summary: your life together after college was going so well, but old habits die hard.
warnings: dark fic, mentions of blood, murder, toxic behavior, stalking, power bottom!nat, strap on use, possessiveness, smut 18+
a/n: i need you all to know the file for this fic was created september 2022. it's been a long time coming.
🚩 warnings are clearly stated please do not report/flag :) 🚩
words: 5.5k | feedback is always welcome | masterlist
divider source | gif source
She’s their coworker.
Natasha’s nails tapped against the coffee table as she continued watching the clock.
10:00 PM
They should be home by now.
Her jaw flexed and unflexed as she ground her teeth. She took a deep breath.
They’re not fucking her, they’re just working late.
Natasha stood up, hands clenched on either side as she paced back and forth. She grabbed her phone from the coffee table, scrolling through your messages. You’ve been coming home later and later since you started working with her.
Natasha was sick of it. She could feel the knot in her stomach, growing and aching. She continued pacing, running her hands through her hair. Anyone looking in would think she’s a mad woman. And maybe she is, but she doesn’t care. She loves you, she can’t stomach the thought of you being with someone else. She doesn’t wanna love anyone else.
“Calm down,” She muttered under her breath, dropping down onto an armchair. “Fuck, what’s that thing your stupid therapist told you?”
Natasha took a deep breath, sitting down on the armchair in the corner of the room. She pictured what she wanted to do, in as much detail as possible. She pictured where she would be, to the smallest detail. Her pictures on the wall with people Natasha didn’t recognize, the tea pot she always keeps on her counter. She pictured the bloody kitchen tiles and the blood splatter on her tacky backsplash. She felt her body relax as she thought about what it would feel like to plunge the knife into her body.
When she opened her eyes again she expected to feel lighter, instead she just felt another wave of the same feeling washing over her. She was halfway through typing out a text when you walked through the door.
“Oh, hi babe,” You said softly, walking into the apartment and locking the door behind you. Your tie was loose and you looked tired. Natasha fixed her hair, sighing before moving towards you. She took your work bag from your shoulder and helped you out of your jacket. “Thanks, honey.”
You leaned over and kissed her softly, relief flooded her senses. You still love her. Her lips chased after you, the kiss was too short. “I missed you.”
Your eyes softened, you wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her in close to you. She dropped your things onto the floor, clinging onto you. “Missed you too.”
“Do you have to work so late?” She asked, fingers running over your shoulders, silently inspecting you for any signs of your infidelity. You took her hands into yours, making her look you in the eyes.
“You know I’m working really hard on this presentation, baby,” You said, pulling her hands up to your lips, kissing her knuckles. “It won’t be long until I can come home earlier.”
“It’s not fair,” She grumbled. “You spend so much time there.”
“I know,” You pulled her into you, letting her head rest on your chest tucked right under your chin. “But I can’t let Rose do all the work.”
Natasha’s body tensed at her name, her grip on your shirt tightened. Her jaw clenched. She didn’t like the way her name rolled off your tongue. It seemed so natural. She hated it. Her head tilted up, getting a better look at you.
She snaked her hand behind your neck and pulled you down for a kiss. Her lips were soft against yours with possessive need. Her nails scraped against your neck as she pulled you closer, your hands pushed against her waist.
“What’s wrong?” She asked, surprised. Her eyes were wide, calculating.
“I’m really tired, babe. I’ll make it up to you in the morning,” You kissed her, making sure to press your lips against hers in just the way she liked. “Promise.”
Natasha’s body was stiff as she watched you walk into the bathroom, her fists clenched once again. Were you too tired because you’ve already fucked someone else?
Am I old news? Have they moved on?
Natasha wanted to scream. She shook her head, trying to ignore the voice in her head. The red head caught sight of a picture of the two of you from college.
You were standing in front of her sorority house, your arm was around her and you were both smiling at the camera. It was a few weeks after the night Natasha knew she could trust you.
Natasha shivered as you opened the car door for her. You’d driven to the middle of the woods behind her parents’ estate. It had started pouring rain a few hours prior, making it hard to see anything around you.
“Get out of the car, you have to help me,” Your voice was rushed, shaky. When Natasha didn’t move, wide eyed and pretending to be in shock you took her hands and pulled her down from your pick up truck, pulling the hood of her jacket over her head to protect her from the rain. “Natasha please, snap out of it, you did this.”
She had to admit, she was a little annoyed by your attitude. She did this for the two of you, Gen was just getting in the way. Now she had to pretend to be regretful so you’d pay attention to her and not Gen. Even dead, the bitch still gets more attention than her.
You circled the car, opening the tailgate of the truck and hopping onto the back. Your hands shook as you started pushing Gen’s body closer to the edge. It was wrapped up in the carpet from Natasha’s room.
Natasha wrapped your jacket closer around her body, watching as Gen’s body fell to the floor. “Natasha, please,” You yelled at her frustratedly. “I need your help, we can’t let anyone find this.”
Natasha wanted to roll her eyes. People had yet to find anyone she’d ever gotten rid of. She nodded at you, forcing her eyes to well up.
“Nat,” you said softly, jumping down from the tail gate then closing the trunk. You held her face in your hands, thumb running over her cheekbone as you wiped away a tear. “It’s gonna be okay, we just gotta get rid of the body. We can do this, help me, please.”
Natasha nodded slowly, leaning down to pick up one end of the rolled up carpet while you picked up the other. The two of you walked through the woods, your breath getting heavier and heavier the thicker it got.
“Baby,” Natasha whined. This was already so much more work than she would’ve done already. She had people for this. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Natasha dropped her side of the carpet, making you grunt and drop yours too. You marched over to her, grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking her body.
“Natasha don’t you understand?” You raised your voice. You rarely did that with Natasha. She couldn’t help but enjoy it. “You killed somebody. A person. This is very bad.”
As she looked in your eyes, she could see the paralyzing fear. But just past that, flashing for just a split second, she saw what you were desperately trying to push down. “Did you like it?”
“What?” You were confused, almost disgusted that she asked it. You didn’t want to admit it. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Did you like it?” Natasha stepped closer to you, her lips inches away from yours, her eyes dry from any tears that were previously there. “When I put a knife through her chest, did you like it?”
Her eyes were knowing, cold. “Yes.”
As her smirk grew you knew this was the woman you’d die with. “Come with me.”
She wanted you to want her like that again. She needed it.
When you came out of the shower she was sitting on her bed cross legged, waiting for you to go to bed.
“Does she know you’re not single?” She asked, arms crossed over her chest.
“Of course she does,” You continued drying your hair with the towel, crawling over the bed to Natasha. “You know I can’t stop talking about you in the office.”
You tossed your towel on the floor, crawling over her body so you could kiss her neck. Your lips trailed down to her chest, making her uncross her arms as your lips ghosted the collar of her camisole. You looked up at her, seeing her lips parted as you continued gently down her chest.
“You know I don’t like sharing,” She grumbled, entangling her hand in your hair. You let her pull your head away from her.
“It won’t be for much longer, baby,” You settled in next to her, getting comfortable against your pillow. “I’ll be back to coming home early in no time.”
You turned away to turn off your bedside lamp, before flipping back to her and pulling her closer to you. “Don’t you worry, baby.”
“You better.”
//
When Natasha woke up the next morning, your head was already working between her thighs. Her body reacted out of instinct as she entangled her hand in your hair and pressed you against her.
“Fuck, baby,” She moaned, voice still groggy from sleep. You moaned into her as her nails dug into your skin, your arms around her thighs pulling her closer to your mouth. Her thighs flexed around your head, hips bucking up into you.
You sucked her clit into your mouth, her taste perfectly clouding your senses as your fingertips pressed into her soft flesh. You flattened your tongue against her, letting her rub against your face and take some of the control she always craved. Natasha continued moving, her breaths getting heavier and her moans getting louder. You could feel her pussy getting wetter by the second, her movements starting to falter as she approached her climax.
