers. “Just hold on for me, detka.”
You think you nod.
But then the world goes dark.
Everything is dim, and then everything is too bright.
You drift in and out, each blink a flicker of a memory you can’t hold onto. One moment you're in her arms. The next, your body is weightless. The cold metal beneath your back shocks you, makes your spine jerk, but it’s like your brain is buffering behind it.
Then comes sound.
Not an alarm. Not shouting.
Just her.
Natasha’s voice is high, sharp. “No, no, no, stay with me.”
You open your eyes. Barely.
The room above you spins. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, too harsh, too fast. You see the outline of her, her shoulders broad, hunched over drawers, flinging them open one by one.
The metal clatter is deafening.
Each slam, each rip of a cabinet door is edged with panic. She’s never like this. Not even in the field. Not even when bullets are flying.
But now she is.
She mutters to herself in Russian, breathless.
"Gde ty… gde ty, blyad', poka…"
She opens a drawer, slams it shut, moves to the next. Plastic vials scatter across the ground. You try to lift your hand to stop her.
You can’t.
She doesn’t hear you, but she hears something, the small choking noise that escapes your throat.
She drops everything.
Races back to your side.
You see her face now. Closer than ever. Bare. Vulnerable. Her braid is half-undone. Sweat beads along her brow. Her eyes look glassy. Haunted.
“Y/n?” she says softly, kneeling. “I’m here. Hey. Look at me.”
You do. Just barely. Her face swims, double vision, haloed in fluorescent light.
“I’m gonna fix this. You hear me?”
Your lips move. Nothing comes out.
She grabs your hand. Holds it to her chest. You can feel her heartbeat slamming beneath her suit.
She swallows thickly. Then leans down. You feel her forehead press to yours for a split second.
Then she bolts again.
You hear the hiss of a cold storage unit being cracked open. A lock disengaged.
She exhales like she’s been punched.
"Please, please…"
A beat.
Then: “Yes.”
She’s back at your side within seconds, sliding to her knees.
She holds the auto-injector up like it’s holy. Sleek metal. Faint blue glow in the vial. She checks it three times, her hand trembling, then steadies it against your neck.
You flinch.
She freezes.
“Hey,” she whispers, moving closer, her voice dipping low, quiet, coaxing. “It’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but I need you to trust me.”
You blink, sluggishly. Your breath rattles.
She cups your face with one gloved hand, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. Her other hand holds the injector firm.
“Y/n,” she says your name like it’s breaking her. “Detka… please. Let me do this.”
She waits. Just for your eyes. Just to see that flicker of understanding.
You nod. Or maybe you don’t.
But she can’t wait any longer.
She drives the needle into your neck.
The world shatters.
Your body jerks.
You scream.
White fire floods your veins like acid. Every nerve sears. Your back arches so hard your shoulders leave the table. Your mouth opens, but the sound is pure agony.
Her hand is over your mouth in an instant.
“Shhh, detka--I know, I know, I know--I’m here.”
You claw at her with your free hand. You can’t stop. You need it to stop. It’s worse than the poison. It’s like you’re being burned alive from the inside.
She holds you through it.
She leans over you, her hand firm over your mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her other hand clutches your shoulder. She’s shaking as hard as you are.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on, baby, please. Stay with me.”
Your legs thrash. Your hands slap at the gurney.
Then it crests.
The fire fades. You collapse. Chest heaving. Gasping for air.
Natasha pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go of your face. She strokes your cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.”
Tears slip down your face now.
Not from the pain.
But from the look in her eyes.
Raw. Terrified. In love.
Your voice is wrecked. “Thought I was gonna die.”
She leans close. Her lips brush your temple.
“You’re not allowed to,” she whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”
You half-laugh, a broken sound. “You’re bleeding.”
She looks down. There’s blood smeared across her forearm. Yours. From your fingernails.
She doesn’t care.
She brushes sweat from your brow and kisses your knuckles.
“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Anything. Keep talking.”
You blink. “Hurts.”
“I know.”
“Still burning.”
“I know, detka. I’m here.”
Silence hangs for a second.
Then, softly, almost broken:
“I can’t do this without you.”
You stare at her.
“You don’t have to,” you whisper.
She leans forward, forehead pressed to yours again. Her lips brush your ear.
“I thought I lost you. And I never even told you--”
You feel her swallow the words. Bury them. But they’re there.
You whisper, “Say it.”
She doesn’t move.
Then “I love you.”
Simple. Unadorned. Like a gunshot in the silence.
“I love you and I didn’t say it because I thought it would make this harder. Because it would mean I couldn’t do the job.”
Her hand slides down your chest, rests over your heart.
“But watching you go down… nothing could have prepared me for that.”
You can’t smile, but you want to.
“You still owe me that date,” you rasp.
She laughs, watery. “You still want to be seen with me in public after this?”
You give her the faintest smirk. “Only if you carry me there.”
She exhales. Holds your hand tighter.
Then she checks the injector again. One dose gone. Timer running.
“Next dose in eleven minutes.”
You swallow. “And if I need a third?”
“We find it. We fight for it. Or I carry you through the compound kicking and screaming until I get you on that evac jet.”
You close your eyes. Just for a second.
Her hand brushes your cheek.
“Don’t go to sleep,” she says gently. “You stay with me, Y/n.”
Your heart rate steadies.
But her panic doesn’t fade.
Not even a little. You don’t know how much time has passed.
Minutes? A heartbeat? Years?
You’re not on the table anymore. You’re moving again--limbs flopping uselessly, your weight dead in her arms. The air is colder now. You feel it against the sweat clinging to your neck, the pulse of it in the hallway, the echo of your foot dragging on tile every time Natasha pulls you forward.
Her arms are around you, tight--one across your back, the other under your thighs. You know she shouldn’t be able to carry you this far, this fast, while still moving silent and deadly.
But she does.
Because you’re her mission now.
No comms. No backup. Just her rage and fear holding you together while your body threatens to come apart.
“Stay awake,” she whispers, voice tight. “Detka, you hear me? No checking out. No napping. You do not sleep until I get you out of this hellhole.”
You try to answer. Nothing comes out.
But your eyes flutter. Barely.
She keeps going.
She rounds a corner and nearly runs into two guards--armed. Alert.
You’re barely conscious, but you feel the shift in her muscles. The sudden drop to one knee, placing you behind her. Her hand finds her Glock like it’s always been there. Two shots. Muffled. Precision. One in the throat. One between the eyes.
You hear the thud of bodies falling.
You hear the silence that follows.
Then her hand is on your face again.
“Still with me?”
Your head lolls.
She adjusts her grip on you. Kisses your temple.
“Two more minutes,” she breathes, not sure if it’s a promise or a plea.
The symptoms are returning.
It starts in your fingertips this time--an itching, almost tingling burn that crawls upward. You can feel your blood slowing down, thickening. Your teeth chatter even though you’re sweating.
Natasha feels it too.
You’re seizing.
She drops to the ground with you in the shadow of a steel stairwell and props you against her chest. Her gloves come off fast. She grips your face with bare hands. They’re warm. Yours aren’t.
“Don’t do this,” she whispers.
She pulls out the injector with shaking fingers.
“Too soon,” she mutters. “Not long enough since the last--fuck.”
Your body convulses.
“I can’t wait,” she decides aloud.
She plunges the second dose into your neck.
This time, you black out entirely.
No screaming. No flailing. Just silence.
Too much of it.
For a second, she thinks she’s killed you.
She presses her forehead to your chest, listening--desperate.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
Faint. But there.
When your eyes snap open and you gasp like you’ve been pulled from underwater, her hand immediately slams over your mouth.
You don’t know why she’s crying until you realize you’re crying too.
The burn rips through you like napalm. The second dose hits faster, harder, crueler. Your body contorts, and she holds you like you’re both drowning.
“Shh. Shh. Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking you in her lap, curled around you like a shield. “Just breathe. Just breathe. I know it hurts.”
You claw at the front of her vest. She lets you.
Your teeth grit. You scream through her palm.
And then you collapse again, twitching. Weak. But breathing.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
She can’t carry you anymore.
Your weight, your heat, your body-it’s too much now. Not physically. Emotionally.
She can’t feel her arms.
She kneels beside you and presses her hand to your neck. Still alive.
Barely.
Then she grabs your vest collar, hauls you to your feet, and throws your arm over her shoulders.
You groan weakly.
“I know,” she says. “I know, detka. We’re almost there.”
Every step is pain. Your legs don’t work. You’re mostly dead weight, and she’s using every ounce of muscle and momentum she has to keep you both upright.
You round a corner.
You see it.
Light.
The corridor opens up into the hangar, your evac point. The chopper is already waiting, blades thudding.
“We made it,” she breathes, more to herself than to you.
But then, shouting. Footsteps.
Natasha grits her teeth. One more goddamn obstacle.
Five Hydra agents swarm the corridor behind you.
She throws you to cover, gently as she can. Her gun is up before your body hits the floor. Four rounds. Three bodies.
The fourth comes at her fast, knife out.
She parries, twists, drives her elbow into his throat. He drops like a stone.
She’s panting. Bleeding now, cut across the arm. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.
She lifts you again.
Two more steps. Then your heart stops.
Literally.
You slump in her arms like a puppet with cut strings.
She doesn’t even scream.
Not at first.
She lowers you to the ground. Strips off her vest and places it under your head. Straddles your waist and starts compressions.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Come on, Y/n. Come on, baby. Breathe.”
Nothing.
She switches to mouth-to-mouth.
Breathes into you. Pushes her soul into your lungs.
“You’re not dying here.”
Another round of compressions.
She’s crying now. Shaking. Her voice climbs.
“Come on. Come on. Don’t do this. I didn’t say it just so you could leave me--!”
Still nothing.
She leans in again. Breathes again.
Then...finally.... You cough. Blood. Bile. But air.
She catches you before you turn your head.
You gasp again, mouth open, lungs on fire.
You look at her. She’s soaked. Bloody. Wild eyed.
You try to smile.
“Made it… to the date.”
She collapses into your chest.
“Shut up,” she says, sobbing, laughing. “Just--shut up.”
You feel her lips against your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your mouth. Salt tears and blood between you. She kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she needs it to live.
You let her.
Because you do too.
Natasha dragging you the final stretch, body broken, her mind fracturing -- while the evac chopper blades are screaming overhead and help is just out of reach.
This is the last burst of desperation before you’re ripped from the mouth of death.
She kisses you once.
Quick. Messy. Salt and blood on your lips. Her hand cups your face like it’s all she has left in the world.
Then she’s moving again.
“Stay awake, detka,” she breathes, slinging your arm around her neck once more. “You got this far. Don’t quit now.”
You try to stand. You try to help.
You can’t.
Your body is a dead thing she has to drag. Your legs twitch but won’t lift. Your knees knock against the floor as she pulls you through the corridor, step by brutal step.
Outside, the wind shifts. The chop of helicopter blades roars louder. Almost there.
“I’ve got you,” she says again, though her voice is hoarse now. She’s repeating it more for herself than you.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
She stumbles. The weight of you pulling her sideways. She slams a hand into the wall for balance, nearly collapses.
Her arms are screaming. Her spine feels like it’s going to snap.
But she keeps going.
One hand on her pistol, the other dragging your body into the light of the hangar bay.
She sees them then.
SHIELD medics.
Two of them. Just past the open ramp of the chopper.
One lifts a radio.
“Agent Romanoff--status--do you need--?”
“Help!” she yells, staggering forward. “She’s dying!”
They sprint toward you.
“Poisoned--nerve agent--two doses of the antidote--cardiac arrest sixty seconds ago--she’s back, but she’s slipping--!”
They reach you just as your body spasms again.
Natasha doesn’t let go.
She’s still holding you even as they lower a stretcher. Still has one knee under your head as they start cutting away the armor, checking your vitals, calling for adrenaline.
“You need to let us--” one medic says.
“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps, and her voice is ice. Shaking. Shredded.
They work. She watches. Every time your chest rises, her grip tightens on your arm. Every pause makes her stop breathing.
When they finally lift you into the chopper, she’s beside you. No one tries to stop her.
Her hand never leaves yours.
Inside, it’s noise and heat and spinning pain.
You blink weakly. The overhead lights are harsh. Your ears are full of static. You're shaking violently now--reaction from the second dose--and your body won't calm.
You can’t stop whispering her name. Like you’re checking if she’s still real.
She is.
She leans over you, both hands cupping your face.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You look at her, really look.
There’s blood on her cheek. A split at her lip. A gash along her bicep still bleeding freely. But her eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing worth watching in the world.
“I love you,” you murmur, dazed.
She kisses your forehead, hard.
“You’d better,” she says.
Then your eyes roll back. The medics shout something.
And she starts to pray again.
You wake to the sound of beeping.
Soft. Steady. Mechanical.
It echoes in your skull like sonar, each pulse drawing you back toward consciousness. At first, it doesn’t feel like waking -- it feels like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching, gravity heavier than it should be.
Everything is white.
Too bright. Too still.
The sheets under you are stiff. The light above your head doesn’t flicker like the compound’s. It’s soft. Clean. Sterile. A filtered hum of recycled air replaces the chaos of gunfire and shouted orders.
You inhale -- and feel the weight of your own body for the first time in hours. Days? You don’t know. Every inch of you aches. Your chest is wrapped tight. There’s a catheter in your arm. Tubes in your nose.
But you’re alive.
You blink again, slowly.
And that’s when you feel it.
Her hand.
Wrapped around yours.
Warm. Steady. Holding like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
You turn your head with effort.
There she is.
Slumped in a chair beside your hospital bed, head tilted to rest on the mattress, asleep. Or trying to be. Her other hand is buried in her hair, half-pulled loose from its braid. She hasn’t changed clothes. There’s a bloodstain on her tactical pants and bruises down her forearm that weren’t there before.
She looks wrecked.
You want to speak, but your throat is raw -- so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed dust.
Still, something rasps out.
“…Tasha.”
She jolts awake so fast it’s like you’ve been shot again.
Her head lifts. Her eyes are wild, scanning you from head to toe, like she expects you to vanish right in front of her.
And then they fill with tears.
“Oh my god--” Her voice breaks. “Y/n”
You try to smile. It hurts. “Still… breathing.”
She’s already leaning forward, both hands on your face now, her thumbs brushing gently at your temples, your jaw, your lips like she needs to re-learn every part of you to believe it.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“Only returned the favor,” you croak.
She lets out a soft, broken laugh, then presses her forehead to yours.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.
You close your eyes, letting her words settle into your skin.
“You didn’t,” you say. “You never do.”
She sits back, wipes her eyes roughly, like she’s mad at herself for showing any of this. But her hands won’t stop shaking.
“How long?” you ask, voice hoarse.
She hesitates. “Thirty-two hours in a medically induced coma. Another eight unconscious. You coded twice. They had to re-administer part of the antidote. Your kidneys tried to fail.”
“Hot,” you whisper.
She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
You squeeze her hand, or try to. Your fingers barely move.
But she feels it.
Her expression softens.
“I thought about what I’d say when you woke up,” she murmurs. “Rehearsed it in my head. Over and over.”
You look up at her. “And?”
She leans close again. Her voice is barely audible.
“I love you,” she says. “I loved you before this. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
You blink slowly. “Guess I had to almost die to get you to say it.”
She closes her eyes.
“You’re never doing that again,” she whispers. “I mean it. No more near-death confessions. Next time I want to say it, we’re going to be safe. Somewhere soft. Warm. You’ll be wearing pajamas. I’ll be making you pancakes. Badly.”
You smile, finally. Weak. But real.
“I want that.”
She kisses your knuckles.
“You’ll have it,” she whispers. “You’ll have all of it.”
Silence falls again. Not awkward. Just full of things that don’t need to be said out loud.
Her hand stays in yours.
And in the lull between beeping monitors and IV drips, you let yourself drift.
Summary: Between vows and betrayal, lace and ruin, they tear each other apart one last time—desire and grief tangled so tight neither can breathe. Because some goodbyes don't sound like words. They sound like moans. They taste like tears. Then craves for something sweet.
Pairings: Stepsister Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader
Author's note: Commissioned. IF THIS ISN'T YOUR THING, YOU ARE FREE TO SCROLL AWAY. I think this is a timing for kinktober.
Navigation | Masterlist | Tip jar
ᱬ
Wanda was only five when her father remarried.
Even then, she felt the weight of change pressing from the moment her mother was rushed to the hospital—never realizing it would be the last time she'd see her alive.
One quiet evening, Wanda peeked around the corner of the living room. Her wide, innocent eyes froze at the sight of her father kissing another woman. A stranger who's got a little huge tummy. Not her mother—her mother who still lay sleeping in the white "pencil case" as Wanda, in her child's mind, had come to call it.
Wanda's confusion deepened even more when one day, the stranger woman leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, just like her real mom used to do. She felt even more bewildered when the woman helped her into a pretty dress and handed her a basket of flower petals. The woman's soft voice broke through Wanda's maze of thoughts as she began talking about her father. "I love your daddy," she said with a sweet smile, "and I'm gonna give you a good life. I'm gonna take care of you." She paused, looking down at her stomach. "Both of you," the woman clarified with a gentle caress on Wanda's cheek, "You won't understand yet, and your real mama may be gone now, but I promise you something—I will love you like she would have."
The only thing Wanda could clearly remember from that day was walking down the aisle, her tiny hands clutching a tiny basket as she threw petal flowers like she was instructed to.
At first, the change was terrifying. But as days turned into weeks, then months, Wanda began to find comfort. Her new mama's tummy grew bigger, and with it, so did Wanda's attachment. There were tea parties in the garden, endless plates of cookies, crocheted dolls and scarves, and warm arms that smelled faintly of lavender.
For Wanda, it was as if nothing really had changed. When her real mother passed away, the love of a mother quickly surrounded her again because that's how quick a new mama came to the rescue.
One day, while playing in the living room, Wanda noticed that her mama's stomach had grown significantly. "Are you sick, mama?" Wanda asked, her small hands gently touching her mama's belly. Her brows furrowed in confusion and worry. "Why is your tummy so big? Does it hurt?" She looked up at your mother with glossy teary eyes that made it sting.
Your mother smiled gently at her daughter's concern and handed her a small box. "Open it, sweetheart," she said softly. Wanda took the box, her tiny hands carefully opening it to reveal a crocheted top inside. "Big Sister" was written in sparkly letters on the front.
Days turned into weeks, and Wanda still didn't fully understand what the shirt said and what her mama said.
"We're gonna have a baby. You're going to have a baby sister. That means you're going to be a big sister."
But even then, Wanda kept caring for her mama and the growing tummy she carried. She trailed after her through the house, making sure mama sat down whenever she looked tired, bringing her water or little snacks without being asked with little flowers she personally handpicked in the garden. If her mama so much as winced, Wanda would hurry over, her face etched with worry, asking softly what was wrong. Her mama would reassure her—it was just the tummy—and Wanda would lean in to place a gentle kiss on it. She even tried to imitate her father, wrapping her small arms around her mama's belly from behind, as if she too could help ease the weight.
But then, all of a sudden, her mama was being rushed to the hospital. This time, Wanda's little heart filled with terror as she watched her mama disappear in the huge white door of the emergency room.
In her mind, everything replayed like a horror movie. She remembered her first mama—her real mom—never coming out the same door. The memories of that day were etched deeply into her little mind, and now she was terrified that it was happening again.
She didn't understand why her first mama never came back, but now she understood that her second mama—the one who loved her and took care of her—was in the hospital and might not come out either.
But much to her surprise, her mama did, she came out from the same door where she was rushed in, with a tiny human wrapped in a thick cloth.