Her other hand came down to hold your head against her, her back arching off the mattress with the pleasure coursing through her body. Your phone started ringing loudly through the room, making Natasha groan loudly.
“No,” She said, trying to hold your face still, but you were already pulling away. “Y/N, don’t you dare.”
“Sorry, baby,” You said, emerging from under the sheets. Natasha whined and groaned under you. You smirked down at her, putting your index finger to her lips as you picked up the phone.
“Hello?” You answered. Natasha’s brows furrowed. You started tracing her lips with your finger as you tried following what Rose had to say, giving thoughtful ‘Hm’s whenever appropriate. Natasha’s eyes locked onto yours as she took your finger tip into her mouth, her lips perfectly encompassing your digit.
Your eyes glued onto her lips, goosebumps erupting all over your body when her cheeks hollowed as she took more of your finger. You rolled your hips onto hers, making her whine silently. “I’ll be right there, Rose.”
Natasha almost bit your finger. You took it away before she could. “I’m sorry.”
“Baby,” She whined. “At least finish what you started.”
“Trust me, I really wish I could,” You leaned down to kiss her once more, letting her grab hold of the collar on your pajama shirt. “But I just don’t have time.”
Rose would come to regret calling you away from Natasha.
//
It was around midday when Natasha took her dad’s Mercedes to the office building where you worked. She picked up lunch for you in one of your favorite restaurants in town, but not before putting on the dress you got her that made your eyes stay glued to her every time. Natasha loved showing off for you.
“Hi Marty,” She greeted the concierge as she walked to the elevator. “How are you doing?”
“Just fine, Ms Romanoff,” He answered, tipping his hat. “Y/N expecting you?”
“No, I wanted to surprise them,” She answered nonchalantly. Truthfully, she wanted to show Rose how much better she could treat you, but Marty didn’t need to know that.
“You know your way,” He chuckled.
“Sure do,” She mused as she stepped into the elevator. Natasha hummed silently as she watched the floors moving up. Her favorite part about coming to see you at work is when you’d come home, high off parading her around like arm candy, and fuck her until she couldn’t handle another orgasm. Natasha always knew exactly what she was doing.
What she didn’t expect to find, however, was Rose in your office. Takeout containers were left open on your desk as the brunette woman threw her head back with a loud, obnoxious, laugh. Natasha almost rolled her eyes at how much she was throwing herself at you.
Natasha cleared her throat, making your eyes shoot up to meet hers.
“Nat,” You replied, surprised. You introduced her to Rose before excusing yourself. You grabbed Natasha’s hand, walking her out of your office and into an empty conference room. “What brings you here baby?”
“I wanted to bring you lunch,” She replied, shoving the paper bag into your chest, an annoyed pout on her lips. You took the bag, setting it to the side as you leaned against the table, taking Natasha’s hand and pulling her towards you. She tried resisting you, but ultimately let you pull her to stand between your legs with your arms around her waist.
“Thank you for the lunch, sweetheart,” You said, kissing the corner of her jaw as she ran her hands up to your shoulders. She hissed as you sucked on her skin, teeth grazing her sweet spot. You pulled her against you, making sure she felt what you were packing.
“Y/N.”
“I wish you told me you were coming, baby,” You mumbled into her skin. “Would’ve waited.”
“Yeah, you and Rose sure are getting close,” She answered annoyedly.
“Babe,” You said, pulling back from her to look in her eyes. Your easy smirk dropped as you recognized that look, you hadn’t seen it in a while. It sent a shiver down your back and caused a knot in your stomach. “I thought we left this in college.”
Natasha looked down at you, locking eyes. Then she smiled. “Left what in college?”
She grabbed your chin, roughly pulling you in so she could connect your lips. Your hands slid down to her hips, trying to hold her closer to you as if it would stop her. “Have a good lunch, babe.”
You leaned against the doorframe as she strutted down the hallways to the elevator. When Natasha turned around she locked eyes with you again. Even from a distance you could feel the rage radiating out. You had to do something.
Natasha always knew exactly what she was doing.
She got back into her dad’s car and waited. It took you just over twenty minutes to send Rose home. She knew you had caught onto her plans, you just didn’t know exactly what they were.
She was already parked outside the house when Rose got home. Natasha’s plan had already been unfolding in her head for quite some time, she was just waiting for the perfect opportunity. And after seeing her so comfortable in your office, she knew it had to be today.
Natasha stepped out of the car, every nerve in her body set alight with every step she took. Everything she could think about was you. And how your attention would be solely on her in a short while.
“Y/N told me about you,” She said, standing behind Rose in front of the steps to her front door. Rose’s body tensed, making her drop her keys before she turned around abruptly. Her hand flew to her chest, taking deep breaths to calm herself down. Natasha giggled, making the other woman relax slightly. “They told me about how you feel about them.”
“Oh, I-” Rose bent down to pick up her keys, stuttering through a half ass explanation. “I’m so sorry, I- I know they’re not single, and- oh gosh, they’re so in love with you-”
Natasha smirked, almost finding it amusing how nervous she was. She should be nervous.
“I was trying so hard to hide it,” Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed, looking back at Natasha with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s ever happened I- I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you?”
Sometimes Natasha wondered how naive people like Rose made it this far. For a split second she considered the fact she was taking advantage of her naivety. It didn’t matter. Natasha didn’t care. About everything except you.
“I make a mean cup of coffee, if you want to come in we could chat, and um, maybe get to know each other better? Since these days I’m spending more time with your partner than you,” Rose chuckled. She laughed. Natasha hated it, she wanted to kill her right there. Instead she smiled, the warm, inviting smile she knew exactly how to fake.
“That’s a great idea,” Natasha said, walking towards her.
//
It was easy. It was so easy, Natasha was almost bored. All it took to knock her down was a tasteful vase to the head.
Natasha tied her to a chair, sitting cross legged across from her. She narrowed her eyes at Rose, her jaw clenching and anger building at each second that was wasted without you because of her. Rose groaned, eyes attempting to open. Natasha tilted her head to the side, almost daring the other woman to wake up. She didn’t.
It wasn’t always like this. Natasha didn’t need anyone. Until you showed up and made her feel whole. She couldn’t get enough of it. She most definitely wasn’t getting enough lately.
She didn’t have any other options.
You made her do this. Again.
“Why are you doing this?” Natasha’s eyes refocused on Rose, weakly holding her head up as she looked at the redhead. Natasha’s gaze was calculating, her movements slow as she walked over to Rose. She gripped her hair pulling it back forcefully as she brought the sharp knife up to Rose’s neck.
“I don’t like it when people try to take what’s mine,” She pressed the blade to the other woman’s neck, blood spilling down her neck.
“Y-you’re crazy,” Tears flowed out of Rose’s eyes. It was almost amusing. Natasha took the knife away and delivered one strong blow to the side of her head, knocking her out cold.
“Love made me crazy.”
//
It was around 8 PM when you got off work. Early enough to call Nat for dinner. You pulled out your phone as you got in your car, dialing her number while you were pulling out of the parking lot.
“Hello?” Her voice was calm, eerily cold.
“Hi baby,” You answered, eyebrows knitting together as you continued driving. “I’m getting off work now, how about you get dressed up and I’ll pick you up for dinner? I know I’ve been working really late, let me make it up to you.”
“Hmm,” She hummed, watching the blood glisten from the knife she was holding. “That sounds nice, honey.”
“Perfect, I’ll be home-”
“Oh, I’m not home,” She interrupted, your eyebrows furrowed as you stopped at a red light.
“Where are you?”
“Why don’t you come find me? I have something special here for you,” You heard grumbling on the other end, it sounded panicked, scared. Your stomach started knotting, there was nothing you liked about this. Please, please don’t do this.
“Natasha, where are you?” You pulled over, feeling like you were gonna throw up. Not this again.
“Come find me.”
The line went dead. You grabbed your phone, quickly setting your GPS to Natasha’s location. This couldn’t be happening. You thought about all the times Natasha said she was fine, that she was working through things in therapy. She was supposed to be over this.