That was the only thing Wanda remembered happening that day.
The day when you came into her life.
Wanda had been the only little one before you came along, and adjusting to another small human was confusing for her—everything was confusing through the eyes of a five year old. The attention that once belonged solely to her was now shared with the tiny being who demanded constant care. But Wanda soon realized something important: with the arrival of this new little one, she was no longer just a "tiny being" herself—she is now a part of the "big ones" like mama and dad. And because she understood that tiny beings needed more attention than huge ones, she did her part. She cared for you, she tried to help—doing whatever her small hands and big heart could manage.
Your first word wasn't "Mama." It was "Wanda."
She had you in her arms, bouncing you like a doll when it slipped out of your mouth. The syllables were clumsy, broken by baby teeth and spit, but unmistakable. "Wan-da."
She refused to let anyone else touch you for the rest of the day. You were hers. Her shadow. Her responsibility. Her baby—even though she was barely past babyhood herself.
From then on, she was always there.
She bathed with you. Fed you off her own plate. Propped you on her hip while watching cartoons. She even learned how to balance a bottle with her chin when her hands got tired.
If you cried, Wanda cried too. If you laughed, she laughed harder.
And when you made mistakes, Wanda carried the blame.
"Who spilled the juice?" Mama asked.
"It was me," Wanda would say, even when the evidence was still dripping down your chin.
And when Wanda made mistakes, you covered for her too…though always with a price.
One afternoon, you found her rifling through mama's purse. She froze, caught red-handed, her reflection wide-eyed in the vanity mirror. Slowly, she turned to you, lips parting in a guilty panic.
"Don't tell Mama," she whispered. Then her voice softened, coaxing, "I'll buy you ice cream."
You didn't really know what it is to tell mama. But ice cream? That was enough to seal the deal. You nodded enthusiastically.
When you turned five, Wanda was ten.
By then, Wanda had learned to notice things. She would watch from the window of your shared room as a mysterious man carried you away every weekend. He was tall and a bit young, Wanda remembered seeing that same man on the day you were born. Sometimes she would eavesdrop, listening in on the brief and straightforward exchanges between her mama and the man as they arranged the details of your pickup.
"When I married your dad, I already had your sister. And…that's her father, Wanda."
Wanda didn't say anything right away, but she studied your face the night you came back, when you were asleep. The resemblance was undeniable. You had his eyes, his mouth, his stubborn chin. Different from hers. Different from Wanda's.
It didn't change how she felt, though. If anything, it made her hold onto you tighter. Maybe you had another father somewhere else, but to Wanda, you were still hers.
When you were thirteen, Wanda was eighteen.
That was the year she began sneaking girls into your shared bedroom at night. You would wake to the sound of the window sliding open, the faint creak of the frame straining against its hinges, followed by the hushed shuffle of footsteps. There was always a quick exchange of giggles, nervous and sharp, swallowed by the dark before mama or dad could catch wind of them.
The ritual became so familiar you could almost time it—the scrape of shoes against the floor, the whisper of fabric being tugged loose, the sudden, electric silence when Wanda realized you were awake.
She'd sit down on the bed beside you, her weight dipping the mattress, her presence warm and heavy in the dark. Then she would pat her thighs—the unspoken signal. By then, you knew what to do. You climbed on, caging her legs with yours, but you never looked her in the eyes. Something about it felt dangerous, like the truth of everything would spill out if your gazes locked too long.
"Don't tell mama and dad," she would whisper, her voice threaded with a soft, deliberate threat but softened by those pleading eyes. It wasn't just a warning—it was a request, almost a confession.
You hesitated, biting your lip. You didn't know whether to nod or protest.
Then she leaned closer, her breath brushing your ear, her tone coaxing now, playful, sweet. "I'll buy you ice cream."
You picked at your nails, staring down at your own legs straddling hers. A lump stuck in your throat. "For a week," you finally bargained, voice cracking in the quiet.
Her smirk bloomed in the dim light, sharp and triumphant. "Deal." She tilted your chin up with practiced ease, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before carefully shifting you aside, removing you from her lap. She tucked you back under the blanket, smoothing the covers as if nothing had happened. Then she kissed your forehead before slipping out the window with the girl she had smuggled in.
And just like that, your silence was bought. Not by fear but by the promise of sweetness—a cone of ice cream, cold and temporary, melting fast on your tongue, making the secret easier to swallow.
But time does what it always does.
Your weekends with your father began to stretch into entire weeks, then whole summers. You were gone more often than you were home. And when you returned, the house felt smaller, your shared room more suffocating than comforting.
As people do, you begin to change. Wanda noticed it first in little ways. You asked mama for your own room—not because you disliked sharing with your sister, but because privacy had started to matter, especially when her nighttime visits grew more frequent, when girls seemed to come and go through your window more than the breeze itself.
You stopped sneaking bites of her food, stopped sipping from her tumbler like you used to. You turned down her casual invitations to shower together, when once you would throw tantrums if she said no. You stopped sprawling on her side of the bed, stopped demanding her attention in the loud, childish ways you once did.
And when Wanda leaned close, trying to kiss you the way she always had—on the lips, the innocent ritual of childhood—you avoided her. At first, you offered your cheek instead, a compromise, an attempt to soften the rejection. But even the cheek-kisses became rare. Eventually, they disappeared altogether.
The bond that once felt unshakable began to loosen thread by thread.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you drifted away.
And Wanda, though she never admitted it, felt the loss like a phantom limb—something that should still be there, something she reached for in the dark, only to find empty space.
When you turned sixteen, Wanda was twenty-one.
Everything about you had shifted. The baby-soft frame she used to carry everywhere had vanished, replaced by a body that demanded to be noticed—curves that pulled eyes whether you wanted them to or not. Your clothes, skimpy tops and low-cut bras, seemed chosen to test limits, and you carried yourself with a confidence that both unsettled and angered her.
You were no longer the little sister who clung to her every chance you get or cried when she left the room. Instead, you spent your days barricaded in your bedroom, only emerging when hunger forced you to the kitchen or mama called you to join the family. And even then, you came out sharp-edged. Your words cut. You bit back with sarcasm whenever mama gave you gentle reminders, rolled your eyes at your stepdad.
One evening, when your temper spilled over and you snapped at your mom again, Wanda finally stepped in. She could see you were upset about something and she didn't want to judge, she tried to reason with you even though she knows you went overboard with how you acted, "Are you okay, baby?"
But you only glared, the venom in your tone surprising her. "Why do you care?"
Wanda froze, her heart lurching at the bite in your words. Still, she tried. "Because you're my sister. Of course I care."
Your laugh was sharp, hollow. "Why?! You're not really my sister, Wanda—so stop pretending like you are!"
The silence that followed was brutal. For a moment, it felt like the entire house was holding its breath. Wanda stood there, stunned, the sting of your words ringing louder than anything else. In her hand, the ice cream cone she had bought for you earlier sagged, melting into a sticky mess.
The sweet girl who once begged to sleep in her arms, who used to sneak bites from her plate, who kissed her lips without hesitation—was gone. In her place stood someone colder, sharper, a stranger in your skin. And Wanda hated it. Not because she despised who you were becoming but because she missed who you used to be.
Now you slipped further from her with every passing day, and Wanda didn't know how to stop it. All she knew was that losing you—even in this quiet, gradual way—felt unbearable.
When you were nineteen, Wanda was twenty-four.
The holiday season had rolled around again, but this year felt different. You hadn't planned on coming home—your father had been insistent that you spend Christmas with him instead, and you had promised him you would. It stung a little, knowing Mama would spend the holidays without you, but you had told yourself there would always be next year. There would always be more time.
But time is cruel.
A sudden, brutal twist of fate shattered everything you thought was certain.
Your family home became a crime scene. The lights that once glowed warm in the windows were replaced by the cold flicker of police sirens, washing the walls in red and blue. Neighbors huddled on the sidewalks, their whispers thick with shock and pity. Yellow tape stretched across the porch where you had once sat eating ice cream with Wanda on hot summer nights.
Inside, nothing was the same.
Your mama and stepfather—gone in an instant. A robbery, the officers said. A senseless act of violence. Two lives stolen before the season of giving could even begin.
And Wanda, scarred, traumatized.
You? Lost.
After the funeral, the silence was unbearable. The air still reeked of melted candles and smoke, the wilted flowers drooped in their vases, and the mourners had long since disappeared. All that remained was the suffocating weight of absence.
You stood in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to disappear into the shadows. That was when Wanda moved.
She had been quiet for days—didn't speak to anyone, even to you. But now, she came toward you with no hesitation in her steps, no room for you to retreat.
Before you could form a thought, she was on you. Her hands gripped your arms, making you whine because it hurts. You could feel her breath against your neck, uneven and hot, her chest trembling as if holding back a storm.
"You're coming home with me." She whispered, but it wasn't soft. It wasn't a request. It was a vow, a command, a claim.
Now you're back home for the first time since you had left for the holidays before the incident. There's this heavy weight settled over you, the house was empty but you feel like it was crowded the way your chest constricts. You're not being welcomed by mama's hug anymore or the aroma of her dish. No more dad to ask you if you wanted to go shopping.
You tried not to imagine how it happened—how it ended—but the thought lingered anyway. Stepping inside, Wanda was already walking past the kitchen, unable to face the place where your mother and stepdad had been shot. The sight hollowed you, and your heart ached with a grief too vast to name.
When you went upstairs, you peek into your sister's room, which was your shared room, you find her standing, her back away from you, she was breathing heavily. She was tense, on edge even though you cannot see her face. And when she felt your presence, she turned towards you and spoke firmly, "You'll sleep here tonight, with me." Before you could protest—not like you will, you were inside and she was already closing the door behind her, sealing the two of you in the room together.
Your sister needs you.
And you do too.
Not in the way you used to—not with childhood giggles or demands for attention. No, this was different. This was raw, desperate, clinging to the only person left who understood—who remembered—who saw it all. The house felt cavernous with loss, and without her close? You'd drown in it alone and so will she.
So when she locked that door behind her and told you where you'd sleep tonight? It wasn't a request, it was survival. Two broken souls trying to stitch themselves back together through proximity because what else did either of you have now except each other? And maybe, just maybe, if she could keep one small piece of routine intact—like sharing this bed like always before everything shattered apart, at least something might still make sense again.
Neither of you bothered to change out of your funeral clothes, the weight of the day too heavy, exhaustion sinking deep into your bones. The black fabric wrinkled as you both collapsed onto the bed, Wanda immediately curling her body around yours.
Her arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against her chest—like if she held on hard enough, she could keep any more pieces from breaking loose. Then her voice came low over your shoulder in the dark.
"I promised mama…to take care of you."
Simple words loaded with everything unspoken between grief and guilt and duty all tangled together inside her ribs until breathing hurt just as much as gunshot wounds ever could've. And then silence fell except for shared breaths slowing down toward sleep neither wanted but desperately needed after days spent drowning awake.
The pale morning light filtered through the curtains as you woke up still tangled in Wanda's arms. Your faces were inches apart, her breath warm against your skin. Without thinking, your fingertips traced the scar on her cheek—a jagged reminder of what happened that night.
Wanda didn't flinch at your touch. Instead, she gave you a soft smile, she still looks tired, she's pale and had dark circles under her eyes even though she just woke up from a long sleep.
Her hand came up to cover yours where it rested against her scarred face for just a moment. Then suddenly, soft fingertips tilted your chin up before her lips pressed against yours so lightly, just like when you were kids, whenever you asked her for a kiss. It lasts barely seconds but lingers heavy in quiet air between shared breaths.
And you let her. Because why wouldn't you?
You didn't even think you were crossing lines; it's like clawing back at scraps of normalcy buried under the wreckage of what used to be simple. A ritual unearthed from before—before the blood on kitchen tiles, before your parents left a hollowed-out space in this house and in your life.
So when Wanda kisses you again—a peck—before burrowing her face on your chest. You don't question it.
Not when she needs this.
Not when part of you does too.
Wanda broke away slowly, her forehead resting against yours for a moment before she spoke softly, "Shower with me?" She asked casually, just like the old times. "We can go get ice cream after."
You can only remember the feeling of your wet naked bodies pressed together that morning, under the falling water as your sister held you tighter, her fingers digging gently into your sides like she's going to lose you too—and of course, the drive to the ice cream store.
When you were twenty-one, Wanda was twenty-six.
It had been two years since that night changed everything.
"Good morning…" Wanda's voice broke the silence of the kitchen.
Before you could even murmur a reply, her hand was already at your chin, tilting it up. Her lips brushed against yours—brief, almost habitual, as if the motion had been etched into her like muscle memory. It had become a rhythm between you two, quiet and unquestioned. No fumbling, no words. Just a kiss in greeting, as simple as breathing.
"I made breakfast," she whispered, softer this time, her eyes studying your face as though checking for approval. "Pancakes. Your favorite."
You smiled, nodding gently, moving toward the table. But as you reached for a glass of water, your fingers slipped.
The crash of shattering glass against tile ripped through the air.
In an instant, Wanda jumped, her body jerking like she'd been struck. Her breath hitched, panic flashing across her face so raw it froze you in place. The sound of broken glass wasn't just a sound to her anymore—it was danger, loss, violence. It was a memory.
"Can you be careful?!" she snapped, her voice sharp, trembling more from fear than anger. Her hands clenched at her sides as though resisting the urge to snatch you away from the shards.
Your heart thudded as guilt curled inside your chest. "I'm sorry," you whispered, dropping to your knees, gathering the jagged pieces one by one with cautious fingers.
She let out a long, shaky sigh—one that carried more weight than words ever could. Without looking at you, she turned and walked toward the stairs. Her bare feet made the faintest sounds against the wood, but to you, every step felt like a door closing.
You stayed frozen in place, kneeling on the cold tile with your hands still damp from wiping the floor. Your eyes followed her retreating figure, the curve of her back stiff, her head slightly bowed as if she were carrying something too heavy for her age. Your throat tightened. You wanted to call after her, to run up and make sure she was okay, but your body wouldn't move. All you could do was sit there in the silence, worry gnawing at your chest, watching the space she left behind like she might reappear if you just stared long enough.
It is not the first time something like this happened to Wanda. It had started with something small—too small to make sense to anyone else. The sharp slam of a cabinet door, the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. But for Wanda, it was enough. The sound ripped her wide open, dragging her back to that night, and suddenly she wasn't here anymore.
The first time it happened, you didn't know what to do. Her hands shook violently, frozen in place, her wide eyes glassy and unfocused. She wasn't looking at you, wasn't looking at anything. Just staring—past the walls, past the room—into some place only she could see.
Her chest hitched, her breath stuttered in shallow gasps before the tears came. First silently, then in broken waves that wracked her whole body. She didn't speak, didn't yell, didn't make a single sound beyond the sobs that poured out of her.
"Wanda…hey, it's me. You're safe," you whispered, as softly as you could, approaching her with slow steps. You reached for her hand, but she pulled away without even looking at you, like she wasn't really there.
You tried again, desperate. "I'm here. I've got you."
But nothing, she just turned and fled into her room, shutting her door.
You pressed your forehead to the wood, heart pounding, whispering through the barrier, "Please…don't do this alone." But there was no answer.
Your fear grew heavier the longer the silence stretched, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if she hurt herself? What if she didn't come back out?
So you reached up and turned the knob gently, half afraid it's locked.
It opened.
Inside, Wanda sat on the corner of her room, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her trembling hands. She looked so small, so breakable.
"Wands?" you whispered, careful not to startle her. She didn't respond, but her sobs deepened, her whole body folding in on itself.
You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, until you were right in front of her. Your heart raced, but your hands moved gently, instinctively. You reached out, brushing her damp hair away from her face, and cupped her cheek. Her skin was hot with tears, her breath uneven, but she leaned into your touch—fragile, desperate, like she had no strength left to resist. Her glassy eyes flicked up, scanning you with such raw intensity it made your throat tighten. She studied you as though grounding herself, your eyes, your nose, your lips.
Then, she surged forward and kissed you.
It wasn't graceful, it wasn't thought out—it was trembling and messy, a collision of salt and tears, her breath hitching against your mouth. It was as though kissing you was the only thing tethering her to reality.
You froze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed, then softened into it, holding her face carefully, terrified she might shatter if you pressed too hard. Wanda clung to you like she was drowning, her tears streaking down between you both, but still she didn't let go.
Now, you hesitated at her doorway, unlike before, she now always leaves her door open. You watched as Wanda stood with her back to you. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders rising and falling with deep, deliberate breaths—like she was trying to steady herself, to force calm into her trembling body. The silence hung heavy, fragile, as if one wrong word might shatter her all over again.
"Hey…" you said softly, your voice careful, almost a whisper.
Her head tilted, not sharply, but slow. When her eyes found you, you made the kind of face you always did when you were scared—a little pout, your brows furrowed, lips pulled down.
For a second, she just stared at you, unreadable. Then the faintest smile touched her lips. She lifted one hand and beckoned you closer, her fingers curling slowly in invitation.
You didn't hesitate.
Your head was bowed as you walked over, unable to meet her eyes. The guilt sat heavy on your chest, pressing down until your breath trembled. As soon as you reached her, your body moved on its own, you stepped into her space and hugged her tightly, burying your face in the warm crook of her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled into her skin, your voice muffled and breaking.
Her arms tightened around you, her chin pressing lightly against your hair. She let out a long, shaky sigh, and then you felt it—a soft kiss placed on the crown of your head.
"It's alright," she murmured, her voice low but steady this time. "It's alright, baby."
You sniffled against her shoulder, your arms holding her just as tightly, like letting go might undo the fragile peace you'd just rebuilt. She stroked your back slowly, grounding you in that small rhythm.
After a long pause, she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your skin.
"Do I still need to drive you to uni?" she asked softly, her tone lighter, testing the weight of the moment.
You still feel that something is off though, but you nodded slowly, lips pouting, eyes still downcast.
Her faint smile returned, and she leaned forward to press another kiss to your temple. "Okay. Then I'll drive you."
University kept you occupied—recitations here and there, case digests piling up on your desk, group reports that stretched late into the night. You got used to the shuffle of student life, to burying yourself in books, to blending into the chatter of classrooms where no one knew the weight you carried at home.
You should've trusted your gut. That gnawing feeling at the back of your mind that whispered something's still not right with Wanda.
That evening, you came home drained from university, your bag heavy with thick reprinted cases. But the moment you stepped inside, your breath hitched. The house was a mess—shattered glass glinting on the floor, books scattered across the living room as if thrown in a fit of rage, the coffee table knocked askew. Your heart plummeted.
"Wanda?" you called out, panic threading through your voice as you dropped your bag and rushed deeper into the living room.
You found her in the dining, standing rigid, her hands splayed apart, gripping the edges of the table, her chest rising and falling too fast. She wasn't crying—not this time. Instead, she looked like she was holding herself together with fraying threads, her lips parted, breath trembling as though she was trying to calm a storm inside.
Your steps softened as you approached her, afraid to startle her further. "Wanda…"
She didn't look at you right away, her eyes fixed on some invisible point, her jaw clenched tight. Only when you were close enough to touch did she finally glance at you, and in that flicker of eye contact you saw it—that same heaviness, that same fragile balance between breaking apart and forcing control.
"Let's go for a drive…we can get ice cream."
The words caught you off guard, almost surreal against the mess of the room—the shattered glass, the overturned books. But it was Wanda, reaching for normalcy the only way she knew how.
You nodded quickly, almost desperately. "Okay," you murmured, as if agreeing too fast would keep her from slipping away again.
She brushed past you, her fingers grazing your arm in passing, and grabbed her keys. You trailed behind her, watching the way her shoulders stayed tense, but her pace was steady.
You slid into the passenger seat then Wanda drove in silence, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. The hum of the car and the occasional flicker of passing streetlights were the only things filling the space between you.
When she finally pulled into the empty parking lot of a half-lit shopping center, confusion curled in your stomach. The grocery store sign flickered, but you knew it was well past closing time. The ice cream shop was blocks away, yet Wanda parked here, in the shadows, where no one lingered.
"Wanda? Why are we here?" you asked softly, but your voice cracked, betraying your unease.
She didn't answer. Instead, she turned to you, eyes gleaming with something you couldn't name—fear? longing? desperation? Before you could press her, she leaned over the console and kissed you hard. The force of it stole your breath, her desperation pouring into you like she needed to consume you, like she was trying to swallow you whole, to absorb your calm into her storm.
The kiss was different, it wasn't the usual peck you do every morning or as kids. She shoves her tongue inside your mouth, and guides your inexperienced lips to move along hers.
Your heart pounded, torn between the instinct to push her back and the ache of pity at the way she trembled.
Shaky but slowly. Her hands tore at your clothes, buttons popping off and fabric ripping. Her hands were everywhere—rough and demanding with need. One moment they were forcing you down, undressing you, the next they were pulling your underwear aside. A choked sound escaped you as she pushed two fingers inside you without warning, pumping harshly.
You clung to her in terror as she took her time with you, feeling things the first time—the pain and pleasure. Tears streamed down your face but she kissed them away. She whispered how perfect you were, how her love for you was beyond comprehension, that she will always protect and love you forever. And the way her eyes looked at you convinced you it was true.
Wanda consumed you, slowly and tenderly.
The drive home was thick with silence. Wanda leans closer, her voice a soft hush against your ear whenever she hears you sob, then, she presses a gentle kiss to your temple. It was intended to soothe you, but that wasn't what you felt—your skin prickled with fear, every touch just reminded you how blurred the lines had become.
You struggled against your hiccupping sobs. But the tears are something you cannot hold back—they kept spilling—just like the ice cream dripping helplessly in your hand.
It lingered, it went through. Whenever Wanda wanted it, you'd give up.
Every hesitant touch, every whispered hush, unsettled you at first—but the need buried beneath your fear grew. Wanda would claim you with quiet certainty, and in that claiming, you found yourself craving it—needing it in ways you couldn't name. The fear that once pricked at your skin blurred into desire, and the routine of her possession became something your body recognized, something your mind silently demanded.
"Wanda...Wanda please..." you whimpered brokenly.
Your fingers dug into her back desperately as her hips jerked forward mercilessly. The strap-on hit a particularly sensitive spot and you cried out, clinging to her like she was your only lifeline, breath coming in shattered gasps against her mouth.
"I love you more than anything."
Each time she spoke it, her voice vibrated through you, lodged itself in the space behind your ribs, and left a heat lingering on your skin long after she had made you come apart. The way she held you—sometimes protective, sometimes demanding—made the words feel like both a comfort and a warning, a tether you couldn't ignore.
You loved her too, undeniably, but the love you felt had begun to twist, to curl into shapes you fear to recognize. It wasn't the simple, pure adoration of a sister anymore. There was an ache that pulsed through your chest, a pull toward her that made your skin tingle and your mind reel. It makes your stomach churn with shame, your thoughts race with guilt. To admit it—to respond with the same words—is wrong, disgusting. Even if you truly and cruelly felt it and wanted to tell her, to reach across the tangled space between need and fear and simply let it out—you couldn't. Not now. Not ever. So you stayed silent, swallowed the words like bitter medicine, and let her love press against you anyway, each claim of hers carving deeper into your heart and to your cunt. Leaving you trembling, wanting, and afraid all at once.
She was your anchor, your mirror—your sister. And yet, in the same breath, she became the forbidden, the dangerous, the need you couldn't understand but couldn't escape.
Sooner or later, this had to stop.
The way your sister claims you, the way her hands lingered where they shouldn't, the way she beckoned you over her bed and did whatever she needed in you—it consumed you, pulled you under, blurred every line you'd ever known. But it has to end. No matter how much you responded, how much you let yourself be drawn in, it had to end. The hold she had over you, the intoxicating feelings of fear, need, and something forbidden, could not last forever.
It has to stop before it destroys you both.
You were now twenty-nine, and Wanda was thirty-four.
It had been eight long years since you'd run away and never looked back. From everything that had once been your world, twisted into a memory both tender and forbidden.
From her.
Now, you live in Japan. Your father had a business here, but he sadly passed two years after you migrated in.
The streets were unfamiliar, the language foreign, but every new corner, every new sound, reminded you that you were building a life that belonged only to you. You had made friends, carved out routines, and for the first time in years, you felt the quiet security of independence.
And more than that, you were engaged. David—your handsome pilot fiancé. He is patient, endlessly considerate and silly in all the right ways.
The wedding is coming up soon. You and David are down to the final details—the guest list, the venue, the catering. Everything!
He kissed your temple gently as you scrolled through the guest list. "Why don't you invite your sister?"
The words made you freeze. Your sister. Just hearing the term made your chest tighten.
You had thought about it, more than once actually—inviting her, seeing her again, maybe even reconciling after all these years. Because it had been eight years. For you, everything was over, neatly buried in the past. You have moved on. Life had moved on. And now, with David, with your engagement, the thought of opening that chapter again stirred something that was better left untouched.
Everything around you became a blur—the terminal lights, the rolling luggage, the strangers moving past—none of it mattered. Eight years without her, and now, suddenly, she was back. Right there, in your line of sight.
You hardly recognized the exact moment she appeared at the gate; it was like your world had slowed down, and yet everything else sped past. Her green eyes—sharp, familiar, impossible to forget—met yours for a fleeting second, and your chest tightened. Her hair is now black but still the same length you remembered, maybe trimmed here and there, framed her face just like it always had. She looked a little older now, more refined, but unmistakably her.
You swallowed hard, the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. "Hey…" you finally managed, your voice small, uneven, carrying the weight of guilt, unease, and all the years of distance.
She looked at you for a heartbeat, eyes searching yours, and something unspoken passed between you. Without thinking, almost instinctively, you stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
Your arms wrapped around her, tentative at first. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed against you, her body yielding just enough to let you hold her.
Slowly, you pulled back, keeping your hands on her shoulders just a moment longer, letting your eyes meet hers.
"I…this is David," you said softly, but shaky. "My fiancé."
David stepped forward with a warm smile, extending his hand. "It's really great to finally meet you," he said, light and easy, the kind of presence that made the air feel a little lighter.
She hesitated for a second, then smiled back, "It's great to meet you too." As she shook David's hand, you noticed something—just a flicker—in Wanda's eyes. You blinked, and it was gone, replaced by her easy smile.
So much time had really passed you couldn't read her anymore.
The drive home was quiet and Wanda had insisted on staying at a hotel—"I have a budget for it," she said softly, "I don't want to be a trouble."
David glanced at you from the driver's seat with a mischievous grin. "But Y/N already fixed your room."
You blushed shyly and swatted at him, pinching his arm lightly then tickling the back of neck. It made him laugh, it was his weakness.
Wanda watched quietly, a sad smile tugging at her lips, something she couldn't understand. Yet, beneath the twinge of something unplaceable, one thing was certain—you looked really happy. It was the kind of happiness that made her chest tighten, a relief and something else she couldn't put into words, as if seeing you content was both a comfort and a quiet ache all at once.
At home, after settling in, you turned to David, "I'll just show her to the room."
"Alright," he said warmly, stepping close to pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "Tell me if you need help, okay? I'll start dinner."
You nodded, a little shy, the gesture grounding you before you picked up one of Wanda's bags and led her down the hall.
Upstairs, you led Wanda toward the spare room, the hallway felt unusually long, every creak of the floorboards louder than it should've been. When you finally pushed open the door, the air between you seemed to grow heavier—awkward, uncertain. You set her bag down gently by the bed, glancing at her only to find her eyes already on you, unreadable.
"He seems really sweet," Wanda tried to divert the tension. Her voice is gentle, almost careful.
"He is," you replied quietly. "He really is." You gave her a small smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes. Wanda noticed, though—she always noticed. Her gaze dropped to your hands, catching the way you'd started picking at your fingers, an old nervous habit you never outgrew after all these years.
That was enough for her. She forced her voice gently. "David might be looking for you now and thank you…for the welcome." She said, as if shifting the weight of the air between you to something lighter, something safer for you.
You nodded quickly, grateful for the out. She gave you a small smile, but her eyes betrayed her—she wanted to keep talking, to hold you there in that room for just a little longer. But she let you go. She still has another time for that.
It was four days before the wedding, and the house was buzzing with preparations. Flowers, last-minute fittings, caterer calls—everything seemed to blur together in the countdown.
Wanda has been staying with you for two nights now. Her suitcase sat neatly tucked in the spare room, though she hardly unpacked, she wasn't sure how long she truly belonged there. The second night felt less awkward than the first, the sharp edges of reunion softening into something that almost felt normal—almost.
The next morning, over breakfast, David had been scrolling through his phone, half-listening to your nervous chatter about schedules and checklists. Then, without looking up, he asked casually,
"Why isn't Wanda your maid of honor?"
The question hit you harder than he knew. Your fingers stilled on the pen you were using to tick boxes off the list. You blinked at him, your mouth opening, then closing again, searching for words that wouldn't sound as jumbled as your thoughts.
Across the room, Wanda was quietly flipping through a book she brought with her, but you could feel the weight of her presence even without looking.
You forced a small smile. "It's… complicated, babe. I just contacted her recently. The roles were already set long before that. And you know Monica would tantrum because before you even asked me out for our first date I already promised her that position."
He was supposed to ask why, why you only contacted your sister just recently and did not keep in touch, but your boyfriend with a puppy mind leaned back in his chair, his mind already chasing another funny memory about how your love story started.
While to you, the thought crept in before you could stop it, sharp and bitter, like a whisper you weren't supposed to hear.
Maybe because you don't want your maid of honor to be your sister—your sister whose name was your first word. The one who bathed you, the one who brushed your hair and tied your laces, who sat cross-legged beside you with dripping ice cream cones on humid summer nights. The one who saw you stumble through childhood, who wiped your tears, who laughed until her sides ached when you made silly faces just to cheer her up.
And she was also the one who fucked you first. To make you fall apart with her mouth and fingers…
The first one to touch you in ways that left your body confused, your heart racing, your mind torn between comfort and alarm. She was the first to stir feelings you didn't yet have words for, emotions that blurred the line between love and something far more dangerous. She made you feel wanted, chosen…and at the same time, she made you feel wrong, guilty—dirty.
You gave your head the slightest shake, as if you could rattle those thoughts out of place and bury them where they belonged. Eight years had passed—eight long, deliberate years. That life was gone. You had moved on and David was proof of that, the life you built was proof of that. Everything was finally right, finally in place. You couldn't let old shadows stain what you had built.
David had the whole evening mapped out—pizza on the coffee table, some little alcohol, and a card game he bought called Who Knows Me Better? He grinned as he shuffled through the stack, insisting it would be "fun practice" for married life.
When it was your turn, you pulled a card and read the question aloud.
"How many moles do I have?"
David pretended to think hard that made you laugh that you forgot Wanda was in the same room with you. She froze. Her eyes darted to your arm, then to your neck, then away entirely.
"Easy," your fiance said, grinning with the confidence of a man who believed he knew you best. He pointed at you with a flourish, like he was announcing an answer on a game show. "Four. One on your shoulder, one on your arm, and one…" he leaned in, lowering his voice just slightly, "…right in the middle of your neck."
His words earned more laughter from you, but before you could even tease him for the theatrics, he added, softer this time, "I love kissing your neck." And he proved it right there, brushing his lips over the spot where the tiny mole rested.
The gesture was sweet, familiar—something he's done countless times—but tonight, with the alcohol stirring in your veins and the feel of Wanda's sharp green eyes fixed on the two of you, the kiss felt heavier.
"You have six."
The words made you freeze. Both you and David turned to her. He was tipsy, flushed with drink, while you were a little drunk yourself—the edges of everything fuzzy, but this moment sharp as glass.
"What he first said were all correct but you also got one on your side," Wanda continued, her gaze lingering just a little too long, "just under your left boob."
"Ooh." David looked amused, he was nodding as if he was learning. But Wanda's voice faltered then, her tongue hesitating against the next truth.
"And the last one is…" she trailed off, her lips pressing together as if the words were too dangerous to speak. A beat of silence hung between you. Then she forced a faint shrug. "…But yeah. You've got six."
Your stomach twisted, heat crawling up your neck as you stared at her. It was such a simple thing, it's just a game but the way she said it left you undone. Because she wasn't guessing. She knew.
You've got one, on your pubic mound.
David smiled, completely unfazed, and raised his glass in Wanda's direction. "Sister's thing," he chuckled, like it explained everything away. "And those are something I was about to find out after our wedding." He grins, before kissing your shoulder.
And you forced a laugh, hollow in your throat, like it is enough to cover the sharp crackle of tension running through you. Wanda didn't laugh, though—she only gave a small smile, jaw tight, eyes dropping to her drink as if that was safer than seeing how close David was to you.
"Yeah, Wanda's right," you said, forcing your voice into something playful. "Six. Next question?"
The game went on, laughter weaving through the dimly lit room, cards piling up between you. Every so often, the momentum would pause, and David would reach for the remote. An episode of Alice in Borderland would flicker onto the screen. Then, almost as naturally, you'd circle back to the game. Another question. Another round of teasing guesses.
By then, you were completely drunk—your cheeks warm, your head light, your words slipping slower than you intended. You picked up the next card, squinting to make the words stop swimming.
"Do…I want kids?"
The room stilled for a moment. David's smile curved, soft but shadowed, almost like he was bracing himself for something he didn't want to admit out loud. He answered before you could even think.
"You don't," he said gently, almost matter-of-fact.
It wasn't sharp, but it lingered heavily in the air. You remembered the night you told him why—that him being a pilot meant too many absences, too many takeoffs and landings that would leave you alone with a child and you fear that. He also didn't want that, to put that weight on you. He said he didn't want to start a family that he couldn't always be there for.
And even now, tipsy as he was, his words carried the same sadness, the same quiet conviction.
Before the silence could settle too long, Wanda's voice cut through, soft but steady.
"You do."
Your head turned slowly toward her, lids heavy, eyes squinting as if she were a blur you needed to sharpen. You searched her face, then searched your own memory, chasing back to the moment you must've told her that.
"I think I said that when I was a kid, right?" you asked, pointing the question toward her.
But Wanda didn't answer. Her gaze lingered on her glass instead.
You sighed lightly, filling the silence yourself. "Because, admit it or not—there's always one point we planned on having our own kids."
She examined you, a look in her eyes, like she remembered exactly when and how you said it but you were so drunk to even notice it.
"I feel dizzy," you admitted, words slightly slurred.
David was on you in an instant, his arm looping around your shoulders as he steadied you against him. "We should call it a night," he said gently, his voice warm and laced with amusement. He laughed softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
Before he could move further, Wanda's voice cut in, calm but certain. "I got her."
Her words lingered in the air, carrying a quiet insistence.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, shifting his hold so Wanda could take you. "I'll just clean this up and fix things here. You two go on ahead." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head before letting go, "And Wanda, maybe you can go with her tomorrow in her final fitting?"
"Yeah, sure." She nods at him before her hand settles at your waist, steadying you. Her touch was firm, supportive, but it lingered in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. "Come on," she murmured, her voice low, almost gentle. She guided you toward the stairs, her grip tightening just enough whenever you wobbled. It looked like care—like a sister making sure you didn't stumble, like how she guided you in your first steps.
Wanda eased you onto the bed you shared with David, careful not to jostle you too much. The sheets were cool against your skin, the faint scent of your sister's same cologne after eight years lingering in your senses. Your eyes were closed now, but you weren't asleep—your chest rose and fell too sharply.
"When did I say I wanted kids?" you slurred, eyes half-opened, lips forming a pout like you were genuinely curious.
Wanda froze by the bedside. She hesitated before lowering herself down to the bed. "It was…eight years ago. You went to a club and you were wasted like this with your friends." Wanda murmured, her face so close you could feel the warmth of her breath. "I was so angry and you feel so sorry you said you'd do anything." Her thumb brushed against your cheek, tender in a way that made your chest ache. "And when I was deep inside you…"
Your breath hitches. Something inside you throbbed—an ache you couldn't name, threading through your chest and sinking lower to your clit. Her voice was soft, deliberate, something that you hated and you missed.
"You said you want to know how it feels like if I cum inside you," she whispered, voice low and heavy, the memory hanging between you like smoke. "Even if it was impossible for me to get you pregnant, you wanted it because it was me. You said we can be a happy family."
A sound escaped you—soft, broken somewhere between a sob and a moan. Wanda looked tempted, her gaze heavy, her thumb brushing along your parted lips like you were beckoning her in and fuck, she wanted to slip it inside. Her control was fraying, and she felt the faintest shift of your hips against the sheets, a silent pull that nearly made her growl.
But instead, she drew in a sharp breath, forced herself back and left a kiss to your forehead.
"Good night, Y/N," she whispered, the words trembling with everything she couldn't do.
The morning after was a blur. Your head was heavy, your thoughts tangled, but none of it seemed to matter. Whatever haze lingered from the night before, you were certain—confident—that nothing had happened.
Today was your final fitting. The gown, the veil, the heels—everything had to be perfect, because tomorrow you were getting married.
Tomorrow.
Everything needed to be perfect, every detail tucked into place. No room for doubts, no space for strange blurs in memory. Only the certainty of the life you were about to walk into.
But fuck, did something happen last night?
So you pushed it down, smoothed it over with smiles and lists and plans. This was your day. Your future. And nothing—certainly nothing you couldn't remember—was going to get in the way.
You padded down the stairs, hair damp from the shower. Wanda was already dressed, sitting quietly at the couch, her green eyes following every step you took.
David was by the door, adjusting his watch, that familiar smile tugging at his lips when he saw you. He walked towards you and reached your hand, pulling you into his arms, warm and easy. For a second, the world felt right in his embrace.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Wanda watching, her expression unreadable.
"Wanda will help you for the final fitting," David said, brushing his thumb over your cheek before stepping back. "And Monica and the girls will pick you up tonight, aight?"
The front door shut behind him, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than it should have. His cologne still lingered in the air, warm and familiar, but his absence left a strange hollow in the room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the space he had just occupied, before forcing a small laugh to break the silence.
"I, uh… let's go?" you said, grabbing your bag a little too quickly. You turned to Wanda with a smile, the kind meant to lighten the air between you. "I'll drive."
For a second, her eyes lingered on you—sharp, searching—but then she smiled. "Alright. If you're ready."
The drive passed in a haze of half-played songs on the radio. By the time you pulled into the boutique's parking lot, the sun was hanging lower, streaking the glass windows in soft amber light.
You exhaled slowly, hands tightening on the steering wheel before letting go. The weight of the moment settled in—it wasn't just another fitting. It was the final one. Tomorrow, you'd be walking down the aisle wearing it.
Wanda noticed your pause. She wanted to reach over, her fingers twitching but chose not to. "Ready?"
You forced a smile, nodding.
The assistant greeted you with a, ushering you toward the private fitting room before she left again. When she returned she brought along a long, elegant box—sleek white with gilded edges and the designer's name embossed across the lid. It looked more like a treasure chest than packaging.
With careful hands, she set it down on the velvet stool and unfastened the gold clasp. The lid lifted, and inside lay your gown, folded delicately in layers of tissue paper, every pleat and curve protected as though it were too fragile for the world outside.