When you got to your destination, your blood ran cold. You hadn’t recognized the address before, but as you stood right outside Rose’s door, you knew what awaited you on the other side. Your hands shook and you took a deep breath as you walked up to the front door, trying to suppress the knot building in your gut.
You knocked on the door, vile rising up to your throat as the seconds passed. When the door opened, Natasha stood on the other side, her wicked smile shining in the dim light.
“Natasha, what did you do?”
“You’ve been at work all day, is this how you say hi to me?” She grabbed the front of your shirt, pulling you into her and forcing your lips together. The door closed behind you as you pushed her away, looking down at your shirt and noticing the blood smeared on it. “Don’t be ungrateful.”
“Natasha-” You were interrupted by the loud shriek coming from the kitchen on your left. Your body tensed before you looked towards it. Rose was tied up, dried blood along her throat with cuts across her cheeks. Her mouth was gagged and tears stained her cheeks. You looked back at Natasha with a bored expression. “Was this all really necessary?”
“Yes,” She answered nonchalantly. “She was taking up all your time, baby.”
Natasha whined, stepping closer to you. She looked down to your lips then back up at your eyes. Her perfectly manicured nails trailed down the front of your shirt undoing the top buttons. She knew the look in your eyes.
“I just missed you,” She said, lips ghosting over your earlobe. “You know how much I need you.”
You sighed, snaking your hands around her waist. Natasha almost moaned under your touch, the way you had her. How you wanted her no matter what she did. No matter how fucked up she was. You still wanted her.
“Do you love me?” She asked, leaning back to look at you, hand snaking behind your neck. You could see she wanted to make a point, that she knew the answer. But she needed to hear it.
“Yes,” You answered, dipping your face down into the crook of her neck, your lips pressing against her skin and making her nails drag against your scalp. Natasha sighed as you sucked a hickey onto her neck, making you smirk against her skin. She pulled you away from her, nudging you backwards until you fell onto an armchair.
“How much?” Natasha straddled your lap, picking up the knife from the coffee table and running the tip of the blade down the side of your face. You could only look at her, her green eyes practically shining in the dim light. She leaned in, your lips connecting with the corner of her mouth then down the column of her neck. Natasha moaned over you, entangling her hand in your hair and holding you close to her. Your teeth grazed her skin, you needed her.
“You’re my drug,” You grumbled into her neck. “I’ll be using for the rest of my life.”
She tightened her grip on your hair, pulling your head back to look at you. Natasha’s eyes burned with want, looking down at you like she was starved and you were her favorite meal on the planet. A screech from Rose interrupted your moment, making you grunt and roll your eyes. You grabbed the knife from Natasha’s hand before throwing it at Rose. The knife sliced through the air and plunged itself into her leg, making her yelp out muffled sobs.
“Haven’t you taken enough of my time, Rose?” You asked, Natasha gripped your chin and turned your face back to her. Her mouth was agape. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen you do anything more attractive. She brought your lips together into a heated kiss, a clash of lips, tongues, and teeth.
Your hands slid up her thighs to her ass, hands squeezing the soft flesh as she started moving her hips against yours. You tugged on her bottom lip with your teeth, eliciting a moan from her. Her hands tugged on your hair as you trailed your lips down to her neck, Natasha moaned, her body growing hot under your touch.
Rose took this moment to fight through her tears and wiggle her hands out of the restraints slowly, she brought her shaky hands to her lips, slipping the dish cloth tied around her head off. She threw a glance your way, watching as Natasha raked her hands down from your shoulders to your chest, the buttons on your shirt popping. Rose turned her attention down, internally yelping as she pulled the knife from her leg. You and Natasha were still completely lost in each other as Rose attempted to stand up and run for the door. The sound of her body hitting the floor is what brought your attention back to her.
Natasha started laughing, grabbing your chin once again to bring your attention to her before bringing your lips together once more. She stood off your lap as you tapped your fingers on the armrest, watching as Natasha walked over to Rose.
“Did you really think it would be that easy?” Natasha grabbed Rose by the hair, dragging her back onto the chair she was previously on.
“Just get it over with, babe,” You told her, standing back up and picking the knife up off the ground. You stood behind your girlfriend, running one hand up her left arm and kissing up her shoulder to the side of her neck while slowly handing her the knife. Your now free hand pulled her waist closer to you. Natasha hummed as she looked down at Rose, now sobbing and begging for her life. “Then we can call Clint, and he can get this all cleaned up, just like last time,” Your lips continued their way to the corner of her jaw, her free hand coming up to your head. “Then I can go eat you out for dinner.”
Natasha hummed, turning to you and letting you pull her closer. “You’ve come so far,” She said, her fingertips running over your cheekbone, some of Rose’s blood smearing on your skin.
“You know I would do anything for you,” Your lips went back to her neck, trailing up to her ear. Natasha’s hand moved into your hair, moaning as she felt your teeth against her skin. You pulled yourself off her, looking her in the eyes. Natasha looked into your eyes, a wicked smile on her face. She needed you, just as much as you needed her. Together, you created your darkest little paradise.
Rose started crying louder again, and without a second through, Natasha slashed her throat, a clean cut across her neck. Blood poured out from the cut and down her chest, Natasha dropped the knife, pulling you into her in a heated kiss. Natasha moved backwards until she hit the wall, her nails dug into your skin before you pulled away to look at her. She was breathless, her eyes completely focused on you.
Everything faded away, all you could focus on was Natasha, and her on you.
“Fuck, Y/N,” Natasha moaned as you kissed down her neck to her chest, pulling her dress down to reveal her breasts. Your mouth took hold of one of her nipples, running your tongue over it as your hands ran down her body and under her skirt. You got onto your knees, pushing her skirt up.
“You drive me crazy,” You looked up at her, she ran her fingers over the top of your head, before tugging at your roots. Your eyes stayed glued to hers, and hers on yours as you slid her underwear down her toned legs. Natasha moaned when your lips made contact with the skin of her upper thigh, your rough fingertips squeezing her skin as you pushed her legs apart making room for yourself.
Her taste clouded your senses. You were addicted to her, to the way her thighs clenched around your head, the way her nails scratched against your scalp, the sound of her moans filling the room. Your tongue circled her clit, her knees faltered. You pulled one of her legs over your shoulder, supporting her weight against the wall as you brought her closer to the edge.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” Natasha moaned, hips rutting against your face as you brought one hand up to slip two fingers into her. You curled your fingers just the way you knew she liked, a deep moan sounding from above you. Soon you could feel Natasha’s arousal dripping down your chin as she came, holding your face close to her as she rode out her orgasm.
You pulled away, smirking up at her as she caught her breath. Natasha grinned down at you, pulling you up for a kiss. She could taste herself on your tongue as you kissed her, hands roaming back to between her thighs. She moaned against your mouth before grabbing onto your wrist, stopping your movements.
“Stop playing around,” She looked at you before grabbing your strap over your pants. “And fuck me like you mean it.”
A wicked smirk appeared on your face before you pulled her into another kiss. Natasha chuckled against your lips as you pulled her closer into you, running your hands down the sides of her body. Natasha moaned as you pulled her leg over your hip, the bulge of your strap rubbing against her.
Your lips trailed down her neck, leaving deep purple marks in their wake. Her nails scratched against your scalp as she felt your teeth graze her skin, head rolling back in pleasure against the wall. You pulled back before unbuttoning your pants and pulling out the thick toy. Natasha gasped as it pressed against her, opening her eyes to look at you.
Her skin burned as you gripped her hips and slowly lowered her onto the toy, the pleasurable stretch making her eyes roll to the back of her head. She gripped your shoulders for leverage before sinking all the way down your length, moaning when the tip hit the deepest spot.
“You take my cock so well, baby,” You said, teeth grazing the skin on her neck as she pulled the hair at the base of your neck. “Like you were made for me.”
Natasha clenched around you as you started moving your hips, slowly at first, letting her adjust to the length. Her head rolled back against the wall, feeling the familiar knot building. Her hand gripped your jaw, pulling your gaze to her.