"Well, you can try it on now, ma'am. If you need any help, there's a small bell here, just ring it, and I'll come right away."
You nodded, thanking her, before she left you alone with your sister.
The room suddenly felt quieter, the air heavier. The gown sat in the box like it was waiting for you to make the first move.
You glanced at Wanda, who hadn't spoken since the assistant left. Her eyes were fixed on the box, but when she noticed you looking, she lifted her gaze, giving you a small, almost reassuring smile.
"Go on," she said softly, her voice carrying both encouragement and something harder to read.
You nodded meekly, fingers brushing the edge of the box as if it might crumble under your touch. Wanda caught the hesitation in your movements, her voice breaking the quiet.
"If you need anything… just call me," she said, gentle but steady, her green eyes holding yours for a beat longer than necessary.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a faint smile in response. "Okay."
You went to another room, carefully lifting the gown from its box. Taking a steadying breath, you stripped your clothes and slipped it from your feet, fingers trembling as you tugged the gown upward.
It wasn't extravagant—nothing with glittering beads or heavy lace. Instead, it was a simple satin dress, smooth and plain, its elegance lying in the way it flowed with every movement.
Your heart raced, not because of the fabric brushing your skin, but because of the sudden worry. What if it doesn't fit? What if you gained weight? What if it clings wrong, or worse, won't close at all? Because it had been a month since your last fitting—just enough time for doubt to creep in. You glanced at the mirror with wide eyes, shoulders stiff as if bracing for disappointment.
For a long moment, you couldn't tell if it was right. You smoothed the gown nervously, your palms damp against the delicate fabric, lips caught between your teeth as you waited for the reflection to tell you something reassuring. Finally, with one last deep breath, you pushed the dressing room door open and stepped out. The soft sound of the gown brushing the floor followed you, the faint sparkle of its details catching in the boutique's warm light.
Wanda's eyes lifted immediately. For a moment, she said nothing—her lips parted slightly, her breath caught. She looked at you like she was seeing something fragile and untouchable, something she couldn't quite believe stood in front of her.
Her gaze traveled slowly, reverently, from the neckline down to the hem, then back up again, locking on your face.
You shifted slightly in front of the mirror, smoothing the satin down your sides again, and caught it—the small gap at the back where the zipper still hung open. You sighed under your breath. Of course you couldn't reach it yourself.
In the reflection, you saw her rise from her seat. Wanda didn't speak; she only moved closer behind you.
Her breath ghosted hot across your bare shoulder as the zipper crept upward, each slow inch making your skin prickle. She didn't have to steady you, but her hands did anyway—sliding down, fingers tightening around your hips in a way that made the satin strain faintly under her grip.
"You've grown so much." She whispered, sending chills down your spine. "You look so beautiful."
Your eyes snapped to her reflection in the mirror. "Wanda…"
She opens her mouth but closes it, her grip loosening instantly. A shameful look on her face as she stepped back, putting space between you again.
"I'm…I'm sorry."
You blinked, her words echoing longer than they should. The air felt heavier, thicker enough to choke, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at her again. Without another word, you turned back toward the fitting room. Inside, you braced against the door, chest rising and falling. Your breath came sharp, uneven, like you'd been holding back more than just tears. For a moment, you wanted to cry, to let it spill out—but you didn't. You couldn't.
By the time you'd changed and stepped back out—the silence between you, your gown—both had folded neatly into place, as if nothing had happened.
Soon enough, you were back in the car. Hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, the world outside the windows blurred by. Wanda sat quietly beside you, and though nothing was said, the air still carried the weight of everything left unsaid.
You ignored Wanda the rest of the day intentionally. But every glance you caught of her made your chest tighten. You busied yourself—fixing things that didn't need fixing, the flowers that had been confirmed, the seating chart finalized, the catering checked and double-checked. Still, you hovered over the lists, crossing and re-crossing things, moving items around on the table like the weight of the paper could keep your hands from trembling.
The air was uneasy, stretched thin. Every time Wanda tried to catch your eyes, you turned away. Every time she shifted, as if about to speak, you found a reason to move, to leave the room, to shut her out.
It was awkward. Stifling. Wrong.
And she knew. She knew she had crossed a line.
The words she had let slip earlier—the ones that had felt natural as they left her mouth—echoed in her mind now, raw and shameful. She had tried so hard to hold them back, to keep herself in check, to be just the sister that she was. But something had slipped. Something irreversible.
When the night came, you didn't ask Wanda if she wanted to come along when your friend, Monica picked you up. You purposely didn't. You couldn't—not right now. The thought of her presence, the way she made everything feel heavier, made you pause. Maybe part of it was anger, maybe part of it was confusion, but mostly you needed space—a little breathing room without her ghosting every corner of your night.
Then, the day came. Your wedding day.
Sunlight spilled through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the lace of your veil and the satin of your gown. Everything felt surreal, as if you were walking through someone else's dream.
The wedding was small and private, just the closest people—David's parents, a few friends, and people who truly mattered. Counting everyone, including you and David, there were only twenty-five.
And your only family that has left, your sister —Wanda.
Your friends hovered around, giving your final touches—adjusting the veil, smoothing the gown, fixing stray strands of hair. Each of them planted a quick, warm kiss on your cheek, whispering little words of encouragement.
"Looking perfect," Monica said.
"You're glowing," Carol added.
Maria gave your hand a gentle squeeze, smiling.
One by one, they left the room, leaving you alone for a moment of quiet.
You turned slowly toward the mirror, your eyes tracing every curve and line reflected back at you. You closed your eyes, letting the quiet fill the room. You thought of your mother, your father, and your stepfather. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, and let your thoughts drift to them. You spoke silently, especially to your mother and stepfather, telling them how much you wished you could've visited their graves before this day. You apologized for not doing so.
Then suddenly, during your peace alone with your parents. Someone knocks in your room, "Y/N? Your sister!" A voice called behind the door.
You squint your eyes before standing to walk towards the door. You found Maria behind who was was practically fumbling over herself, panic written all over her face. "Your sister… I-I don't even know what happened! Carol accidentally knocked over the vase, the one David gifted you! Gosh, I'm so sorry!" She flailed, words tumbling out in a frantic mess. "And then she started freaking out—I don't even know, girl! I just…" her voice cracked, hands flying as she tried to explain, making the chaos in the room almost tangible.
Without thinking, you grabbed the hem of your gown, dragging it along the floor as you rushed toward the source of the panic.
There, you found Wanda, kneeling on the floor, hands pressed tightly over her ears, her body trembling. Your two friends hovered around her, hesitant, unsure of how to help.
You calmly walked towards her, calling her name. Dropping to your knees in front of her, you reached out gently. "Wanda."
Her head lifted slowly, eyes locking with yours, swollen and filled with tears. You gave her a nod and whispered, "I've got you," before guiding her back toward the room. Once inside, you looked at your friends with a knowing look that says you got it. You also gave them the green light to formally start the event.
Wanda sank into the chair, still trembling, her hands shaking as tears streamed down her face. You knelt in front of her, taking her hands gently in yours, trying to anchor her.
Part of you wanted to be angry—fuck, you did. It was your day, your wedding, and here she was, falling apart. But beneath that frustration, something dangerously deep surfaced.
It was wrong bringing Wanda here. It was wrong and you knew that before you brought her here.
Wanda's sobs slowed into shaky gasps, her gaze locking with yours. Before you could think, her lips pressed against yours, urgent, desperate, searching. You felt the heat of her need, the tremble in her hands as they clutched at your veil.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that kiss—the chaos, the guilt, the wedding day all fading into a blur. And, almost against reason, you let her.
She pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, tears streaking her face. "You left me…you left me…" she sobbed, pressing her forehead against yours. Her lips found yours again, desperate, trembling, smearing your lipstick across hers, mingling her salty tears with the taste of you. Every kiss was an ache, a claim, a memory she refused to let go. "And you're gonna leave me again…"
You could only shake your head, lips quivering as you whispered, "I'm-I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…" over and over. Tears streamed freely down both your faces, mixing and blurring, as you clung to each other.
"Why? Why'd you leave me?" her voice was eerily calm now, but the words cut sharper than any scream. Tears carved trails down her soft skin as she repeated, voice trembling, "Why did you?"
"You knew why…you know, Wanda," you stammered, voice barely above a whisper, trying to tame the storm in front of you. "We…" you shake your head, your breath hitching, heart pounding. "We can't," you sobbed, the weight of it pressing down on both of you, heavy and unavoidable. What would your parents say if their souls are here, watching you right now?
"Why did you?" she pressed even further, firmly dangerous. Like a warning. She needed answers, after all these years, she needed that. She needed to know why she didn't find you beside her the morning after when the night before you promised you'd never leave each other. She needed to know why you never called, never reached out. Because it made her crazy. It ruined her.
It's only you that she has, and you disappeared. And now, she is losing you forever.
You can only shake your head, your face now a mess from all the tears that never stopped carving its path down until they fall on your gown.
"Why?"
"I was falling in love with you! And fuck, we can't, Wanda. You're my..." you whimpered, disgusted by the next words, but you said it anyway. "You're my sister, we-we can't..."
You said it yourself. We can't.
The words that only lived in your head in the past, now echoed out loud.
You said it a hundred times in your head. The first time the night she first took you, when your body trembled with nothing but fear. The morning after, when the sheets still smelled of her and your thighs still ached from the way she held you down. The days that followed, when it happened again and again—her fingers inside you, her strap pushing deeper until you forgot your own name and who she was with her mouth hot and relentless on your skin like she meant to claim every inch.
You said it when you started seeking it out too. Loving it. Needing it.
And now, out loud. You kept saying it.
We can't.
"Don't marry him," Wanda begs, her voice raw, forehead pressed hard to yours like she could fuse you together by sheer will. "Don't walk out there. Don't let him take you away from me."
We can't.
You crush your mouth to hers, greedy, gasping, breathing her in like oxygen—like if you let go, you'll die. Maybe you already did.
"I can't. I have to," you whisper, but the lie breaks in your throat.
We can't.
But you were already shoving your panties aside, already arching into her hand. And she's already pushing her fingers inside you, desperate and trembling. Her thumb circles your clit, rough, insistent, desperate to pull you over the edge. She muffles your sobs with her mouth, swallowing every sound, refusing to let anyone hear but her.
Both of you cannot stop crying.
Not when her fingers work you open and you choke on her name.
Not when release shatters you, body convulsing around her fingers.
Not even when your chosen wedding song started playing and your name is called, the world waiting for you to walk down the aisle.
Because the world is waiting for a bride. But all you are, at this moment, is hers.
"Let's go for a drive." Wanda whispered against your mouth, "We'll get ice cream."
Summary: Reconnecting with your spouse can be challenging especially when insecurities rise to the surface and long held secrets are uncovered.
warnings: 18+ , minors DNI, Reader has a penis, smut, major misunderstandings, angst, voyeurism.
A/N: I have been working on this for months. I decided to break it up into two parts; it was becoming quite long. I love this type of angst and theme. I am sorry to Natasha ya'll. Reader is a bit of an idiot in this lol.
With a weary sigh, Natasha scraped at the unidentified gunk that had cemented itself to the countertop. A remnant of snack time, no doubt. It had been a stressful day, but so had every other day the last several months. Ever since you had gone back to work after Natasha had recovered from having your youngest daughter Amelia earlier this year, you’d been dealing with a demanding and growing caseload. She was hoping you would be able to take your time getting back into the swing of things, maybe only taking a few clients on at a time but it seemed like every major corporation in New York City was hell bent on getting their affairs in order, and they were all squabbling over who got to have your council. It filled her with pride to see you so sought-after but the challenges of motherhood had her wishing you were here more often. She truly cherished every moment of being a mother, however, the tantrums and constant whining from your two oldest were starting to drive her mad.
Natasha flung the filthy sponge into the kitchen sink, once she was satisfied and leaned against the now clean countertop; still ruminating about her family and her life. You’ve had a ton on your plate as of late but in a way so had she. Looking after two young children and a new born was no easy task. She put in just as many hours as you did while preparing meals, cleaning and managing the household.
Nevertheless, despite the long hours the two of you put into work, or in Natasha’s case at home, the both of you still made it a priority to spend as much time as you could together as a family. Tatiana was maturing too quickly for Natasha’s taste, the little girl having made her first grade debut just this year. Your middle child Sergio was a very rambunctious three year old, who gave Tony Stark a run for his money on his best days. And Amelia, your youngest, was just over nine months old. The little one grew out of her onesies weekly and learned new ways to emote everyday. Natasha loved listening to her vocalizations as she learned how to “talk”. While she was sad you were missing out on these small moments throughout the day, she knew the family needed a steady wave of income in order to keep up with the lifestyle all of you were used to. Avengers money wouldn’t last forever with a family this size.
Despite all of the chaos, they prioritized family time above all else. That was the important part. Without fail, every Saturday was dubbed “family day”, and it was the time where everyone got the opportunity to be present and enjoy one another’s company. Typically, the two of you would make a late lunch (filled with options for everyone to enjoy), and the five of you would eat an entire meal together with no interruptions and would show genuine interest in each other’s lives. Afterwards, the little family would play a board game together, watch a movie or head into the back yard if the weather permitted it.
Oh boy, things really are different these days, Natasha chuckled under her breath, a smile touching her eyes as she began the task of collecting the toys that snaked from the kitchen to the living room. She mused over the dramatic shifts in her Saturday routines over the years. In her late teens, she was still the ruthless black widow; slitting throats and destroying regimes for the Red Room. Early on in her twenties, she could be found on espionage missions for Shield or staying at the Barton family farm. Later on, she’d spend her Saturdays hanging out with the Avengers or going on romantic dates with you. Her Saturdays were now dedicated to mediating conflicts between Tatiana and Sergio, especially over shared toys. And making sure her youngest didn’t overexert herself trying to keep up with her siblings.
Natasha found herself yearning for those Saturdays spent alone with you, snuggled up in your bed binging TV series or spending the entire day exploring each other's bodies. Her little family meant the world to her but she missed being fucked anywhere and everywhere without the worry of her children interrupting. Natasha was wrestling with the urge to complain, knowing it might seem ungrateful after all the effort you’d put into keeping the spark ignited between the two of you and the roleplaying fantasy you went along with awhile back. The both of you had been doing a wonderful job staying connected up until a couple months ago.
She would never blame her children for the way she was feeling, but after having Amelia, her self-esteem plummeted back down to where it was years ago. She still hadn’t worked off all the baby weight and the shadows etched beneath her eyes told the tales of many sleepless nights spent with her youngest. As one would expect, she didn’t feel very attractive. You, however, were carrying these years with dignity and strength. To Natasha, you were even more attractive than the day she first laid eyes on you. You’ve maintained your impressive physique with ease, and your body has filled out deliciously over the years. The slight sprinkling of grey starting to peak through and the lines around your eyes just made her want to do unspeakable things to you.
Yes, here was her spouse, the total PILF (Parent I’d like to Fuck) in the neighborhood and everyone knew it. The two of you couldn’t even go grocery shopping without you attracting attention. Natasha swears, just last weekend she caught the check out girl drooling over your muscles as you unloaded the cart. The girl had dropped a dozen eggs, creating an absolute mess for her co-workers to clean up, all the while she never took her eyes off of you.
God, she felt silly, dwelling over little things like that. Natasha’s getting jealous over a young check out girl's interest in her spouse, but for some reason, lately all of these little things have been adding up. They have been feeding into her own insecurities and worries she has regarding her relationship with her spouse. She didn’t want to talk to you about it, considering she was having trouble making sense of her emotions let alone trying to articulate them to another human being. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing or have her words come out as an accusation but bottling it up was driving her nuts.
Part of her wondered if it had anything to do with what had happened with your neighbors the Monroes. Mr. Monroe had been caught cheating on his wife with his assistant; who was much younger and prettier than Mrs. Monroe. Or so Mr. Monroe had claimed. It was a cliche to have a middle aged man cheat on his wife with a young little thing but cliches were around for a reason. And seeing it happen to someone she knew may have fed into Natasha’s already abundant insecurities.
What if you’d had enough of her? What if you decided to run away with the cute cashier? Here you were, the local hunk that caught the eye of every woman with a healthy sex drive. And here she was, your aged and worn-down wife who had stretch marks along with the lingering post-partum body and whose face was a constant roadmap of exhaustion. Natasha had regained her figure effortlessly after having Tatiana and Sergio but no matter how much effort she put in down in the home gym she couldn’t shake the remaining baby weight from Amelia. She caught a glimpse of her reflection on the glass coffee table in the living room, noting that her hair looked limp and devoid of shine, her skin had lost its radiance and her signature green eyes had dulled into a murky shade.
She looked like “shit” and she felt like “shit”.
Honestly, she just really missed you on top of all her own issues right now. Yes, you came home every night and were such a nurturing parent towards the little ones and a fantastic spouse. You were always helping out around the house once you were home and tried to initiate intimacy when time permitted it. But, when the last night light was switched on and the kids were all asleep, sex felt more like a chore than a thrill. The two of you were once again cold and rushed when making love because of the sheer amount of fatigue the both of you felt. And there was nothing remotely sexy about that.
The limited time available to spend alone with you only frustrated Natasha further. She felt like a stressed out stay at home mom, instead of the woman who had gotten her groove back all those years ago. She missed feeling confident in her own skin.
She missed feeling irresistible and being utterly shameless with you.
Natasha’s train of thought was derailed as she made her way into the foyer and saw you running to play with Tatiana and Sergio in the front yard through the glass door. Your dress clothes became disheveled by the children's rough housing within minutes. In the midst of wrestling, you looked up and waved, flashing her that sweet captivating grin. She could feel her cheeks burning under the attention, adoring that she was still so bashful around you whenever you smiled at her, even after fourteen years together.
Still swooning over the smallest things; had to be a positive sign, right?
Natasha sighed, briefly closing her eyes. She told herself to relax and gather herself together. The problems that arose in the Monroe's marriage had nothing to do with her and you would never betray her the way Mr. Monroe had betrayed Mrs. Monroe. She’s sure of it.
Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and make a change! Go flirt with your spouse, be shameless for god sakes! Her internal monologue urged her into action, as she opened the front door.
A sly grin tilted onto her lips, as she made her way down the front porch steps and took in the joyous reunion happening in her front yard. The children had thrown themselves at you, demanding cuddles. You sauntered over to Natasha, carrying both kids in your arms, with an impish grin. Greeting her with a lingering kiss before asking if she wanted you to bathe the little rascals before dinner. She snuggled into you, breathing in your cologne, while nodding in agreement.
xXx
“Sweetheart,” You called, as you made your way into the kitchen, “What smells so good?”
Natasha’s gaze met yours, and a brief, warm smile flickered across her face before her eyes dropped back down to the spatula in her hand. “Tatiana has been asking about the kind of food I grew up eating in Russia so I’m making strawberry filled blini’s to hopefully satiate her curiosity.”
You had noticed that your wife had been a bit withdrawn as of late, but you couldn’t pinpoint why. You thought everything had been going fine, though you knew you weren’t exactly the most perceptive person. But, something about Natasha felt off. She had never been shy with you before, and while your conversations flowed as usual, covering nearly everything under the sun, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she was keeping something from you.
You knew that your decision to go back to work so quickly after Amelia was born had been a stressful one and that Natasha had been drowning in the duties of motherhood the past few months. But, It felt like something deeper was weighing on her. Something personal she wasn’t ready to share. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it yet. She’d always been skilled at masking her emotions, building walls to protect herself, a trait that had served her well as a world-class spy. And yet, within your marriage, she’d always been different, always open. That’s why whatever Natasha’s been bottling up these last three months left you feeling quite unsettled.