”Baby, please,” She moaned, letting her nails dig into your skin. You groaned against her. “I need more.”
The look of pure hunger and want you gave her almost made her cum on the spot. You reached down and held onto her legs, making the toy go deeper as you held her against the wall. Your lips collided in a heated kiss, all teeth and tongue, and muffled moans between the two of you.
This. This is what Natasha needed. The wild, untethered side of you she saw all those years ago. She couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t comprehend anything else beyond you and where the two of you connected.
“Natasha, look at me,” You could tell she was getting closer to her release, you knew what she needed to get her there. Her green eyes, more vibrant than ever, looked into yours. She watched as your pupils dilated when your eyes met, pushing her ever closer to the edge. “I’m all yours. Only yours.”
”Mine,” She moaned, bringing her forehead to yours. You pressed her back flush against the wall. “I- Fuck-“
”You’re all I see,” You said, thrusting deeper into her. “Always. All the time.”
Natasha’s body tensed, goosebumps forming over her skin before she came with a loud moan, nails scraping against your skin as her orgasm washed over her. Your lips met in a searing kiss as she came down from her climax, goosebumps still littering her arms as you slowly pulled out of her and set her down. Tears slid out from the corners of her eyes, Natasha didn’t know she could feel so high. Not before you.
She didn’t let go of you, needing you to stay as close to her as possible. You cupped her face, wiping the couple of tears with your thumbs. When she opened her eyes and looked at you, it felt like her world shifted.
“Marry me.”
//
Natasha smiled as the girl across the bar followed you with her eyes. She recognized that look. She looks at you the same way. The want. The need.
“I know that look,” you said as you approached her with your drinks. It has been a nice start to your honeymoon, the two of you had already gotten a nice, tanned glow. God knows you’d been having fun. Tonight you went out looking for a different kind. “Find anyone you like?”
Natasha’s eyes slid over to yours, a knowing smirk on her face.
Summary: Forgotten name, remembered mask. Queens feels smaller, lonelier, when even the Avengers don’t call anymore. Spider-Girl survives on saving a city that cheers without knowing her face, aching for someone who once did.
A/N: Fem!Spider!Reader. I used some dialogue from Spider-Man: No Way Home for the grave scene.
_______________________________
Queens was quieter than Manhattan, even in daylight.
The streets didn’t scream here. They murmured. Dogs barked in backyards. A kid rode past on a bike with baseball cards in the spokes. A corner deli still sold bagels like nothing in the world had ever cracked.
And there it was. The little cemetery at the edge of a block you used to walk every Sunday after grocery shopping.
You stood at the gate for too long, hands buried in your pockets, hood up like a coward.
May Parker.
1964–2024.
Beloved Aunt. Fierce Advocate. Heart of Queens.
The stone looked the same as it had the day they buried her, but everything around it felt smaller now. The flowers were wilted. The grass, uneven.
You crouched beside the grave, fingers tracing the letters like they might move under your touch.
“Hey, May,” you whispered, voice thin.
The city didn’t know you anymore, but she still did … in your head, in the part of you that never really left this block.
“I know it’s been a while. Things have been… a lot.”
A bitter laugh scraped out of your throat.
“They don’t know me. Any of them. Not even her.”
You didn’t say Wanda’s name. You didn’t have to. May would’ve known.
“I keep telling myself it’s better this way. Safer. Cleaner. Nobody gets hurt because of me. But I don’t—”
Your mouth pressed shut. You stared at the grass, jaw tight, chest aching.
“I don’t know how to do this alone.”
The breeze carried nothing back.
You straightened up the moment you heard footsteps approaching. Your fists clenched at your side.
“How’d you know her?” The voice of Happy broke through the silence.
You didn’t turn your head, both of you staring at the gravestone.
“Through Spider-Girl.” You mumbled, glancing over.
“Same.” His voice had a slight crack to it. You turned your head to look at him now, his eyes not meeting yours. “I lost a good friend a while back… felt a lot like this. It hurts because they’re gone, and then it hurts all over again because you remember what they stood for and you wonder… is all that gone too?”
The sting of losing Tony was finally starting to fade but you couldn’t help but flinch.
“No, it’s not gone.” You blinked back tears. “Everyone that she helped, they’ll keep it going.”
“You really think so?” Happy looked as if he was fighting back tears as well, his eyes never leaving May’s name.
“I know it.” You gave him a small smile. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Yeah…” Happy nodded, finally pulling his eyes over to look at you. “Nice to meet you.”
You gave him one more small smile, backing away slowly to give one last look at May’s grave.
______________________________
The next week, you tried. You really tried.
You cooked. You cleaned. You even answered an email about an old internship program you’d been accepted to years ago.
You used your real name. Not because it meant anything to anyone anymore, but because it still meant something to you.
You sat through a polite, awkward interview with a man who smiled like he wasn’t sure if he should. You nodded in all the right places. Pretended like you weren’t calculating swing routes through Manhattan behind your eyes.
But every normal moment felt like wearing someone else’s skin.
A smile from a barista hit you wrong — too much like Natasha’s.
A red coat in a crosswalk made your heart lurch — not Wanda, just a stranger.
A girl in a leather jacket flipped her hair and for half a second you swore it was Yelena.
The world moved like it always had, except every step of it was a ghost of what you’d lost.
___________________________
The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening like black glass. You walked without thinking, letting your boots tap against the pavement in a steady rhythm. Storefronts flickered with neon signs, steam curled from manhole covers, and the faint hum of traffic filled the gaps of silence in your mind.
Every face that passed was a reminder, ordinary people, unaware of the life you’d once shared with them, the small moments that had made the city feel like home. You used to have friends here, classmates, neighbors, people who knew your laugh, your habits, the way you always tilted your head when concentrating. Now, they were strangers. You were just another shadow moving past them.
You stopped on the corner to stare at the bodega that had been rebuilt. The one you would stop by everyday when you were younger. Mr. Delmar was talking to customers and his cat sat perched on the counter next to him.
You hadn’t visited much in the past few years. Avengers business and life in Manhattan with Wanda had taken up so much of your time, but you still made sure to pop by anytime you were in Queens.
You avoided it now. No longer trying to seek out the disappointing feeling of someone from your past not recognizing you.
You had moved back to the neighborhood shortly after everything happened. The need to feel some type of familiarity was overwhelming. For a while, you would stop by the apartment you had shared with Aunt May, the one you grew up in. You still had a key.
You made the rent payments for a few months until your funds began drying up. Payroll for Stark Industries had conveniently forgotten about your existence along with the rest of the world, meaning the paychecks you got used to receiving for the Avengers had stopped as well.
Now, the apartment sat empty, waiting for a new family and memories to fill it.
Instead, you made your way to the only thing you could afford; a dingy little studio in Forest Hills, right down the block from where you grew up. Cracked plastered walls, a tiny kitchenette barely big enough to make a cup of instant ramen, and a single window that rattled whenever the wind picked up, a stark contrast to the mid-town Manhattan apartment you had shared with Wanda for years.
It wasn’t much, but it was yours for now. You set your battered bag down on the floor, the zipper dragging against the scuffed linoleum. A few cardboard boxes leaned in corners, unopened, their contents, old notebooks, spare web cartridges, a few clothes, scattered reminders of a life that no longer existed for anyone else.
You boiled water in a chipped pot, dropping in a packet of instant ramen. The smell rose, weak and lonely, filling the small space with the faintest echo of comfort. You leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the quiet streets below. Neon signs from the corner deli flickered in the damp evening light. Steam curled up from manholes. The city breathed, oblivious to the girl tucked in this tiny, empty room, the girl the world had chosen to forget.
You ate slowly, the noodles barely tasting like anything, more ritual than sustenance. Each bite felt like a small act of defiance, a reminder that you still existed, even if no one else remembered. And as the night stretched on, shadows pooling in the corners, you realized that for the first time in months, the apartment didn’t just feel like a place to sleep. It felt like a grave for everything you had lost, and yet, somehow, still a home.
___________________________
That night you climbed to the roof and stayed there until dawn.
No sirens. No gunfire. No screaming sky. Just the quiet ache of a city that didn’t need you, but would still die without someone like you in it.
You turned the ring around your neck until the chain bit into your skin.
“You’d tell me to fight,” you murmured into the dark.
Not for yourself. For the people who couldn’t.
But who were you fighting for anymore?
You’d thought about finding her. Every day, sometimes a dozen times, that thought gnawed at you like a loose tooth. Wanda. The only person who had ever really seen you. The one you’d pulled back from darkness more times than you could count.
But the closer the thought came, the heavier it felt. Wanda had a life now — she didn’t know you, didn’t remember the nights you’d spent together, the quiet words, the stolen kisses, the little moments that had made her smile.
And even if she did remember… the truth was, everyone Spider-Girl had ever gotten close to was in danger. Aunt May. Tony. Natasha. Steve. Those you loved had either died or been irreparably changed because of you. Even small connections carried risk. You couldn’t bring that back into Wanda’s life. You couldn’t put her in the path of your chaos, no matter how much you ached to be near her.
What kind of friend, what kind of lover, barges back into a life that has moved on? What right did you have to tear open a wound she didn’t even know existed?
And even if you tried, even if you somehow convinced her to remember… would she really want to? Could she forgive a ghost she had no memory of, a girl who had vanished without explanation?
The spell had done more than erase your name from the world. It had built walls around everyone you loved, walls you weren’t sure you should climb. And so, for now, you let yourself stay in the shadows, watching, waiting, remembering enough for the both of you.
You stayed on that rooftop until the morning traffic started to hum again, until the city below remembered how to be alive, while you sat above it all, still half convinced you were already dead.
__________________________
The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and sugar, the same as it had years ago. You hadn’t been here in a long time. Once, this had been your refuge: late-night study sessions, coffee-fueled lab reports, whispered debates over molecules with Wanda texting in the corner. You pushed those memories down like you always did.
A girl behind the counter glanced up and smiled. “Hi! First time here?”
You shook your head, ordering something warm you didn’t even want. Gwen, the barista, wiped her hands on her apron. Her smile was easy, friendly, the kind that belonged to someone who’d spent the day greeting strangers and learning nothing about them.
“Sorry, don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” Gwen said. “What’s your name?”
“Y/N,” you said, keeping your voice steady.
Gwen Stacy was your lab partner in college at Empire State University. You’ve spent countless nights going over DNA sequencing and molecular orbital diagrams together in this exact coffee shop. Wanda began tagging along very early on after her distaste for Gwen’s over use of smiley faces when texting you.
She smiled again, polite and friendly, then glanced at you curiously, brow furrowed. “You look… like someone I’ve seen before,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “I can’t figure out why.”
You forced a small, hollow smile. “Guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”
She nodded, still glancing at you for a beat, then turned away to the next customer as another barista slid your drink over the counter to you.
A man bumped into a table behind you, sending a cup of coffee sliding toward the edge. Without thinking, you snatched it mid-fall, placing it safely back on the tray. “Careful,” you said lightly, tucking the reflex into a casual shrug. Gwen shot you a quick glance and smiled. The man mumbled an apology.
You held your coffee like it might anchor you to something real, something normal, but it didn’t.
You sat at a corner table, sipping the lukewarm drink and letting the background hum of the city bleed in through the glass. The chatter, the clinking cups, the smell of coffee — it was supposed to feel ordinary.
But ordinary had abandoned you.
You were just a shadow moving through a city that had carried on without you, each normal encounter a reminder of the life you no longer fully belonged to.
And yet… you kept trying.
Because somewhere beneath the ache, beneath the cold and the loneliness, a tiny spark of hope whispered: maybe, someday, things could feel real again.
Summary: She fought battles that shaped the world, yet no one remembers her face or her name. From the shadows of skyscrapers, Y/N watches a city that thrives without her, a ghost in the streets she once called home. Every victory, every life saved, is hers alone, and the silence of being forgotten is deafening.
A/N: Fem!Spider!Reader.
____________________________________
The city didn’t feel like home anymore.
New York had always been loud, dirty, and alive. A comfort in the way chaos could sometimes cradle you. Now it was just noise. Car horns. Sirens. People brush past without a glance. All of them breathing, talking, living in a world that had forgotten you.
The late-night rush hour hummed below you, cabs cutting off delivery vans, a guy on a bike yelling at a bus, neon bleeding against rain-slick streets. The city was still breathing, still alive, still utterly indifferent to the girl sitting thirty stories up with her knees tucked to her chest and a mask pushed halfway up her face.
Your fingers absentmindedly touched at the ring still looped on the chain under your suit, pressed cold against your sternum like a secret you couldn’t let go of.
You’d stopped talking out loud to it months ago. Stopped whispering promises into the night. The city didn’t answer anyway.
Every thread that had once tied you to the people who mattered was cut clean. Not frayed. Not burned. Just gone.
A police scanner chirped in your ear… a hold-up, three blocks over, armed, quick in and out. Easy. Your body moved before you even decided to; instinct firing faster than thought, muscle memory carrying you into motion like a spring finally released. You vaulted off the ledge, weightless for half a breath before gravity clawed you down. Then—thwip—a line shot from your wrist, the tension catching with a jolt in your shoulders that was both sharp and reassuring. The city tilted beneath you, skyscraper windows blurring into streaks of yellow and blue as you arced forward. Wind tore at your face, cool and biting, tunneling past your ears like a freight train, and if not for the mask, it would have stung your eyes, pulled tears free and left them streaking back across your cheeks. The pull of each swing yanked at your ribs, your hips, every joint humming with controlled momentum. Webbing latched onto steel and glass, anchors that flexed and held as you let go, kicked forward, and launched again, carving through the air with a precision only years of repetition could make effortless. Webbing latched itself onto steel and glass as your body glided through the night sky.
You hit the pavement in the middle of the street just as the gunmen came bursting out of the bodega. They froze; not because they didn’t know who you were, but because they did.
“Aw, hell,” one muttered, already dropping the duffel bag.
Spider-Girl.
Not the friendly neighborhood kid. Not the rookie. You’d been doing this for years, long enough that the cops gave you a wide berth, long enough that the tabloids had stopped asking if you were dangerous and settled on probably, but useful.
The responding officers didn’t even draw on you when you webbed the men to a streetlight. One of them, a young guy with a nervous jaw, gave you a stiff nod.
“Thanks for the assist,” he said, like the words cost him something.
You returned the nod and disappeared before he could finish saying your name, or what counted for your name now. Not that it mattered. No one ever asked who you were anymore. They’d all stopped remembering a long time ago.
__________________________________________
Your apartment greeted you with the same cold silence it always did.
Fourth floor. Cracked plaster. A kitchen too small to cook in, a window that rattled when the wind pushed too hard against it. No photos. No keepsakes. Nothing that could give you away. Everything that had once been you, every picture, every file, every faint trace of your life, had been erased. Doctor Strange’s spell hadn’t just made you invisible to the world; it had scrubbed every reminder that you had ever existed.
You peeled the suit off piece by piece, the fabric sticking where sweat had cooled against your skin, and tossed it over the back of the only chair you owned.
Even your old suits refused to recognize you now, patterns, functions, memories locked behind the persona you used to be. You’d had no choice but to start over, crafting new suits from scratch, stitch by stitch, as if sewing yourself back into the world one web line at a time.
A bruise bloomed across your thigh, deep purple, already aching, but you didn’t bother with ice.
You made coffee instead. Midnight, bitter, black.
The ring clinked against the mug when you wrapped your hands around it, chain slipping loose, catching the dim light from the street. One of the only pieces of your old life you were somehow able to keep. You stared at it like it might do something, glow, hum, vibrate, remember.
It didn’t.