You could only hope it wasn’t something you’d screwed up, or worse, some important milestone you’d forgotten. Your mind raced through the dates on the calendar: Natasha’s birthday, the kids’ birthdays, your anniversary. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like you’d missed anything this year. Damn it, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t pin down what was eating away at your wife.
A sly grin tugged at your lips, maybe you had a way to find out.
You moved up behind her, sliding your arms around her waist and pressed your nose to the curve of her neck. Natasha’s scent wrapped around you, warm cinnamon from her shampoo mingling with the delicate, spicy floral perfume you’d given her for Christmas last year. It was intoxicating, the kind of fragrance you could breathe in forever without ever tiring of it.
You trailed your lips along the slope of her neck, pausing to press a slow, deliberate kiss at the hollow where it melted into her shoulder, “Hmm..it looks delicious.”
Natasha melted back against you, tilting her head just enough to give you better access, a soft moan slipping past her lips at the contact. Even the gentlest touch from you sent fire racing across her skin, and she knew she could never grow tired of the way it felt to be held in your arms.
Your lips wandered down the slope of her shoulder as your fingers toyed with the waistband of her pajama pants, your other arm locking her firmly against you. The soft curves of her body pressed to your solid frame were a contrast that never failed to ignite your pulse, stirring heat low within you. Even here in the kitchen, with both of you still clothed, the thought of her bare skin against yours was enough to make you harden.
You tried to remind yourself to save that thought for later, grinning against Natasha’s shoulder but with her here, pressed against you, why bother waiting?
You buried your face against her neck once more, finding that sensitive spot just beneath her ear and teasing it with your tongue before closing your lips over her pulse. Your fingertips slipped past the waistband of her pajamas and panties, finally brushing the soft warmth you’d been craving all day.
Natasha let out a soft gasp as your fingers brushed against her heat, surprised yet undeniably eager for the intrusion. You moved slowly at first, setting a teasing, steady rhythm with your gentle touch. Her hips arched instinctively at the press of your hardness against her back, and the low chuckle that escaped you made her drop the spatula she’d been gripping over the griddle.
“Mmm, Detka, you’re making it impossible to focus,” Natasha murmured, her voice husky as she continued grinding against your hand. Her arms tightened around yours. “I’m supposed to be finishing dinner.”
“In that case, let me serve you your appetizer first,” you whispered against her ear before stealing her lips in a hungry kiss.
Natasha’s arm hooked around your neck, dragging you closer as she crushed her mouth against yours as you continued to work your magic with those skillful fingers.
A sharp, pointed cough sounded from the doorway. “Excuse me?” Sergio called, snapping the two of you out of your lust-drunk trance. You broke the kiss and shifted your body, though your hand stubbornly stayed buried in Natasha’s pants despite her attempts to tug it free.
“What’s up, kiddo?” You answered.
His tiny fists were placed on his hips, lips puckered in that signature Stark scowl Tony always wore. Sergio looked unimpressed with you.
“You know,” he said matter-of-factly, “Uncle Tony told me you shouldn’t kiss a lady like that.”
Natasha’s eyes flew open, and she immediately stifled a laugh against her forearm. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard to ease your hand out of her pajama pants without Sergio noticing, which only made her wiggle against you more.
“Oh? And how does Uncle Tony say I should be kissing your Mama?” you asked carefully, buying time.
Sergio puffed out his chest. “Rule one: don’t go in like you’re trying to eat her face. Rule two: you gotta be gentle and smooth, like when you're driving a racecar. Rule three: if Mama leans away, you stop. Always. That’s called being a gentleman.”
Natasha buried her face in your neck to hide her laughter, shoulders shaking. You muttered under your breath, “We are definitely going to be having a talk with Tony about this.”
Sergio wagged a finger at you like a little drill sergeant. “Confidence is key, no drooling.”
You finally managed to slip your hand free and straighten up, giving Natasha a sheepish grin while she tried to subtly adjust her pants and regain some dignity.
“Thanks for the tips, buddy,” you said.
Sergio nodded seriously. “You’re welcome. Uncle Tony says practice makes perfect.” Then, with a satisfied little stomp of his foot, he turned and wandered back toward the living room.
Leaving the two of you standing in the kitchen with the smell of half-cooked blinis and the tension still thrumming between your bodies.
Natasha let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head as she reached for the spatula she’d dropped. “Of all the times…” she muttered, flipping one of the golden pancakes onto a plate as if she could pretend nothing had happened.
You leaned back against the counter, smirking at her. “Well, at least he didn’t walk in thirty seconds later.”
That earned you one of her patented side-eyes, sharp enough to cut steel but softened by the little smirk tugging at her lips.
Natasha slid another blini onto the plate, then gave you a once-over. “You know” she drawled, a spark of mischief in her eyes, “you should probably wash your hands before dinner, especially your right one. ”
You barked out a laugh, turning toward the sink. “Yeah, yeah. I should be tasting you right now instead of washing this off. ” You twisted the tap, the warm water running over your fingers as you daydreamed about kneeling between your wife’s thighs, fingers slipping back in with ease and your tongue coming out to play.
Behind you, Natasha went quiet for a beat, then murmured, “Well, maybe you can have me for dessert?”
You froze for just a moment, then slowly turned your head, catching the coy curve of her smile as she plated the last of the blinis.
“Careful,” you said, drying your hands on a towel, “or I’ll hold you to that.”
She arched her brow, completely unbothered. “I’m counting on it.”
xXx
The next morning, Natasha shifted restlessly in her sleep. She’d only stirred once during the night to check on Amelia before drifting right back off. What finally woke you was her leg flinging over your midsection and kneeing you right in the stomach. With a groan, you rolled over and propped yourself up on an elbow, taking a moment to simply watch her as she slept.
The night before hadn’t gone quite the way you’d planned. By the time dinner was cleaned up and the kids had finally come down from their sugar high, apparently strawberry jam on blinis was like rocket fuel, it was already late. You’d hoped bedtime would be quick so you could steal a little one-on-one time with Natasha, but Sergio had insisted on a story, and by the time you finished, both of you were exhausted. Natasha had even drifted off before you were done washing up in the bathroom.
You knew she needed the rest, and as tempting as it was to rouse her for a little pre-breakfast intimacy, you chose to let her sleep. Instead, you pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before carefully slipping out of bed.
You moved quietly through the kitchen, gathering what you needed for breakfast from the fridge and cabinets. Soon you were mixing together the makings of kasha with fresh blackberries, and coffee, a simple, hearty meal that always brought Natasha back to those three years she spent in Ohio with Yelena. As you rinsed the oats in the colander, a sudden thought struck you.
You lifted the phone and dialed a number you knew by heart, keeping your words brief and low before ending the call with a quiet thank-you. Another call followed, this one requiring Natasha’s details and a discreet arrangement set up far sooner than you had expected. Once finished, you set the phone down and allowed a slow smile to spread across your face. The pieces were falling into place, and the plan had officially begun.
Oh, Natasha’s definitely going to be surprised, you mused while returning back to making breakfast. With any luck, it’d finally clue you in on what the hell’s been up with her lately and maybe, just maybe, score you a well-earned roll in the sheets as a bonus.
xXx
To say Natasha was surprised would be an understatement but it was the kind of surprise she welcomed. After breakfast, while she was at the sink doing dishes, you slipped up behind her and showed her the tickets you’d booked over the phone for Swan Lake that afternoon. Her shock only deepened when you told her Yelena would be joining her. Despite the scars the Red Room had left, ballet still held a strange, cherished place in their hearts, and the sisters never passed up a chance to see a performance together. So Natasha dressed up and spent a rare, peaceful afternoon at the theater with her little sister. She hesitated at first about leaving all three kids with you, but you waved her off with a grin, insisting you had everything under control.
When she pulled into the driveway that evening, Natasha felt lighter than she had in weeks. She felt rested and renewed, her energy restored by a solid night’s sleep and an afternoon of exceptional entertainment. But the moment she crossed the threshold of the house, the shift in the air told her immediately; something wasn’t right.
The house was calm. Strangely calm. The faintest trace of a melody drifted in from the backyard, weaving softly through the silence.
Normally, whenever you were left in charge for too long, Natasha would come home to a scene of absolute chaos, kids passed out in random spots and the house always looked like a storm had blown through. But tonight seemed different.
“Nat, is that you?” you called, your voice carrying in from the backyard.
She stepped through the house, her brow furrowed in confusion, only to stop short as she walked through the open back door. Her eyes widened, taking in the soft glow of twinkle lights strung across the yard, a blanket spread neatly on the grass with cushions, a basket brimming with wine and her favorite treats.
You stood up from the blanket, a smile tugging at your lips as you watched her freeze in the doorway.
“Perfect timing,” you said warmly.
Her gaze flicked from the twinkle lights to you, still processing the scene unfolding before her. “For what?” she asked, disbelief thick in her voice.
“Our picnic,” you replied simply, lifting the wine bottle as proof. “I figured you’d be hungry.”
The surprise in her face softened into something tender, her lips curving as she stepped toward you.
“Definitely, starving” Natasha murmured, eyes gleaming now with something far more than hunger.
You laughed softly, reaching for her hand and gently guided her toward the little haven you’d put together.
“Well the kids are having a sleepover with my mom tonight so I’ll be able to satiate all of your cravings tonight, sweetheart.” You smirked, as you settled down onto the picnic blanket, tugging Natasha into your lap.
“Oh, you’ve spoiled me today, baby.” Natasha purred.
xXx
Natasha laughed softly as you slipped a chocolate truffle between her lips, only to follow it with a lingering kiss that stole away the last hint of sweetness from her mouth. The evening had been a playful, sensual dance; feeding each other, teasing, and laughing together like you had in the early days. You could only hope it was helping her unwind. The dim glow of the lights, the wine, and the indulgent meal wrapped the night in a haze of intimacy, every brush of fingertips and press of lips charged with electricity. Both of you knew exactly where this would lead, the anticipation simmering with the promise of passion once you finally made it to the bedroom.
Almost instinctively, the two of you leaned in at the same moment, your lips meeting in a kiss that stretched into something slow and lingering, tasting and savoring each other until it dissolved into a heated, youthful make-out session that felt like being teenagers again. When you finally pulled apart, breathless, Natasha’s fingertips traced lightly up and down the back of your neck, her nails teasing your skin which sent shivers racing down your spine. You found yourself caught in her gaze, those deep green eyes you adore pulling you in all over again.
“Thank you,” Natasha murmured with a contented sigh, resting her forehead against yours, “You take such good care of me. You’re incredible, Detka.”
Your lips pressed together as your gaze dropped for a moment, a faint flush coloring your cheeks. You brushed a soft, lingering kiss against Natasha’s lips before whispering, “No… you’re the incredible one.”
“You’re always deflecting my compliments,” she teased, running her free hand down the length of your body letting it rest in your lap, the warmth just a whisper away from your throbbing erection now visibly straining in your dress slacks.
“I know,” you murmured, grazing her earlobe between your teeth before letting your lips trail close, your words laced with promise. “But how about this…give me a few minutes to clean up, and we’ll finish the night with a little dancing.”
Natasha’s eyes fluttered shut, a soft moan escaping as your mouth found her neck, each kiss searing her skin while your hand kneaded at her hip. “Mmm… deal,” she breathed, biting her lip as she slowly drew back. “Give me half an hour to get ready?”
You grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thirty minutes. Your clock starts now.”
The two of you exchanged a knowing glance, and in an instant you were both up; snuffing out the twinkle lights and draining the last of your wine. Natasha pressed a quick kiss to your lips before darting inside, her footsteps light and hurried as she disappeared up the stairs toward your shared bedroom.
Natasha skipped into the master bedroom, with relief and excitement mingling in her chest. All those nagging insecurities she’d carried about her appearance and about where she stood with you had been silenced tonight. If the afternoon and evening had proven anything, it was that you still wanted her, deeply. The only issue now was the insistent ache building between her thighs, threatening to drive her mad with anticipation. She slipped out of her clothes in a hurry and stepped into the bathroom, silently thanking herself for deciding to shave that morning. After smoothing on a generous layer of lotion, she added a touch more perfume and ran a comb through her hair, heart racing at the thought of what the night still promised.
Her next stop was the dresser, where she rummaged through the drawers in search of something enticing; a silky negligee, or maybe that pink lingerie set you adore. A scowl appeared when she discovered the latter, ripped clean in two. In fact, nothing in the drawer seemed unscathed; every piece showed some sign of enthusiastic destruction. Natasha made a mental note to remind you, again, to be a little gentler when undressing her, instead of tearing the fabric like some wild thing. Then again, a smirk tugged at her lips. It was always thrilling when you couldn’t resist.
She drifted over to the closet, sifting through the hangers with idle curiosity, until her fingers stilled on a familiar piece of clothing that instantly caught her eye.
Well, you never did say what kind of dancing tonight would involve, she thought as she gazed at your old Harvard Law School sweatshirt, perhaps you meant something a little more sensual? Yes, wearing this and nothing underneath will be perfect for tonight.
Natasha lifted the worn Harvard Law sweatshirt from the hanger and slid it over her head, letting her red hair tumble around the collar. She paused in front of the mirror, taking in her reflection, and for the first time in a long while, she felt that familiar spark of confidence.You’re going to love this, she thought with a sly smile, as she made her way to the vanity to touch up her makeup just enough to complete the look.
xXx
Meanwhile…
In the backyard, you knew you were grinning from ear to ear as you quickly gathered up the empty dishes and the blankets from your picnic. You make your way inside relishing in the cool air that descends upon you. It felt delightful against your rapidly warming skin.
You head towards the kitchen to place the dishes in the dishwasher and put the folded blankets in the hall closet. After you accomplish your tasks, you check your watch, intent to keep Natasha to her thirty minute limit. You groan as you see the time, only five minutes have passed since your wife had made her way upstairs.
You lean against the closet door, trying to think of something to do that will pass the agonizing minutes until you would get the privilege of worshipping your wife like the divine goddess she is.
Your erection pulsed at the mere thought of being able to taste her again, and after a few moments, you decided to dabble in a bit of self-exploration.
You cast a brief look up the stairs and listen for any hints of movement until your satisfied Natasha is still up there, you make your way down the hallway into your shared office, gently closing the door behind you and pulling out your phone. All the teasing she made you endure earlier would have you coming the minute you touched your wife, so the decision to take the edge off wasn’t a hard one.
You sit down on the black settee and scroll through your phone screen, landing on an encrypted file that is hidden in plain sight. You type in the decryption key to access the file and click on the video that pops up. Your thumb hovers for a moment, the silence of the space assures you that Natasha is still upstairs, checking your watch again you note that there's only fifteen minutes left until she would be expecting you to join her. With that you reach into your dress slacks and boxers, pulling your erection free.
You hit the “play” button before bringing your phone closer. The screen lit up, granting you a delicious view of two people making love on a tool bench. The pair are moving in tandem as their hips meet thrust for thrust, the couple’s lust filled gazes are locked as they clutch onto one another.
You stroked yourself with firm practiced motions as you watched the people on screen, the dominant person adjusts their tempo and slyly slinks a hand through the woman's glistening curls causing her to release a desperate whimper.
“Sweetheart, you feel incredible,” Your own voice echoes out from the video, a broad smile appearing on your face as you watch yourself. It may be somewhat conceited to think but damn you have some smooth moves.
“Don’t stop, baby...it’s so fucking good,” the woman in the video responds to you, her fingernails raking down your back with precision, tugging you in deeper. Your strokes turn frantic as you chase your peak, so mesmerized by the duo on screen.
“What the hell are you watching?” Natasha’s voice cuts through your hazy mind, startling you as you quickly shove yourself back into your pants.
“Fuck,” You mutter, panicking a bit as you try to pause the video with shaky hands, the phone slips from your grasp and lands with a thud on the hardwood floor.
Unfiltered moans continue to ring out from the device.
“You're watching porn?” she asks, her voice dripping with apprehension and uneasiness, “You would rather watch other people have sex to get off than make love to me?”
“Uh, um,” you stammer, looking toward Natasha with the inability to form a coherent thought. She looks painstakingly beautiful standing there in your old Harvard Law School sweatshirt but the expression she wears is one of sheer devastation.
Despite her internal anguish, Natasha walks toward the nefarious cellphone to retrieve it. She was determined to find out what monstrosity of a porno you chose to watch over coming upstairs to be with her. With a dawning horror, she takes in the scene playing before her.
“That’s Tony' s workshop,” she whispers, tears welling up in her eyes.
You stand there overcome with immense guilt as you brace for your wife’s reaction to your little secret.
Natasha continues to gaze at the screen in horror as the sounds of sex fill the room around her before her eyes hone in on a familiar set of Christmas themed reindeer boxers thrown carelessly onto one of Tony' s bots. She can’t believe she hadn’t seen it at first glance; your strong silhouette is so obvious to her now. Natasha struggles to breathe as she watches the one person in this entire world that makes her life worth living make love to some undisclosed woman on screen.
She feels emotionally shattered, as suppressed sobs shake her delicate frame.
Somewhere in the span of fourteen years together you had done this, snuck away during one of Tony’s holiday parties to be intimate with someone who wasn’t her.
That wasn’t even the most harrowing part in Natasha’s opinion either. It was the fact that to this day you kept the security footage of this moment hidden away in your phone like a prized possession. To revisit whenever you wanted too.
Natasha was starting to shut down and you didn’t know what to do as you watched your wife retreat inward. Your secret was finally out and instead of making your wife furious like you imagined all these years; it crushed her spirit.
The raw pain etched on her face as she weeps, and her trembling hands grasping your phone were more than you could handle. This response was so unexpected and one you never could have prepared for. You feel like a monster.
“How long have you been hiding this?” Natasha murmurs, her voice was so quiet compared to the audible moans still emerging from the phone in her hand. The noises that would leave a lasting scar on her psyche without a doubt.
The question snaps you out of your stupor, you inch forward with caution and reach out for her, “Nat, I wasn’t -”
The words catch in your throat, as Natasha withdraws from you on legs that are visibly quaking.
“I think on some level I earned that response.”
“On some level? You kept security feed of you screwing another woman stashed away in your phone,” she whimpers, “And you still think you have the right to touch me?”
Your brow furrows as you stare at your wife in utter bewilderment, her entire body seeming to be struggling to remain upright as her emotions teeter between agonizing grief and betrayal. Uncontrollable sobs continue to consume her as she curls in on herself, trying to seek even an ounce of protection from the unfolding events happening around her.
Natasha didn’t know her heart could feel this battered. It had felt bruised the few times she’d pushed you away in the beginning of your relationship. When she still felt so unworthy of your love. Being apart from you was painful to say the least. But this? She was not equipped to deal with something like this. You were never supposed to hurt her, especially not in this way.
Is this how the leaders of the regimes she’d destroyed felt as their worlds crumpled down around them? Distraught and beside themselves as one person lays waste to the entire empire they had created.
The hard earned relationship the two of you have fought for, the family and life you have built together going up in flames for some random woman.
“Who is she?” Natasha cries, gesturing to the phone in her hand and flinching when a wanton feminine moan echoed into the room.
You were gapping at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about. You had no clue where to begin or how your wife had jumped to this conclusion. She must not have seen the video as clearly as you’d thought, and now that the stress of getting caught was starting to fade her words were finally sinking in.
“Wait, what,” you ask, still trying to process the entire situation and her accusations, “Natasha, that’s not what’s going on here.”