You sat on the edge of the bed, coffee cooling untouched in your hands, and tried not to think about the way it had once been different. The way the world had known your face, your laugh, the sound of your voice. The way she had.
Wanda.
You pressed your palms to your eyes, hard, until stars burst behind them. You weren’t going to cry. Not again. Not tonight.
Another chirp from the scanner cut through the quiet. Midtown. Large-scale event. Enhanced combatants confirmed. Avengers-level threat.
There was a time when you would have been one of the first people called to join. Back when the Avengers knew who you were. Back when Tony was alive.
Now you were just a vigilante that happened to be in the right place at the right time. The Avengers, or what was left of them, wouldn’t turn down your help but they certainly wouldn’t request it.
They remembered Spider-Girl vanishing with half the universe, only to reappear on that battlefield in Wakanda like no time had passed at all. You’d swung into the chaos, no questions asked, fighting beside legends, bleeding for a world you barely had time to recognize again. They remembered how fast you moved, how hard you hit, how you didn’t hesitate even though you’d just lost five years of your life. But they didn’t remember why you fought like that, the people who mattered, the promises you were trying to keep. To them, you were a weapon that showed up when needed, then faded back into the crowd.
You stared at the device a long time before moving.
The logical thing would be to ignore it. Stay small. Stay safe.
But you were never very good at logic when people were in danger.
By the time you zipped the suit back up, the coffee had gone cold and the city had started screaming.
But the scanner chirped again, and duty, or maybe just habit, pulled you back to your feet.
You hit the streets a minute later, swinging fast, high, clean, a red-and-blue ghost heading straight for a warzone no one knew you’d fought a hundred times before.
The closer you got to Midtown, the louder it became. Panic had a sound. It wasn’t just sirens and screaming; it was the city’s heartbeat going erratic, skipping in all the wrong places. Smoke crawled between skyscrapers, car alarms bellowed, civilians scattered.
You swung down hard onto a traffic light, crouching against the glow. Below, the street was torn apart. An armored SHIELD convoy lay in ruins, metal curled back like paper, agents scrambling for cover behind flipped trucks. A massive enhanced brute, ten feet tall and glowing faintly blue through cracked, stone-like skin, swung what was left of a sedan like a bat.
Arrows whistled from a rooftop. Kate Bishop, still moving like Clint had trained her, clean, precise, efficient. You hadn’t seen her in months, not since the quiet reshuffling of what was left of the team. Back then she’d been green but hungry, desperate to prove herself after Clint introduced her to the Avengers. Now she moved like she’d been fighting in the big leagues a while.
Then another voice cut through the chaos, sharp, Russian, annoyed.
“Move your asses, amateurs!”
Your stomach dropped.
Yelena.
She vaulted off a nearby fire escape like she’d done this a thousand times, twin batons sparking at the tips. She struck the brute’s side, electricity cracking across its ribs. It staggered.
Your throat closed. For a heartbeat, the whole world folded in on itself. Not because she was here, but because of who wasn’t.
Natasha should have been here.
Yelena’s hair whipped over her shoulder as she turned, barking orders at SHIELD agents like she owned the street. It was the same fire, the same controlled chaos, the same refusal to die quietly that Natasha had carried into every fight.
And it hurt.
Not the bruise blooming across your thigh. Not the crack in your ribs from the last hit you took two nights ago. This was different. This was the sharp, breathless kind of pain that lived behind the sternum, the kind that whispered that no matter how close you stood, she wouldn’t know who you were.
You webbed the brute’s wrist mid-swing, yanking it off balance, driving a kick into its jaw hard enough to rattle your teeth.
“Acid head!” Kate shouted from above, losing an explosive arrow. “Go for the cracks!”
Yelena dove low, batons striking the glowing fissures at its knees while you vaulted over its back, webbing both arms to opposite street poles and pulling with everything you had until something deep inside it gave with a wet, horrible snap.
It roared and went down hard, shaking the pavement. SHIELD operatives surged forward to restrain it, cuffing, triaging, shouting orders.
Kate lowered her bow and exhaled, glancing your way. “Nice timing, Spider-Girl.”
Yelena barely looked up as she wiped blood from her cheek. “For once.”
Then Kate hesitated, just for a second, eyes narrowing as she slid the bow over her shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, casually, like it was just an observation. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
The kind of question that didn’t sound like a question.
You froze. You could feel the words at the back of your throat, clawing to get out, the truth like a dam about to break. But you only shrugged, light, nothing behind it, a lie that felt like sand in your mouth.
“Here and there,” you managed.
Kate nodded once, already turning away, already scanning the rooftops for her next move. “Well… glad you showed.”
And that was it.
No spark of memory. No flicker of recognition. Just another teammate on another chaotic night.
You didn’t stay to listen to the chatter, or the report, or the thank-yous that would never come.
You fired a webline and left before anyone could say anything else, lungs burning, hands shaking, heart cracking all over again.
Not from the fight.
From standing that close to Natasha’s sister, knowing everything you wanted to say would mean nothing.
Later that night, the television flickered in your small apartment, anchors recapping the Midtown chaos: traffic snarled, SHIELD agents scrambling, a towering blue-skinned brute brought down by a swift red-and-blue figure.
Spider-Girl.
You winced as you adjusted the ice over your abdomen.
The clips played over and over. The reporters never mentioned her civilian identity, and no one remembered Mysterio exposing it, just that Spider-Girl had stopped him. No one saw you in those reports. No one connected the victories, the narrow escapes, the countless times you’d saved the day.
You leaned back in your chair, sipping lukewarm coffee, letting the footage run. The city was alive and moving forward, but you weren’t part of its memory anymore. Not in any tangible way.
______________________________
The morning stretched slowly. You ate your cereal in silence, listening to the faint rumble of the city through the cracked window. You stirred the spoon around the bowl absentmindedly, eyes tracing the cracks in the wall, thinking about how long it had been since anyone had called your name.
Your studio was small, dim, and mostly empty, just enough space for a bed, a chair, and a half-packed box of instant noodles. No photos, no keepsakes, no reminders that you had ever belonged anywhere.
You grabbed your coat, slipped your mask into your pocket, and walked to the corner grocery store. It was easy to hide your suit underneath your winter clothes, making sure to keep the sleeves pulled up just enough to not peek through the arms of your sweater. The aisles smelled faintly of mildew and plastic.
A kid knocked over a display of soda cans as you passed. Reflexively, you caught a few before they could roll onto the floor. “Careful,” you said quietly. The kid mumbled thanks and ran off, leaving you alone again in the echoing aisles.
You grabbed a few packs of ramen, some bread, and a carton of milk. The cashier gave you a polite nod, but no smile, no recognition, no connection. You weren’t a person here, just another face in the crowd, a shadow moving along with the hum of a city that didn’t need you.
You paid with crumpled bills and carried your small bag back to the apartment, listening to your own footsteps on the cracked pavement. The building was quiet, empty, and waiting for you to fill it with your presence, but you knew it wouldn’t. You were alone. Always alone. No family, no friends, no one left who remembered your laugh, your voice, or even the battles you had fought.
Back in the apartment, you made a small pot of noodles and ate slowly, listening to the loud voices of your neighbors arguing. Sirens wailed in the distance, cars honked, the hum of life went on. And you sat there, invisible, unnoticed, a lone figure in the shadows of the city that had moved on without you.
Summary: Spider-Girl risks everything to protect reality. She leaps into chaos, fights through a world tearing apart, and faces forces no one else could. But a spell will erase her from everyone’s memory, leaving her to watch the city continue without her, her heroics celebrated by a world that will never know her name. She has lost Wanda, the love of her life, and Aunt May, her last family, and now must rebuild her entire life alone, carrying the weight of love, loss, and sacrifice that no one else will remember.
A/N: Fem!Spider!Reader. Loosely based on Spider-Man: No Way Home.
_____________________________________________
The world ended quietly.
No explosion. No screaming sky. Just a single breath, sharp and cold, full of goodbye.
You stood on the top of the broken statue’s torch, the sky tearing open in a purple haze, figures clawing through the rift toward your reality. Tears threatened to fall as your hand clenched around the only thing that mattered — a ring, warm against your skin, heavy with everything you were about to lose.
“This is the only way,” Strange had said. His voice carried none of the certainty you needed, only exhaustion, resignation, maybe even a trace of pity.
No one argued. Not you. Not Wong. No one had a better plan.
One spell. One perfect erasure.
Spider-Girl would remain. The world would still know her — the hero, the Avenger, the mask, the myth.
But you, the girl beneath, would vanish. Every face that had ever turned toward you in recognition would slide past like you were a stranger. Every hand that had held yours would fall away.
Even hers. Especially hers.
There wasn’t another way. And in the end, you had agreed. Because if you didn’t, more people would die. If you didn’t, the city would burn. If you didn’t, Aunt May’s death would mean nothing.
So you stood there, letting the world forget you.
Strange met your eyes one last time. For a heartbeat, the Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t a master of the mystic arts, just a man who looked guilty, who wished there’d been another way.
“It was nice knowing you, kid,” he said quietly.
You didn’t have long before the spell would take effect. You leapt off the torch, refusing to stay and watch as Strange carved symbols into the sky to erase all of your traces. Not even glancing back to see the other versions of yourself fade into their own worlds.
_____________________________________________
You’d kissed Wanda for the last time ten minutes later, in your shared apartment twenty blocks from the statue. You pulled her close, desperate and shaking, memorizing everything, the soft drag of her bottom lip against yours, the faint smell of her shampoo, the quiet gasp she tried to hide.
She cupped your face with both hands, confusion furrowing her brow, fear bleeding through the cracks of the calm she always wore for everyone else.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t tell her the truth.
“Talk to me, baby,” she pleaded, voice breaking in a way you’d only ever heard in nightmares.
All you managed was, “I love you.”
She smiled through her tears, a broken, fragile curve of her mouth, pretending everything could be okay.
And then you had to pull away.
You swallowed hard, tears stinging, and stepped back. “I… I have to go,” you whispered. “Before it happens. I don’t want you to see… what you’ll forget.”
Her brow furrowed. “Wait—”
She studied your face, too scared to ask questions.
She whispered, Come back to me, like a promise she could anchor herself to.
You hadn’t had the heart to tell her you were already slipping away.
_____________________________________________
Now the city blurred at the edges, like wet paint smeared by invisible fingers.
From your perch on the torch, you watched the people below. They ran through the streets, coats clinging to their bodies, voices carrying up in panic, fear, confusion. A few drivers abandoned cars, screaming, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked night.
The sky above had nearly closed its jagged wound, strands of gold and purple energy spilling across the clouds like molten veins. You didn’t need anyone to tell you what was coming. You could feel it in your bones.
You felt it already, like the air itself was pushing you away, like the whole world had turned its head and stopped recognizing you mid-breath.
Your name stayed. Your memories stayed. You stayed.
But everyone else, everyone you’d ever loved, fought beside, bled for, would lose every trace of you.
Summary: The truth was inescapable—you owned her heart entirely. And she would burn anything, anyone, even the world itself, for you. Only for you.
Pairings: Targaryen Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader
Word count: 11k
Tags | Warnings: +18 HOUSE OF THE DRAGON AU, AMAB!Natasha, Targayen!Natasha, top!Natasha, bottom!r, smut, forced marriage, pregnancy, fluff! <3 angst, death
Author's Note: I really had a nice night and just got off my shift so here is the most requested part 2. I am actually proud of the fluff I made here <3 me when? >< Asks and feedbacks are vv much appreciated.
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During the day, Natasha was a king. She attended meetings, made decisions, or even went to war and ruled her kingdom. But as soon as the sun set and she entered her chambers, she had another duty to commit to—making heirs.
She was true to her words when she said you'll stay with her to make sure you're well-bred every night. You even thought that if there would be any complications with you giving birth to her child and she would have to choose, you know very well that she will choose to save the child over you.
And you're fine with that, you'd rather die.
You wake up alone—body sore and used. She was gone again, off to her duties. You're not seeing her all day—didn't speak to her. This was your routine now—spend the nights being bred, wake up alone, barely speak the next day. The healers who checked on your health each morning found you quiet. You answered their questions with simple nods or shakes of your head.
Your expression was blank, almost vacant. The anger or even resentment had drained away, leaving behind a numb resignation. Every night was the same, her claiming you with a single-minded purpose, and you accepting it silently, eyes fixed on the wall or ceiling rather than meeting hers. You never looked at her during these moments, never met her gaze and tried hiding any emotion on your face. Your eyes remained tightly shut throughout or your head turned away from her.
The room filled with the sounds of a loveless act, wet slapping of flesh, heavy breathing, and your quiet hitches. You were spread beneath her, fingers digging into her muscled back, legs wrapped around her waist. Stripped, breast bouncing with her thrusts—bare.
But Natasha couldn't see you at all.
After each encounter, Natasha's heart would never admit that it cracks just a little bit as she watches you as you silently move to the side of the bed. Still bare, uncleaned, still not looking at her even if you can feel her seed oozing out of you and drift off to sleep.
It was always the same cycle.
"It's been over a month. Isn't it taking too long? You're vigorous and your wife seems fine—where is the heir? Are we sure she is fine?"
Natasha's jaw clenches at the question, it seems to be pertaining that the problem lies to you, but what if it's not? What if the problem was with her?
Her voice dropped calmly but threateningly—more frightening than if she'd shouted. "Ser Tony, I suggest you choose your next words very carefully. Because if you dare insinuate that my wife is somehow defective or that I should seek comfort elsewhere like you did to your own wife…" she stepped closer, her face inches from Tony, her eyes blazing with anger. "I will have you drawn and quartered in the courtyard before sunset. My wife is pure. My wife is capable. And I will bed no other woman until she bears my heir."
Natasha's bloodline bred like rats—sharing wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, anyone that carries the same bloodline as the Targaryens. And that is something her generation did not carry on with them. Looking up to the history of her family, the earlier kings brought different women in their beds just to be able to make an heir. So any suggestion of doing the same thing is not new to her.
You were asleep when Natasha reached her chambers. You have been doing it a lot lately, so you won't be able to see or feel what she does to you—only the next day you'll feel how you were used.
Without a word, Natasha slipped under the covers, wrapping her body around yours. She pulled you back against her chest, inhaling deeply the scent of your hair and skin.
You stirred slightly at her touch, subconsciously expecting her rutting to you in the next minutes—but it never came. Tonight, she did nothing but hold you closer, her breath warm against your shoulder. Her thumb caresses a gentle motion, occasionally tracing patterns on your stomach. You thought it was a trap so you tried pushing your bare ass against her to see what she would do, if she would take that as a sign and finally fucks into you but she didn't, she did push you against her more but just to hold onto you.
As if that's the only thing she needs.
Another unexpected happened, you felt some hot tears slide down your shoulder to your breast as she pressed her nose against your shoulder—something deep inside her is breaking.
You had grown numb to her touch. You felt nothing for her—no love, no hate, just quiet acceptance. But hearing her silent cries now, something shifted inside you. And you hated yourself feeling the same way, something inside you literally broke, scared that the woman behind you would actually hear it.
This gentle embrace was completely foreign to you. She had never held you like this, not even after she'd filled you with her seed and marked you as hers. The way she clutched you now was new, desperate almost.
On her side, she never dared to touch you not because she doesn't want to but because she's not sure if you want to. But right now, thinking you were asleep, she let herself take the chance, not to take you, but just hold on to you as if her life depended on it. Every morning she would wake up and leave because she thought you prefer it that way even though what she wants to do is spend every morning with you.
Her lips pressed softly against your shoulder, a gentle kiss that sent an unfamiliar shudder through you. It was so contrary to her usual rough handling that your heart actually skipped a beat. This kiss was pure tenderness, a language her hands had never spoken to you before. She kissed you again, slower this time before she nuzzled her cheek to your shoulders.