“Do not lie to me. Tell me. Tell me who the slut is that made you throw away our fourteen year relationship,” she howls, her body tensing.
The fury that’s been overshadowed by heartbreak rises to the surface, how dare you hurt her so severely and then have the gull to lie about it.
She advances toward you, forcing you to lose your footing and stumble back onto the settee, her free hand lands on your chest; pinning you in place.
“Sweetheart, please!” you protest rather weakly as you make direct eye contact with Natasha’s scrutinizing gaze, “Please, let me explain.”
“Explain? Fine. You can beat around the bush all you want but by the end of this I will have her name, address and phone number,” she seethes, moving to grip your shirt collar tightly.
She shifts, her bare thighs deliberately encasing your hips to further demonstrate who’s in control.
“Natasha, I didn’t cheat on you. If you don’t believe me just watch the video from the beginning.” You plead, her hold on you never loosening as you try to grab the phone.
She moves it beyond your reach with ease, while flipping it over in her palm to once again gaze at the screen. The familiar contours of your back and the tensing of your thighs as you thrust into the woman on the workbench, reaffirms that this isn’t just a nightmare that she’s destined to wake from. Her hold on your collar tightens as a wave of nausea washes over Natasha at the sight of you nuzzling into this woman's neck; like she means something to you.
God, how could she have missed something like this?
“Do you think torturing me further will help your case?” she fumes, directing a fierce glare of disdain toward the moving bodies on screen.
Instead of relaxing her grasp around your collar, Natasha just shifts her hand a bit further up to wrap around your throat, leaning in and whispering in your ear, “Answer me.”
On screen, you changed your thrusting tempo again, the woman beneath you seemingly losing all sense of control at the increased intensity. She releases an obscene moan and starts rocking her hips into yours with abandon, “uhhh…baby.”
Natasha’s expression darkens upon hearing the woman's voice, silent tears still streaming down her cheekbones as she watches the two of you rut into one another.
“Play it from the beginning, please,” You beg her softly, your arms giving up their quest to secure the phone as they listlessly drop down around your wife’s waist.
She is at the end of her rope, and far too pissed off to put up with your pleading, looking down at you with contempt and heartbreak; she tries to focus on her pain. Anything that will keep her firm enough to weed out the details of your deception.
Except her interrogation is interrupted by your lustfilled voice ringing out through the speakers of the phone. Your words are distinct and precise.
“Jesus Christ, Natasha! You feel so fucking good.”
Natasha’s grip around your neck falters and her body softens ever so slightly, as she re-examines the two figures in Tony’s lab.
Her name falling from your lips was unmistakable so it was clear something had slipped past her notice due to the influx of emotions. With a small spark of hope blooming in her chest Natasha restarts the video just like you’d been begging her too.
The first few seconds capture the stillness of Tony’s lab but the elevator doors soon slide open. Its occupants stumble out in the midst of a heated liplock. The woman grasps the back of your head tugging on your hair, encouraging your lips to move across her skin. The angle allows for Natasha to take in the full view of her adversary head on.
The woman that wrecked her entire world is none other than herself.
A shuddering gasp of relief tore from her throat, the tension seeping out of her body as she melts into your embrace. Natasha’s eyes are still transfixed on the screen as she watches herself become undone under your mouth's strict attention.
Your arms tighten around her waist, hugging your wife’s now relaxed form against your chest. “Do you remember the second time you pushed me away...” you murmur into her ear, pausing and clearing your throat before finishing. “When things started to get serious between us?”
“Yes?” Natasha says, her tone lacing with confusion as her eyes remain riveted to the screen. She watches her on-screen self throw her head back and moan, hips grinding fiercely against your mouth and hands moving to tangle in your hair. As visible waves of pleasure wrack her body before collapsing into your arms. “Well then,” she trembles, profoundly affected by the visual of herself reaching her climax and the emotional spiral that led up to her finding out the truth.
You somehow hold her even tighter as she burrows deeper into you, knowing that Natasha needs you close right now.
“This was at Tony’s Christmas party that year. I hadn’t seen you for months and we came together so easily. Like we never stopped.”
“I remember it well, but why did you keep this after all these years?” she whispers, peering down at you with a furrowed brow.
Your eyes drop to the floor in shame, not being able to withstand your wife’s imploring gaze.
“Nat, you ran out of Tony’s lab like a bat out of hell that night. I didn’t see you again for weeks..I thought we were broken up for good,” This was the moment you’d been dreading all these years, you feel the guilt creeping up your spine again, “I was beside myself without you. When I got a security alert from Avengers Tower asking me if I wanted sensitive footage deleted and I found out exactly what the footage was I chose to keep it. I know how wrong it was but I couldn’t let it go.”
“We got back together a few months after that party.” Natasha says, gently cradling your face with her free hand, guiding you to return her gaze.
“I know but I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and for you to push me away again. I just wanted to have a piece of our time together. I know that doesn’t excuse me holding onto it for all these years and watching it every time I needed to feel close to you,” You kiss the palm of her hand, nuzzling into it a bit, “When you were still going on missions all the time and then when we were so caught up in the kids we forgot about each other. I know things got better after our little rendezvous at Eleanor’s gala but once Amelia was born we drifted apart again. And I am so fucking weak. I fucked up, sweetheart and I am so sorry that this secret caused you so much pain tonight, I would never cheat on you.”
When you finished speaking your truth, she slid the hand resting on your cheek down your shoulder and softly rubbed the muscles there. Almost as if she was apologizing for handling you with such force earlier.
“I hear you,” Natasha murmured, searching your face one last time. “I want to forgive you but I don’t know if I can. You justifying your actions doesn’t make all of this go away. I went from feeling the worst heartbreak imaginable, to raw betrayal, to a fury I have never known before. And now I’m relieved but at what cost. It’s all too much for one person to feel in a single night.”
Natasha leaned back slightly, her voice low but steady, “I am going to dispose of that video on your phone once and for all. And then..I need to be alone. To process everything that’s happened.”
Her palm lingered on your cheek for a heartbeat longer, then she slid off your lap. The sweatshirt fell low over her thighs as she stood, arms wrapped around herself like she was still trying to hold herself together. Without another word she turned and walked toward the doorway, her bare feet silent against the floorboards.
You watched her go, your hands still suspended where her hips had been. The room suddenly felt like all the air had been taken with her retreating form. The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, and in the quiet that followed, the weight of what you’d done pressed down on you all at once.
Guilt rose up like a tide; the image of her face when she thought you’d betrayed her, the tremor in her voice, the way she recoiled inward. Your chest tightened. You pressed your palms to your eyes but it didn’t hold anything back. The sob came hard and uninvited, then another. You doubled over, elbows on your knees, and let yourself break down, the sound of it filling the space she’d just left behind.
Could you write a Zora Bennett x f!reader? Reader and Zora are a couple but no one knows, reader jumps in the water to save the girl Teresa and her and the family get separated from the group ending up on the other side of the island, Zora is calm and composed on the outside but inside she's panicking and wondering where her girlfriend is and if she is okay, in the end they reunite at that old lab site (like in the movie) and kiss
Thanks if you'll write this 😊
Title: Prehistoric
Ship: Female!Reader x Zora Bennett
Warnings: Cannon-Typical violence, Sexual references, almost drowning, possible Jurrassic Park Rebirth Spoilers, and horrible grammar
My everything taglist 💕: @thinking1bee (Let me know if you want to be added!)
[A/n: This is not my best work, I need to learn how to write Zora a little better because god fucking damn.. her ARMS]
Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests
Small, desperate, hands gripped blindly at the waterlogged shirt that clung to your skin. The coolness of the rapids nearly took the sensation away entirely, but on instinct, you gripped right back. You could taste the grit of the dirt, the sharpness of blood that had filled your mouth when the raft overturned.
Stay alive, stay alive, stay alive.
It had turned into a numb mantra in the last 48 hours on the island. The fight was slowly threatening to drain from you, even as Isabella clawed in a desperate fear, her cold nose tucking into the small of your throat.
“You’re okay, it’s okay.” The shaking of your voice betrayed you, but the steadiness of your gaze did something to ease Reuben’s own fears. “That’s one hell of a raft.”
Teresa barked out a laugh that was fueled by her own fear and relief mixed into a deadly cocktail. It was hope, a small burst of it in a situation so unbelievably dreadful. The raft was held steady as you attempted to gain footing on the silt base of the river to lift Bella from your arms. She whimpered brokenly and nuzzled in closer.
Reuben shouldered the weight of the raft against the current “Mija, you have to let go.”
She only tightened her hold. With some awkward shifting, you hauled yourself up and out of the water. Your arms burned, your mouth filled with the bitter taste of metal once more as the cut against your cheek reopened. Some relief washed over you when you finally got a chance to untense.
Bella seemed to relax into your hold. Her father was the last to crawl in and took up solace right next to you. Teresa shook in Xaviers arms, and the hush that fell over all of you was comfortable, yet heavy.
“I can take her, if you’d like.” He rumbled.
“That’s alright, she’s kind of like a weighted blanket. I think she’s asleep.”
Instinctively, you hugged her closer when she trembled from the cold. She was just as much a comfort to you as you were to her and Reuben seemed to realize that. These last hours on the island, you had been an echo of safety.
On and off, you’d regretted our split-second decision to dive off the boat and into the ocean waters after the struggling family. Reuben had dealt with the volatility of open water on more than one occasion, but the island had a different story. Dinosaurs were a different story.
The prehistoric creatures were better left in the past. Despite the elated joy on Henry’s face at the first sight of one in the wild. More than anything, the doctor believed in safety and preservation. You hoped that he’d fared well. Knew that he would with Zora at his side.
Your entire body ached relentlessly, but your chest did more.
You missed her.
The natural earth scent that she carried, the softness of the mossy-green in her eyes. You were wrapped against her on the boat, the gentle sway lulling you both into a state between sleep and wake. The salty bite of the sea mixed with the sweat that had dried on your skin. She traced her nails up and down your bare spine.
Kincaid had given one warning knock on the cabin door before barging in. It had given you enough time to drop into the space between the wall and the bed that was much too small to begin with. You’d bit your hand to keep from laughing as Zora stumbled through her words.
She thanked him for updating her on the coordinates before ducking out with an apology for interrupting her sleep. There was a tightness to his voice that gave him away, one that you would poke fun at for the rest of eternity. But giggling as you popped back up would have to suffice for now.
“Oh my god, shut up.”
“Why don’t you make me, Zora Bennett?”
She had made you, multiple times, in fact, until you stopped shutting up and started getting louder.
Now that you were out here, without her, you wished so desperately that you’d savored the last press of your lips against her own, the way she sighed in content and you swallowed the noise just as contentedly.
“You love her?” Rueben asked.
You chuckled dryly “Well, she’s quite cute, but we’ve only known each other for a day.”
He lifted an eyebrow and reminded you too much of a disappointed father in this moment, but his lips quirked up at the edges and there was a mirth to his soft eyes. You had wondered if he sailed full-time. He had the calluses on his hands to support your theory.
Your eyes darted to Teresa and Xavier. They had slumped into exhaustion, a water-logged sweatshirt covering them both. The rushing water around you was an even push and pull. You tried to mentally will the feeling in your stomach towards peace instead of nausea. The last thing you needed was your vomit attracting some type of prehistoric water creature.
“Yeah, I do.” You winced as you straightened one of your legs. If you got out of this, you’d need stitches. One of Bella’s t-shirts had been soaked through with your blood. Teeth had gnashed through sinew and skin. “We met at a job in Strasbourg. We were both sent in by separate employers to retrieve the same package. Safe to say, Zora bested me.”
Rueben laughed, shaking his head. “She gave me that impression, yes.”
“She’s headstrong. Especially then. Eventually I broke her walls down after we realized we had Kincaid in common. He’s a good judge of character. The driving force of getting us to turn around yesterday. You can thank him for that.”
“Oh, you mean I shouldn’t grovel at Martin’s feet?”
It was your turn to laugh, wincing when it jostled your leg. Now that you were off of it, the movements seemed to ebb into something more painful. Isabella whimpered against you, fingers tightening against the fabric of your shirt.
“Get some sleep.” Rueben advised, lightly tracing his fingers down his daughters spine. “I’ll keep watch until we get to the end of the road.”
You wanted to object, but a soft noise of agreement came out instead. You let sleep overtake you. If you tried hard enough, you could pretend that you were lounging on a beach. Zora’s whispers of ‘one last job’ thick against your lips.
The lab site was nothing short of eerie. The lights were run from a whirring generator, the semblance of something that used to be a convenience store rested at the center. Daylight was fading too fast for your liking. Your leg had stiffened and was close to being unusable after the two-and-a-half-mile trek here. You’d sorely missed the comfort of the raft.
You pulled your gun from your back, pointing the muzzle at the ground with safety that was drilled into your mind when you were no more than nine. You led the pack, creeping into the cement settlement with stealth.
“Zora has a failsafe. She never does anything without one. She dispatched a helicopter to fly over the island twice at sunset. If they don’t see us, they’re meant to leave.”
“What does that mean?” Teresa asked, a noticeable tremble to her voice.
“That we have to make them see us. If there’s anything left of the other group, they’ll be here. Zora will lead them.”
You knew you were putting too much faith in your girlfriend. It was by a fault. After the many excursions you’d been on with her, you trusted her with your life. The further you fell for her, the more you knew she’d always have your back, and you hers.
Your chest grew tighter and tighter by the minute. The lab site was oddly silent other than your footfalls and the panting breaths of the family behind you. Bella stuck close enough that each time you stopped, she ran directly into your legs.
A clatter on your far left made you pause. You held your hand out, stopping the rest of them where they stood. Your hand pushed towards the ground. All of you remained completely silent. You waited for any type of signal of beast or human.
The cocking of a gun gave away the latter.
You brought your own weapon up with a quickness unmatched, squinting into the darkness. It took you a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the pitch black. The figure crept closer with adept silence.
It took you a second for your mind to catch up with what you were seeing. Who you were seeing. When it did, there was a wash of relief that soaked all the way to your bones. You dropped your weapon, knowing the safety was on and that the leather strap attached to it would catch anything you released your hold on.
Zora Bennett looked worse for wear.
Dirt stained her tank-top, sweat soaking through the collar. Her hair was easily ran through and her lips parted in a moment of relief. She holstered her pistol against her hip. She seemed to forget herself, closing the distance between you.
Warm hands cupped your face, her usual birch scent was seeped with the metal of blood and sharpness of sweat. Tears pooled in her eyes as she patted against your shoulders and your sides before landing on both of your hips. Her nose nudged your own.
Zora’s breath was hot as she exhaled against you’re lips. You wanted to chase the warmth, but clenched your jaw and swallowed the river taste against you tongue. A soft noise culminated in her throat that signified displeasure.
Zora grasped your chin and led your mouth to her own. You tensed for half a second before melting into her touch. Her hands rested against your cheeks, steadied you as you whimpered against her. The relief that flooded your veins was instantaneous.
“You’re alive” You chuckled, “Fuck, Zo, you’re alive.”
“You have no faith in me.”
“I’m repeating it for my sake, not yours.”
When she laughed, it sounded too much like a sob. She collapsed into your arms; nose pressed into the small of your neck. You held her like she was your lifeline, and god, in this moment, it felt like she was.
Your eyes met Kincade’s over her shoulder. His eyes were joyous. Shit-eating. You’d raise a certain finger to him if there wasn’t a small child a few feet away. Instead, you held her closer, felt her purr against your chest.
“Right,” She pulled away, but not entirely, her hand still touching your own. “Right. Well. We’re still fucked.”
“Nothing has growled at me for the last hour. Not after the T-Rex.”
Summary: She'd be fine, she was the most capable woman you've met, she was the Zora Bennett, the best of the best, but these were fucking dinosaurs, and you just couldn't sit back in your apartment waiting to hear if everything went right. Even if you left that life behind many years ago.
Masterlist
Word Count: 4k
-There are monsters in the sky, there are demons in the sea, I have seen them with my eyes-
Early morning sunlight peeked through the windows of your living room, mercilessly and precisely hitting your face as you turned to the side and covered your head with the pillow. You fell asleep watching some movie about a dog getting reincarnated over and over again. “Now that would be awesome, always being reunited with your pet,” you figured before yawning. It was the second day of your vacation and you were already bored. Now, you didn’t want the excitement of your old job back, but maybe a pinch of excitement more wouldn’t hurt.
You thought back to working with Zora and the rest and shook your head. Nah, you’ve had enough excitement for your whole life already. Boring was good. Safe.
Just as you closed your eyes again with the intention to go back to sleep your phone rang and you, as responsible as you were, chose to ignore it. It was too early in the morning for a call. Whoever it was should have gotten their ass out of the ancient times and just sent a text.
The ringing stopped after half a minute and you relaxed, thinking that would be the end of it, but not even a minute later your phone was ringing again. “Son of a bitch,” you turned around and blindly patted the table for your phone, not yet eager to remove the pillow from your face. “Yes?” you answered the phone.
“Shouldn’t you be more excited to hear from your good old friend?” you recognized Bobby’s voice immediately.
You dragged the pillow off your face with a low groan. “Yeah, cause you always call to hang out,” he never has, it was always Duncan pulling you back in to hang out with the group, Bobby called with different jobs he wanted you to take with him.
He snorted at that. “That stings. Anyway, got a job for you,” and there it was again.
“No,” you hung up, but the phone immediately rang again.
“Zora is involved-“ and you hung up again, only for him to call again. “It’s dangerous-“ it always was, so you hung up again, really tempted not to answer when he yet again called you. But if you didn’t answer he’d just keep calling. “Dinosaurs!” you paused before you hung up.
“Excuse me?” you sat up, more surprised than actually interested.
“Some people want blood samples from alive dinosaurs, and they hired Zora,” shit…
You could still say no, pretend he never called you, or that you simply left that line of business behind way too long ago for this to be the job that drags you back in. But the idea of Zora going there and you waiting in your apartment to hear the news of how the job went made you nauseous. “Fine,” you accepted the job, figuring anything was better than that uncertainty.
~X~
You stayed behind in the crowd as Bobby reunited with Zora, Duncan and the employer. It’s been over a year since you’ve last seen her, you talked over the phone when her mother died and she missed her funeral, you helped handle the funeral arrangements as a favor to her, and because you liked her mother, but that was pretty much it. The further apart you were, the better; at least that was something you both agreed with.
You tried for a few years, as a couple, not just coworkers, but things happened.
She didn’t change one bit, she was still just as beautiful as the last time you’ve seen her, confident and elegant in every move she made, with that confident smile on her face, just another thing about her that made everyone look at her and she knew it.
Tentatively you approached the group, prompting Bobby to smirk in that usual, almost annoying way of his. “I brought you a surprise,” he told Zora as he gestured toward you. The smile on her face fell when she saw you, replaced by utter shock as she just stared at you. “You’re not seeing things, Z, though you might want to close your mouth to avoid catching flies,” he teased, striking a balance between mean and good-natured in a way not a lot of people could.
“Really funny, Atwater,” Duncan jokingly smacked his back before approaching you and spreading his arms. “Good to see you, hawk,” the two of you hugged and then he turned to the man who hired Zora. “She has eyes like a hawk, you won’t find a better person to watch your six, while she keeps an eye on everything else,” he explained and the man nodded.
Zora cleared her throat and walked over to you, and for a moment you thought she’d just offer you her hand, respecting the distance the years created between you, but instead, the moment Duncan stepped away from you she hugged you, burying her face in the crook of your neck and holding you tightly.
“Hey,” you whispered, hugging her back as if no time passed since you last saw her.
“Hey,” and that was all either of you had to say, all you could even try to say, and all you needed to say. Everything else you understood instinctively, without a single word spoken.
~X~
True to Duncan’s nickname for you, you were sitting on the highest roof of the boat watching for any troubles that the radar might not pick up on. Whether it was other ships, or dinosaurs in this particular case. Duncan knocked the roof from underneath and you reached down, grabbing a bottle of water he was offering you.
“Glad to see you are still making the right calls,” you said as you opened the bottle.
“The water?” he joked with a laugh.
“Sure, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you snickered, taking a deep breath and the scent of the ocean. You actually missed this, sailing, feeling free, you supposed, though you’d prefer not to be in dinosaur infested waters.
“I couldn’t just let them die,” he eventually sighed, and you heard him leaning back against the railing.
“I’d be surprised if you could,” even before the tragedy he was always a big softy underneath the tough demeanor. “Just hope we didn’t put them in even more danger,” you were going straight into danger, and the group of four had a child with them.
“We’ll do our best,” Duncan figured and went back inside.
A few minutes later you saw the mosasaurus swimming toward the boat and grabbed the comms. “Target found us, get ready,” you dropped down from the rooftop as Zora came out with the sniper rifle she’d use to get the sample. The two of you looked at one another and you nodded, following her without a single word as she got in the position. You hooked her to the floor without waiting for her instructions and grabbed onto the railing next to her. “We need to get closer!” you yelled as Duncan took control of the ship and sped up, closing the distance between the ship and the mosasaurus. “Twenty-one meters! Get closer!” you could only hope you’d get lucky, and the dinosaur wouldn’t go underwater. “Loomis, grab a spare shot!”
“Someone’s already thinking about back-up?” Zora teased, speaking to you for the first time since you reunited.
“You used to love that,” you pointed out with a smirk, and she glanced at you just for a moment.
“Not quite ‘used to’,” she playfully rolled her eyes, and you desperately tried to convince yourself your heart was drumming in your chest solely due to adrenaline. Yeah, that had to be it. You were this close to a dinosaur that could sink a small boat like it was nothing.
The boat sped up, closing the distance, but then the creature attacked, slamming into the boat from the side, nearly knocking you off the boat and making Zora miss the first shot. “Shit!” you exclaimed, grabbing onto the railing as the dinosaur went underwater.
Zora made sure you were fine with a quick glance and, satisfied that you were still hanging on, turned toward Loomis. “Get me a second one!” she ordered and he ran toward the two of you, handing the second shot to you as the mosasaurus emerged from the water, hitting the side of the boat and making it lean to the side, just as you managed to load Zora’s rifle.
It repeated the attack, nearly making the ship turn over and throwing Zora off her feet. “Hang on!” you managed to grab her, steading her before she could fall over the railing and just barely hanging on yourself. Zora relaxed in your arms, focusing only on aiming and fired, shooting it as it swam a bit further away from the boat. You watched, your left arm still around Zora’s waist, as the syringe filled up with blood and then got ejected into the air.
“One down,” Zora smiled at you as everyone cheered, and you nodded. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as you thought it would be. “Thanks, for catching me,” she stepped away from you and the cold left by her absence must have been something you imagined.
“Of course,” you struggled, your voice a bit hoarse all of a sudden. And so you went back to the roof, avoiding facing what was actually going on, a lot like you did years ago.
~X~
You should have known things were going way too easily; you should have known it wouldn’t be as simple as shooting a couple of dinosaurs and going home. You saw them approaching, your blood running cold. “We’ve got company! Dino is back and it brought company!” you yelled into the comms and went down to grab one of the guns Bobby brought. “These better work,” you muttered, for the second time today realizing that this wasn’t something you should have gotten involved with, that any of you should have gotten involved in. These animals were part of the world long gone, a world a lot more dangerous than the one you were living in, they might as well be forces of nature to you.
Something hit the boat from below just as you were about to take aim, knocking you off your feet and nearly off the roof as well. “Y/N!” you heard Zora yelling your name as you clung on desperately as the boat rocked.
“I’m fine!” you yelled and then heard more screaming and looked down, just in time to see Bobby being dragged into the water by a smaller dinosaur. You tried to shoot, but you kept missing, unable to aim properly in your current position. As it was you doubted the shots were actually effective.
Each second felt like eternity spent in hell, the boat that used to feel like it could take you anywhere now seemed like a fragile toy, pushed from side to side by the animals bent on killing you all. Someone actually looked at these and thought: ‘Nah, it’s boring, give it another pair of legs, or wings,’ you honestly couldn’t wrap your head around that.
“Y/N! You need to get down!” you heard Zora yelling, though not through the comms this time, and so you looked back, seeing her outside as well, holding onto the railing.
You knew that. It was only a matter of time before your grip would loosen and you’d fall off, potentially into the jaws of a dinosaur. How long have you stayed there, on the roof? Barely holding on? Your muscles already burning and aching? You couldn’t tell. It could have been a minute, or much longer. And then a slightly sharper turn Duncan took threw you off and sent you straight into the water.
You hit the water, momentarily getting disoriented before arms wrapped around you, pulling you to the surface. Somehow, even as disoriented as you were, you knew it was Zora, dragging you to the shore while you recovered from the abrupt fall.
The two of you scrambled to the shore, you on your knees as you barely got out of the water, gasping for air as your body trembled from the near-death experience and you felt sick to the stomach, so much so that you thought you’d throw up, but though you gagged and felt like you were about to lose your lunch nothing came out aside from bile. “Fuck!” you grasped the sand under your palms, cursing as you looked at the wrecked boat. You felt hands on your shoulders and abruptly twisted around, almost pushing Zora off you as she steadied you.
“It’s okay, it’s just me,” she assured you softly, yet urgently, and you focused on her eyes, just like you did so many times before. It wasn’t fine, not this time, but there was no time to lose. You couldn’t stay on the beach.
“Thanks, for jumping in after me,” you managed to say that much and she nodded, just relieved that you were both still alive.
And then it happened.
“Nina!” Duncan screamed and both you and Zora turned to your left, seeing the dinosaur taking Nina into the sea. You stared, frozen for a moment, as another one of your friends got devoured.
As Duncan screamed for his friend, calling out to the person who would never again be able to respond, who you wouldn’t even be able to properly bury because no remains would ever be found, you glanced at Zora. “We made a mistake,” you whispered gravely.
She nodded, accepting that. “But we can’t go back now,” you couldn’t, not yet, you could only hope her back-up plan would work.
And for that plan to work, you’d need to leave the beach. Not that it was safe to begin with. There wasn’t a single place here that was safe.
~X~
You remained on high alert as Zora got the second sample. You felt like a fish out of water, surrounded by tall grass that somehow managed to hide these behemoths. Good eyesight meant nothing when you couldn’t see more than a couple of feet ahead of you and were forced to only look above. And it made you dread every step, every unnecessary break, every moment spent in this tall grass where you might as well be blind.
Not even the sight of dinosaurs in some courting ritual or whatever made you relax even one bit. You wanted to get off this island, you wanted this nightmare that already cost you two of your friends, to end.
Well, at least with the second sample secured, you could now leave the grass beneath you, and go after the third sample. “So… how exactly will we get the sample for the lizard bird?” you asked as you looked up the steep mountain ahead of you.
“We won’t. We’ll get it from an egg,” Loomis explained, and you nodded, hoping this would go smoothly.
You really should have known better than to be optimistic in a situation like this one. Perhaps the heat and the lack of water were getting to you, but, you’d persevere, no matter what, no matter how difficult it gets. That’s who you had to be all those years ago, and that’s who you had to be today. You reached the steep mountain and took a dee breath, steadily starting the climb to the top with Zora by your side.
“What will you do after this?” Zora asked out of blue.
“No idea,” and you really didn’t have any idea. You probably needed a break after everything, an extended one, instead of going back to work. “I know I’m never accepting one of these jobs again, though,” and that felt like the only certainty you knew.
“I’m still surprised you accepted to come here,” she pointed out, and if you weren’t climbing you probably would have shrugged.
“I had a good reason,” and that reason was right next to you, climbing with precise elegance of a woman who’s done this or something similar dozens of times.
Zora took a moment to glance at you, and whatever she wanted to say remained unspoken, left to hang in the air like the two of you didn’t even need other forms of communication. “It’s not your fault. About Bobby and Nina, and about…” she paused, avoiding saying his name and you sighed, aware that you couldn’t have done anything for either Bobby or Nina, but it still felt like you didn’t do enough.
The last time you lost a team member you stopped doing these jobs, you avoided them like plague, but Zora? She buried herself in the work, seeking whatever it was these jobs could offer her, but now it was slowly starting to seem like she wanted to set it all aside, to move away from her job, to have her own life outside of it. “Maybe I should retire after this,” she said, mostly to herself, but you heard it too.
“Maybe,” you agreed tentatively, not daring to hope that Zora would start looking for challenges in safer environments.
~X~
Frankly, you weren’t sure if you began hallucinating after that conversation with Zora, because everything felt like a fewer dream. Lowering Zora, LeClerk and Loomis went fine, until the big prehistoric bird descended from the skies and despite your best efforts ate LeClerk. Then you managed to get down, reunite with the family that jumped the ship, there was a gun, then a bunch of smaller mutated dinosaurs, and then a big, mutated dinosaur that ate the helicopter, and Krebs, and you all ended up on the ship fleeing the island. In the end you all just fell asleep the moment you were in safer waters.
The sound of water splashing woke you up and you slowly blinked, realizing you were sleeping with your head on Zora’s lap. That was nostalgic. You glanced to the side, noticing dolphins swimming next to the boat and smiled. “Never thought I’d be this happy to see dolphins,” you didn’t hate them, you didn’t exactly love them either, but it meant you were definitely in safer waters compared to what you just left behind.
“Tell me about it,” Zora whispered, still carrying what happened on the island with her, all the lives lost, the decision she made, the uncertainties that might await you all. Even if you were bringing a potential medical revolution of sorts back, you still broke a lot of laws.
“Why don’t we just chuck the suitcase into the ocean?” you asked as you abruptly sat up and turned toward Zora and Loomis.
“What?!” they both exclaimed.
“And make this all even more for nothing?” Duncan demanded.
“We’re basically saying: Hey guys, we did something very illegal, here’s a proof for the whole world to use, only for some rich fucks to get it anyway meaning we accomplished absolutely nothing,” you said dryly making Zora and Duncan blink a few times, as they thought about your logic.
“That’s not how it would go, right?” Loomis asked slowly and you just shrugged.
“It’s all yours, we’re backing out,” Zora decided and pushed the case toward him.
“We were never here,” Duncan agreed, and you nodded, really not wanting to push your luck with this one. Hell no, you probably used up all of your luck just to make it out alive; hoping you had enough luck left not to be arrested the moment the world knew what you brought from the island was the kind of naïve thinking that wouldn’t do you any good. You glanced at the clear sky above you, and you liked looking at it without bars ruining the view.
~X~
A week later you were back in your apartment, taking a long break from everything when someone rang your doorbell. You sighed, it was supposed to be a quiet, simple night, but from the looks of it you couldn’t have that. You set aside the half-empty pizza box and pushed yourself to get up. Whoever came to your door didn’t ring again, so a part of you hoped they gave up and left, thinking maybe you weren’t home.
That hope faded when you heard a knock just as you were about to open the doors. Well, so much for whoever this was giving up, with a heavy sigh you opened the doors only to find Zora standing there, looking a lot like you did. Dark circles underneath her eyes, clear exhaustion etched onto her face, and perhaps a few beers too many.
“You look like shit,” she pointed out, making you roll your eyes.
“Right back at you,” you stepped to the side, letting her walk into your apartment like she used to do so many times before. She had your spare key, but you figured she didn’t want to use it, didn’t want to remind either of you of the time you were living together, sharing this very apartment, waking up next to each other, dreaming of a better life, until it all fell apart.
Zora looked around, her eyes landing on the photos still hanging on the walls, some of the two of you, some of the team. She stopped, her gaze lingering as her jaw clenched and you saw tears in her eyes as she looked at the photo where the whole team was, back before Duncan took his part of the crew, back when everyone else was alive. “Yeah, that’s the weight of surviving,” you caught yourself saying as you approached her. You’ve spent hours these past few days staring at that photo in particular, reminiscing about all the people who died, whether it happened last week or over the years.
You’ve both lost people before, but it was never this many on one mission. First Bobby, then Nina, and then LeClerc, not to mention how close to death Zora, Duncan and you got. “And it meant absolutely nothing,” no cure, no money. You might as well say you killed them yourselves.
“It rarely means anything in this line of work,” which was why you quit, before Bobby had the bright idea to drag you right back in. Zora nodded, smiling bitterly as she turned toward you.
“Why did you accept to come along? I thought you weren’t after the money anymore?” she asked, spreading her arms, watching you in a way that told you she wouldn’t leave until you gave her the honest answer.
You closed the distance between you, standing right in front of her. “Couldn’t live with letting you take that job without me watching your back,” you had no intention of hiding anything from her.
She raised her hand, brushing her fingers against your cheek, soft, as if she wasn’t sure if she should be doing it. “And I nearly lost you because of that,” she whispered, and you shrugged, you couldn’t let some mutated monster get her that easily. “Y/N,” she slipped her hand to the back of your neck, tugging you closer. “Is it smart to try this again?” you could feel her warm breath against your lips as your heart hammered inside your chest.
“No, but that never stopped us,” not the first time, not when it came to choosing jobs, and it clearly wouldn’t stop you this time.
Zora smiled, and you leaned in, capturing her lips, feeling a sense of relief as the longing you felt for years faded away, replaced by her presence. By her heated lips, warm body pressed against your own, her arms wrapped around you as you held her close. The kiss reawakened that old hunger, the one you believed was gone, yet all it took was one taste of her lips to make you feel like you’ve been starving for her.
You didn’t know how this would all end, but you didn’t want to let her go again, no matter the dangers or risks.
A/N: Yes, I did realize halfway through writing the movie part of the story that I didn’t have anything real for Reader to do, so, I figured, might as well skip it. I am not as sorry for that as I should probably be. Still, I can't say I'm happy with this one.
synopsis: years after walking away from the love she once dreamed of, natasha unexpectedly runs into the person who still holds her heart. as they face the silence and regrets of their past, natasha must decide if she’s ready to risk love again—not as a fantasy, but as a choice worth fighting for.
note: helow, my pookies !! i’ve seriously missed you all so much, omg. 😞🫰🏻 i know i've been inactive—blame it on school and dance taking over my life. i’m literally chilling in the car rn (yes, window seat :p), and i was just streaming paths by NIKI and felt inspired to write this.
Natasha didn’t believe in fate.
She believed in choices—sharp, deliberate turns that took her where she needed to go. But when it came to you, to the person she had once built entire futures around, Natasha couldn’t quite figure out whether it was choice or something bigger that had pulled you apart.
It had been years since she last saw you.
Years since those soft, reckless days where she imagined wedding rings, a shared apartment filled with laughter, a cat sprawling across your couch, maybe even kids running barefoot in the garden. She used to picture it so vividly—two pillars, firm and proud, holding up something you could call a life.
But real love, she learned, wasn’t a fantasy. It was a verb. A choice you made over and over again, even when it hurt. She understood that now, but maybe a little too late.
Her youth, her most unguarded self, lived in your past. You had it all back then—late-night drives, lazy mornings tangled in sheets, the feeling that the world was yours if you just reached far enough. And yet, she had let it slip away. Not with one big mistake, but a hundred little ones. A closed-off heart. A stubborn need to control her own freedom. The fear of losing herself in love.
She thought settling down meant losing who she was. She hadn’t realized that with you, it would have meant finding herself.
Sometimes, in quiet moments, Natasha still caught herself wondering what you were doing now. Were you happy? Did you think of her when a certain song played? She liked to imagine you did—just for a moment—before life pulled you forward again.
She had loved others since then, drifted from city to city, country to country. But every time she found herself on a dimly lit stage at a friend’s gig, or in the back of a cab while a love song spilled from the radio, it was never a stranger’s face that came to mind. It was yours. Always yours.
She knew you would probably never be what you once were. That chapter had closed, its pages worn and marked. But she also knew life had a strange way of circling back, of placing people right where they needed to be—sometimes years too late, but still.
Natasha didn’t believe in fate.
But she believed in crossing paths.
And when yours met again, no matter how briefly, she would smile, knowing she had loved you once—fiercely, messily, entirely.
And maybe, just maybe, she always would.
—
The rain was steady, a fine mist turning heavier in gusts of wind that funneled through the streets. Natasha’s boots clicked against wet pavement as she moved without much direction, hands buried in the pockets of her leather jacket.
New York was a strange kind of friend—sometimes cruel, sometimes unexpectedly warm. Tonight, it was the latter, neon lights bleeding against rain-slicked asphalt, shop windows glowing like open palms. She didn’t have a destination, but the warm, amber-lit window of an old bookstore stopped her in her tracks.
The sign above the door was faded, letters peeling at the corners. The window display was a little chaotic—stacks of used novels, a trailing pothos plant, a ceramic mug holding fountain pens.
The bell over the door chimed as she stepped inside. Heat and the faint scent of dust and paper wrapped around her instantly. Somewhere deeper in the shop, a jazz record played—low trumpet, scratch of vinyl.
She rounded a corner, fingers trailing across spines without reading the titles—until her breath caught.
You were there.
Leaning casually against the poetry shelf, head bent toward a worn copy of Pablo Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Your hair fell forward as you read, the same way it used to when you got lost in a page.
—
It came rushing back before she could stop it.
She’d met you in a library—not the kind you whisper in, but the kind tucked inside a coffee shop with mismatched chairs and the smell of cinnamon in the air. You had been cross-legged on the floor in the poetry section, humming under your breath as you flipped through Neruda.
“You’re blocking my exit,” she had said, a smirk tugging her lips.
You had looked up, unimpressed. “Then I guess you’ll have to step over me.”
Natasha had stepped over you—then sat down beside you instead.
You’d talked until the café closed, Natasha buying you a tea you hadn’t even asked for. She left with your phone number scrawled on a napkin and the taste of possibility lingering like honey.
—
Back in the present, you looked up as if you’d felt the weight of being watched. Your eyes widened.
“Nat.”
It was quiet, almost careful.
Natasha swallowed. “Hey.”
For a long second, neither of you moved. Natasha could see recognition in your eyes, but also the pause—like you were deciding whether to be glad about it.
“It’s been a long time,” you said finally, closing the book.
“Yeah,” Natasha’s voice was low. “How long?”
“Seven years.” You tilted your head. “You still keep your hair braided.”
Natasha’s lips quirked. “You still dog-ear pages. Still drives me crazy.”
A flicker of a smile, brief but warm, crossed your face. Natasha felt herself take a step forward before she’d even decided to.
—
The smell of coffee pulled her back—bare feet on cold kitchen tiles, you leaning against the counter in one of her shirts, hair a mess, mug in hand.
“You made the good stuff,” you had mumbled, eyes still half-closed.
“Of course,” Natasha had said, sliding a plate toward you. “Can’t have you leaving me over bad coffee.”
You’d laughed, soft and warm, and Natasha had thought—I could live here forever.
—
You ended up in a café across the street, the kind with steamed-up windows and chipped mugs. You took a corner booth, tea between your hands.
“It’s strange,” you said, stirring slowly. “Seeing you here, like no time’s passed.”
Natasha’s gaze stayed on you. “Feels like too much time has passed.”
You talked about safe things—mutual friends, work, travels. But Natasha could feel the unspoken things building between you like static.
Finally, you said, “You know… I thought we’d be married by now.”
Natasha’s grip on her mug tightened. “Me too.”
Your eyes softened, but your voice stayed steady. “Then why didn’t we?”
—
Snow started falling softly as she remembered that night on the balcony in Prague. The cold air bit gently, and somewhere deep in her pocket, the small box pressed against her fingers, her thumb tracing its edge nervously.
You were talking about Christmas lights and hot chocolate, your voice warm against the chill, and she had almost—almost—pulled out the ring.
But then she froze. Her chest tightened, weighed down by the gravity of what that moment meant—the permanence, the risk.
By the time she found her voice again, the moment had slipped away, swallowed by the quiet hum of city lights below.
—
Back in the café, Natasha exhaled. “Because I was afraid,” she said. “Afraid that if I stopped moving, if I stayed… I’d lose myself.”
“And because of your job,” you added quietly.
Natasha met your gaze. “And because of my job. I told myself you’d be safer without me. That walking away was… protecting you.”
Your lips curved bitterly. “You weren’t protecting me, Nat. You were protecting yourself from the risk of loving me.”
The truth landed heavy—because it was exactly what she had feared.
—
The rain was falling then, too—steady, cold, relentless. You could hear it tapping against the windowpanes like a heartbeat that wouldn’t quit. Natasha stood halfway out the door, a worn duffel bag slung heavily over her shoulder, her breath fogging in the chill air. The weight of the moment pressed down on both of you, thick and suffocating.
Your voice cracked as you spoke, raw with frustration and pain. “You think loving you means I’m in danger?" you asked, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Nat, you’re the danger to yourself. You keep cutting people out before they can leave you.” The words hit her like thunder, echoing in the silence that followed.
For a long moment, she didn’t move—her fingers clenched the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles went white. She wanted to turn back, to throw her arms around you and make everything right, but the fear tangled around her heart like iron chains. The thought of staying, of facing the vulnerability and risk of loving you fully, terrified her more than the cold rain outside.
Her feet, however, had a mind of their own. Without permission, they carried her forward, each step heavier than the last. She crossed the threshold and into the gray, drizzling street, leaving you behind with the weight of those words hanging in the air.
She never looked back.
—
The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle by the time you stepped outside. The city around you felt quieter somehow, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the stillness. The wet pavement shimmered under the dim streetlights, casting blurry reflections of the world you’d both tried so hard to leave behind.
At the corner, you hesitated, your footsteps slowing as you finally turned to face her. “It was good to see you,” you said softly, voice barely above a whisper. There was a fragile vulnerability there, the kind that only comes when years of silence and distance suddenly collapse into a single moment.
Natasha nodded, but something twisted deep inside her chest—an ache she thought she’d long buried—as you started to walk away. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on her, heavier than the cold air around you both.
“Wait,” she called out, voice steady but urgent.
You stopped in your tracks, uncertainty flickering across your face. The night air seemed to hold the space between you, thick with tension and possibility.
She closed the distance, each step deliberate. “I can’t just let you walk away again,” Natasha said, her eyes searching yours like she was trying to memorize every detail—every line, every flicker of emotion.
You studied her face, the soft glow of the streetlamp casting shadows that made her look both familiar and new all at once. “And what do you want me to do?” you asked, voice trembling slightly. “Pretend seven years didn’t happen?”
“No,” Natasha answered quietly, her voice raw with honesty. “I want to try again. Not perfect—just… us. This time, I won’t run.”
Your lips curled into a small, incredulous laugh, disbelief mixing with something warmer, something hopeful. “You always could talk me into bad decisions," you teased, the old spark returning between you.
Natasha’s smile was faint but genuine, the kind that reaches your eyes and stays there. “This one’s not bad,” she said softly.
Together, you started walking—not away, not apart, but side by side—your steps falling into rhythm with each other once more.
The city around you slowly woke from its quiet haze. Neon lights flickered to life in distant windows, and the faint hum of late-night traffic began to fill the streets. But none of it mattered, not really. What mattered was the steady warmth building between you two, fragile but undeniable.
Because some people aren’t meant to be left behind.
Some people, you just keep.
And tonight, as the drizzle kissed your skin and the world spun quietly on, you both knew this was only the beginning of something new—something worth fighting for.
Summary: a solo mission goes sideways, and you come back injured. Natasha takes care of you and wants answers, even if you won’t give them right away.
Pairing(s): natasha x gf!reader
Warnings: fluff, injury, angst (if you squint)
Word Count: ~1.6k
a/n: one-shot to hold u guys over bc part 3 is taking longer than i thought. ALSO i hear some people are interested in a taglist??? so if you're interested enough in my writing to want me to tag u when i post smth, pls just shoot a message into my inbox. (if u wanna be tagged only in specific posts pls lmk)
---
It was a simple recon mission really. So simple you were sent in solo, Fury having enough faith in you to trust that you could handle it alone and make it back in one piece. The mission was straightforward: gather intel, avoid detection, and report back. You didn’t know what was up with you. Lately, your focus had been less than ideal and you certainly felt the repercussions now. It had been going on for a few days, your best friend — Wanda — assuring you that it was just a minor slump, “Happens to the best of us,” you remembered her saying, not knowing that the situation was deeper than you let on. You thought that taking this assignment could be a way for you to refresh, man were you wrong.
You didn’t know what was occupying your mind as you walked thoughtlessly into the building, barely focused on your surroundings, until you were ambushed by enemy agents. You quickly realized that the situation was far more complex than you initially thought. They had anticipated your arrival, and the stakes were suddenly much higher. You usually prided yourself on your keen sense of hearing so you really weren’t expecting any company that you didn’t already know were coming. Luckily, your ability to think on your feet allowed you to get away, but not without a bullet in your calf and a stab wound on your shoulder.
You assumed that there would be more agents to come if you didn’t move fast, so — despite the stinging ache in your leg — you rushed back to the jet and made your way to the tower.
If Natasha, your girlfriend, had nothing to do, she would wait for you by the helipad after your missions, always embracing you in a warm hug at the end a long day. Today was one of those days, except the second you stumbled out of the jet, a concerned expression plastered all over her face.
“Hey love, a little help?” you asked, your voice laced with friendly sarcasm. Something that Natasha found endearing and sometimes infuriating. At least you were still cracking jokes, meaning that you were okay, or as okay as you could be while slowly bleeding out.
“You look like hell,” your girlfriend muttered, already closing the distance. Her eyes swept over you, taking in your battered state. She quickly took your arm over your shoulder, on the side that wasn’t injured to avoid causing any further harm to the laceration. “What happened?” She tried to keep it casual, but her voice dipped lower, littered with care.
You kept the conversation going as you walked over to the med bay with her help. “Nothing, just—” you were cut off by a wince that left your mouth faster than you could stop it. “Just got distracted for a sec,” you continued.
“That’s unlike you. Anything I should be worried about?” she asked, but before you could answer her question, she continued. “You should be more careful, you’re lucky you’re not dead. If any—”
You cut her off before she could finish. “Can we continue this later, I’m really not in the mood.” You were way too tired and in pain to listen to her scold you for your stupidity. In all honesty, you had no clue why your brainpower hadn’t been up-to-par. Although Natasha was upset that you interrupted her, she respected your wishes and kept quiet the rest of the journey.
Your arrival at the med bay had turned many heads, immediately warranting the attention of Bruce who was running some blood tests in the lab. With his help, along with the advanced medical technology that you had access to— courtesy of Stark Tech — you were stitched up in no time. Albeit, you were still walking funny and were banished to bedrest for a week or so.
---
Your girlfriend insisted on staying with you as much as her busy schedule allowed her, despite you constantly reassuring her, telling her that you were fine. She made sure you were drinking and eating enough, while also tending to your wounds and replacing the bandages every now and then.
“So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at you.
“What do you mean?” you answered, despite knowing exactly what she meant. You’ve been off your game. You were met with silence, Natasha staring at you, waiting for you to give in and start talking. After a few seconds of silence, you finally let up.
“I’ve been all over the place lately. Can’t focus on anything.”
Natasha nodded slowly, as if she’d already figured that much out. She sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle your injured leg, and rested her forearms on her thighs. Her gaze didn’t leave yours. “Yeah, I noticed,” she said, her voice low. “And you’re lucky it didn’t get you killed.”
You sighed, looking away, suddenly feeling very aware of the dull ache in your calf and the tightness of the stitches in your shoulder.
“I thought getting back out there might help,” you admitted. “Reset my head. Get back in control.”
Natasha let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Right. Because throwing yourself into a recon op while your brain’s fried is definitely the best way to recover.”
You gave her a sideways look. “I’m aware, thanks.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her voice softening. “Look, I’m not mad. Okay? I just…” She hesitated for a second. “When I saw you limp out of that jet, bleeding, trying to play it off like it was nothing — that worried me.”
That shut you up for a moment. You hated the idea of being a liability, being the cause of that flicker of fear in her eyes. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” you murmured.
“You didn’t think,” she corrected sharply. Then, softer, “Because you’ve been in your head too much, and you didn’t tell me.”
You glanced at her again. The anger in her voice wasn’t real anger, it was concern, thinly disguised behind habit and sharp edges. You knew it well. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it,” you said honestly.
Her expression eased up, just a little. “I already know you can handle it. But you don’t have to do it alone.” She reached over and gently took your hand, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “You’ve got me, remember?”
You looked at her, eyes a little tired but finally meeting hers fully. “Yeah. I know.” There was a pause. The air between you felt a little less heavy.
Then she smirked. “Good. Because next time you try to hero your way through a mission with a bullet in your leg, I will tase you.”
You laughed—actually laughed—and it felt like the first real one in days. “Noted.”
The laughter faded slowly, but the warmth it left behind lingered in the room — soft, tentative. Natasha didn’t let go of your hand. She just waited, eyes steady on yours, giving you space. You hated how easily she could read you. Hated it, but also needed it. You sighed, letting your head fall back against the pillows. “It’s not just a slump.”
She didn’t say anything, but you could feel her shift, giving you her full attention.
“I’ve just been off,” you said finally. “Not sleeping. Can’t focus. I’ll sit down to work and suddenly it’s like I’m not even there. Like my head’s already moved on to something else, but I don’t know what.” You stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the words. “I keep thinking, what if I freeze up at the wrong time? What if I don’t hear something I’m supposed to, or I get someone else hurt because I’m not fast enough?”
You swallowed. That thought had been crawling around in your head for days now. It wasn’t just about you. It was about her, too. About the team. About all the people who’d put their trust in you. “I think I’ve been trying to outrun it. Like if I keep pushing forward, maybe it won’t catch up to me.”
Natasha was quiet for a long beat before she spoke, “You know that’s not how this works.”
You nodded without looking at her. “I know.”
She reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, gentle, careful not to graze the bruise on your cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said. “You’re just burnt out. And you’ve been trying to fix it by acting like nothing’s wrong, which — shocking no one — only made it worse.”
You gave her a look. “Are you lecturing me right now?”
“Absolutely,” she said, deadpan. Then, a touch gentler, “But only because I’ve been there. And I know how easy it is to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.” You let out a breath. There was something comforting about her voice. Grounding.
“So what now?” you asked, a little helpless.
She gave your hand a squeeze. “Now we take it slow. You rest. I keep nagging you. We figure it out one step at a time. Together.”
You didn’t respond right away. Just looked at her, the strength in her gaze, the steadiness of her grip. The way she was already pulling you back from the edge without demanding you be perfect.
summary – you and zora set out to collect a simple raptor sample, something you've done a dozen times before. but deep in the jungle, things go wrong-fast. when you're attacked and nearly killed, zora's forced to face the one thing scarier than dinosaurs: losing you.
warning(s) – wlw, injury/blood, near-death experience, emotional intensity, fear and panic, soft romance in extreme danger, protective! zora, mutual devotion, medical emergency, crying, desperate love confessions, established relationship, angst with comfort, happy ending
men/minors dni
The jungle was impossibly hot. Sweat beaded down your back as you adjusted the strap on your field pack, ducking under a thick fern frond. Birds—if you could still call them that—shrieked somewhere in the canopy above. Jurassic World may have been rebranded, reborn, regulated to hell and back, but out here in the deeper zones, nature didn’t give a damn about fences.
Zora walked ahead of you, a few steps off-trail, crouching every so often to analyze disturbed foliage or check the track monitor strapped to her arm. Even after years of dating her, you were still in awe of how focused she got on expeditions. Sharp, calculating, unshakably competent.
“You’re sexy when you’re tracking a raptor,” you said, just to hear her scoff and shake her head.
She shot you a sideways glance, that subtle curve of a smirk flickering across her lips. “You always flirt when we’re two kilometers from base and surrounded by prehistoric murder machines?”
“Only when I’m trying to calm myself down.”
Her smile faded slightly. “We’re close. Look.” She pointed to the display. “Three heat signatures up ahead. Looks like an adult with two subadults. The female alpha, if I’m right. If we can get close enough to get saliva or shed dermal cells, that’s all we need. Then we’re gone.”
You nodded, pushing through another layer of leaves. “Okay. You want me to split left and circle around?”
“No,” Zora said quickly, standing up. “We stay together this time. That last incident—”
“I’m not gonna get myself killed. I promise.” You stepped closer, brushing your hand across her arm, the way she always liked. “Besides, you’re here. You wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”
Zora didn’t smile this time. She just stared at you with something heavy in her gaze. “Don’t joke like that.”
You nodded, biting your lip. “Okay. No hero stuff.”
“Right.” She glanced at the tracker again. “Let’s get this over with.”
⸻
You moved quietly through the brush, each step measured and tense. The buzzing of insects filled your ears, the kind of noise that made everything else sound like it was underwater. Then, just beyond a thicket of vines, you saw it: a fresh carcass. Some herbivore—small—half-eaten, jaw torn at an angle no animal should have endured. Slick trails of saliva shimmered in the light breaking through the trees.
Zora crouched beside it, unzipping the sample case. “This’ll work. Give me a vial.”
You handed her one and knelt beside her, watching as she carefully scraped a thick string of clear saliva into the container. You were just starting to feel relieved when she froze.
Then you heard it too.
The crunch of leaves behind you. Slow. Deliberate.
You didn’t even turn.
“Zora,” you whispered.
“I hear it.”
The breath left your lungs in a single icy gust as something massive moved through the trees—low to the ground, fast, but not running. Watching.
Your hand inched toward the tranquilizer pistol on your hip, but it was too late. A blur of striped scales and talons exploded from the side. It was so fast you barely registered the impact before it slammed you backward, the weight of it pinning your body into the mud with the crushing force of a nightmare.
You screamed. Not out of fear, not yet—but out of raw, shocked pain.
The raptor was heavier than it looked—strong, muscular, intelligent. Its golden eyes met yours, head tilted ever so slightly. Curious. Then it hissed, a low, rattling warning that rattled your teeth.
You shoved at it instinctively, your boot finding its ribs. It jerked, more annoyed than hurt, and slashed at your torso with a hind talon. You didn’t even see the blood at first—just felt the heat across your stomach. A deep, slashing line. Not fatal. Not yet. But the second wound followed an instant later. The claws hooked into your upper shoulder, and this time you felt the burn explode like fire through your chest.
“ZORA!” you screamed, your voice breaking into something ragged and primal.
You heard her yell back, heard movement, but your world narrowed to this moment: the raptor tilting its head again, then opening its jaws and snapping at your neck.
You raised your forearm out of instinct.
A terrible choice.
Its teeth sank in, hard and fast, and your body buckled. The sound was the worst part—a wet, ugly crunch as its jaws broke bone like a twig. You screamed again, only this time it was shorter, sharper—cut off by your own breath stuttering.
Everything blurred.
Pain blotted out everything. You felt blood gush down your arm. You couldn’t lift it. Your fingers were useless. The skin on your face was pale, and there was already blackness creeping in around your vision.
The raptor backed off for a half-second, cocking its head, considering. Your blood was in its mouth. Your blood was on its claws. You couldn’t even move anymore. Your limbs were shaking, not from fear now but from blood loss.
Then the sharp crack of a rifle exploded through the trees.
The raptor shrieked, stumbling as a tranquilizer dart embedded in its thigh. It turned toward the noise—but another shot hit it square in the side. It growled, teeth bared, and then bolted into the underbrush, snarling as it vanished into the trees.
Zora was running toward you.
She dropped to her knees, grabbing your face with trembling hands.
“Hey—hey, look at me, look at me—oh god, oh fuck, you’re bleeding—Jesus Christ—”
You couldn’t talk. Your mouth opened but only a breath came out.
She tore open your jacket, saw the gash across your stomach, the blood-drenched shirt. But it was your arm that really broke her. The angle was wrong. The bite was deep, purple and red and raw. She could see bone.
Zora’s voice cracked. “No, no, no—don’t you dare close your eyes. Stay awake, baby, please, stay with me.” Her hands worked fast, grabbing gauze and tape and applying pressure, but it was like trying to dam a river with paper. She took off her own shirt, wrapped it around your arm, tied it tight with her belt. “Don’t die. Don’t fucking die.”
You tried to smile, even as the blackness rolled in. “Didn’t… plan to…”
Your head lolled to the side, and Zora grabbed your face again, her forehead pressing to yours.
“You’re not going out like this. You’re not leaving me, you hear me? I love you. You’re everything, and I swear to god if you die—”
Your eyes rolled slightly. Her voice was the only thing anchoring you.
“You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“Zora,” you whispered, barely audible.
“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”
“I’m… scared.”
She bit her lip so hard it bled. “I know. But I’m not letting you go.”
Then came the sound of the evac chopper thundering above. The comms had picked up her emergency beacon. Zora lifted you into her arms, your blood still spilling over her skin, and carried you through the trees with everything she had. Her legs shook. Her breath came in sobs. But she never once loosened her grip.
⸻
They stabilized you in the chopper, barely. There were three moments where your heart flatlined and came back. Zora didn’t move from your side. She held your hand through all of it, your blood still drying on her skin.
You woke up three days later in a sterile, white hospital bed with your arm in a cast and your torso wrapped in bandages. Your throat was dry. You felt like you’d been hit by a tank.
But then you looked to your right.
And there she was.
Zora Bennett, asleep in a chair, your hand cradled in both of hers like she was still terrified you’d slip away.
You whispered, hoarse: “Zora.”
Her eyes snapped open. And the second she saw you looking back at her, she made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. She leaned in, kissed your forehead again and again, fingers brushing the hair from your face.
“You’re awake. You’re awake. God, I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought I lost you.”
“I heard you,” you murmured. “In the forest. I heard you yelling for me.”
“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she said quietly. “I thought I was going to watch you bleed out in the mud. I couldn’t even feel my legs. I just kept running. I—god, I didn’t know if I’d get there in time.”
“You did.” Your fingers tightened weakly around hers. “You saved me.”
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t wake up.” Her jaw trembled. “You can’t ever do that to me again. I mean it. No more wandering off. No more solo samples. No more pretending you’re fine when you’re covered in blood.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Zora let out a breath. “Good. Because I love you. And next time a raptor comes near you, I’m body-slamming it off a cliff.”
Despite everything, you laughed. It hurt, but it was real.
Then she leaned in, and your lips met—gently, carefully, but full of emotion. Not passion. Not desire. Just need. Fear. Relief. Love.
When you pulled back, your eyes met hers.
“We almost didn’t get a next time,” you whispered.
“But we did,” she said. “And I’m never letting you go again.”
a/n – jurassic world rebirth was SO good. maybe im just partial because scarlett johansson had no business looking that good the entire movie, but still the movie was definitely worth seeing. i couldn’t resist writing a zora bennett fic after that, so i really hope you guys enjoy it! more fics coming soon hopefully <3
~Addie~ @notmakingmymumproud - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