The sobs eventually turned into soft sighs as she finally allowed herself to drift into sleep. Her breathing slowed, matching your own. For the first time, you slept closely to each other, not even an inch between you—just two people seeking comfort.
You woke up, facing her, still asleep. You didn't dare move. The moonlight streaming through the window cast gentle shadows over her face. This very woman, the king who tamed dragons, had people knelt before her, the very woman who had taken your innocence, who had used your body—has features that contrasted her, they were soft, gentle. The hands that had gripped your thighs so roughly now held you protectively. The mouth that had bitten and left a mark in every inch of your skin was parted softly in sleep. Carefully and curiously, your fingers slowly traced her strong jawline, brushing against her bottom lip. You'd never actually get to touch her like this, never noticed how soft they were—how almost vulnerable they looked now—all the features of a Targaryen.
But like this, she was almost beautiful. Not the brutal king who took your body every night.
Your heart aches strangely as you stare at her. The hate you've held onto for so long feels suddenly foreign and heavy.
Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open and you felt your breath catch in your throat and quickly closed your eyes, pretending to be asleep. Her hand moved to rest on your waist as she studied your sleeping face. Then, her lips brushed against your temple in a soft, almost reverent kiss. She carefully began to extract herself from around you, moving slowly to avoid waking you. Her strong arms gently shifted your sleeping form onto the pillow, adjusting you comfortably as if you were made of glass.
Please, you begged God that she won't notice if it's possible for people asleep to blush because you can literally feel your face heating up!
You opened your eyes when you were sure she had left. The room was silent except for the distant crackling of the fireplace. Your heart beat loudly in your ears, the stone walls around it shattering unexpectedly. You hated yourself for the warmth that spread through your chest, for the unfamiliar flutter because for a long time, you felt nothing for the king but utter numbness, a void—nothingness.
And overnight, that changed.
Suddenly, you felt a wave of nausea hit you. You rushed to the chamber pot, falling to your knees as you heaved uncontrollably. Your stomach twisted and churned, puking in a violent rush. You heaved again and again, your body wracked with spasms until there was nothing left to come up. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the cold room. You felt weak, exhausted, and utterly miserable. Your hands shook as you wiped your mouth with a trembling hand.
You turned, your hair falling over your shoulders like a curtain trying to hide your nakedness. Maester Wanda stood there, her expression grave yet compassionate. She used to check on you every morning and upon looking at your state right now, she couldn't be wrong.
"You're with a child."
⧗
The great hall was filled with laughter and music. Nobles danced, drank, and feasted. You watched from your seat at the high table, your condition not yet visible beneath your rich silks. Natasha was there, with her smile, making ladies swoon. But she didn't provoke them, she merely smiled politely, her gaze occasionally drifting towards you with a secretive glance. The ladies took her smiles as encouragement, throwing themselves at her shamelessly. But she did nothing—no touches, no commands of making them come to her.
She was just being her—soft—drawing them in and you hated it.
You pushed your seat back and stood up, excusing yourself without a word to anyone. Natasha watched as you walked away, her gaze following your every move until you disappeared through the door. She didn't follow you, didn't call out, just continued to sit there, sipping her wine.
Fresh air was something you needed when you got out, but your peace was interrupted with hush whispers. You peeked around the corner and saw Lord Commander Tony in a hushed conversation with another Lord Commander, James.
"The king seems distant lately," Ser Tony said, "I've arranged some…companionship for her, a surprise. The queen clearly isn't fulfilling her needs."
Ser James chuckled, "Prostitutes, you mean? Natasha deserves some real pleasure, not just cold duty with the queen." Ser Tony nodded, grinning.
Your stomach churned violently, just as it had that morning when you'd discovered you were with a child. The thought of those women being paraded before the king made you want to throw up again. Rage consumed you, clouding your thoughts especially after seeing women swoon over her.
Did she know about this? This surprise of sorts? Having some whore line up for her?
All your inside felt numb like it had been before. You wiped away the single tear that had escaped. With mechanical movements, you turned and walked back inside, leaving the cool night air behind.
A servant approached with a tray of drinks, you took one without hesitation, downing it in a few gulps before immediately reaching for another. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glassy from the alcohol. You continued this pattern, drink after drink, until the room began to spin. The other guests noticed your behavior but said nothing—some found it amusing, others worried. You stumbled around the room, laughing loudly at nothing in particular, occasionally bumping into more guests.
"Toli…" (More) you slurred.
When you were about to go where you saw another set of freshly served goblets of wine as if they're drawing you in, you stumbled forward, nearly falling flat on your face. But Prince Steve reacted quickly, his large hands shooting out to catch your waist and prevent your fall. He pulled you upright, body pressed briefly against his. His eyes scanned your face, your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes that seemed to struggle to stay open. He could smell the wine on your breath as you leaned heavily against him, your body collapsing into his chest.
He had always taken a liking on you.
As he held you, he felt an unfamiliar warmth spread through him. It was wrong—absolutely wrong. You are the queen, his cousin's wife, the king's spouse. Even though Targaryen bloodlines were often intertwined in ways that would scandalize other noble houses. It is acceptable—it is the tradition.
But taking what's not his is not acceptable nor a tradition.
"My grace..." he whispered softly, his hands shaking as it hovered to brush against your cheek to push a strand of hair away from your face.
Suddenly, the room grew quiet, crowds silencing, only the footsteps of the king were heard.
Natasha's eyes darkened noticeably as they fixed onto Steve's hands, previously supporting you. She has been watching, the king has been watching. A dangerous intensity crossed her features—the kind that only Targaryen's possessed. Without a word, she strode forward and gently but firmly pulled you into her own arms.
"Steve, unhand her."
Steve huffed softly, clearly agitated but wisely choosing to apologize. "My apologies, your grace. I merely...caught her before she fell." Natasha tried to be gentle holding you, but she couldn't help but tightened her grasp possessively as she turned, presenting her back to Steve.
"See that she gets no more wine tonight."
The king's hand was snaked over your waist, your face flushed against her chest. You hated her smell or how strong she held you, but your drunk self couldn't remove yourself away from her yet. Maybe because of the smell or how soft her body felt as she held you or maybe because of the wine. Finally, earning some strength, you were able to push your wobbling body away from her. You don't know what's happening now, your vision is blurry, and the world is spinning. And that fucking smell of her is invading all your senses and you are hating it.
"Let go of me." You slurred.
"You've had enough." Natasha tried to remain subtle as you two walked through the crowds.
Your head throbbed painfully, and you cradled it in your hands, breathing heavily. Through the alcohol-induced haze, one thought stood out crystal clear: you did not want the king near you right now.
"Get the fuck away."
Natasha froze mid-step, her hand outstretched but now suspended in the air. The entire room had gone silent, all eyes shifting between the two of you. Her expression hardened as she heard the defiance in your words—drunk or not, you meant what you said. Then, slowly your eyes met Natasha's. There she saw and took the signs of your swollen eyes, you have been crying. The harshness in her expression melted away for a moment as she blinked slowly, processing the sight before her.
You looked around, to her face, people behind her, the hall was filled with inaudible whispers. You couldn't understand a thing, you feel like you're going crazy. Your hand froze to your stomach, eyes watering with sudden realization of the danger you'd put your unborn babe in, then you looked around once more with your eye-filled tears as if you could see the crowd judging you. Your hands frantically grab at the tight bodice of your dress, you couldn't breathe so you ran. Your mouth opened wide in an attempt to draw in more air, tears streaming down your face as you ran blindly through the castle corridors. The only place you know and memorize in this suffocating castle was the king's bedchambers and your body as if on autopilot, brought you there.
As you entered the king's chambers, she was right behind you.
You turned, you collected more air because you needed it. Tears stream down your face but your voice eerily calm and filled with a rage that shook the very air, you spoke, "I let you use me however you pleased. I gave you my body, my loyalty, my everything." Your lip trembled in anger, tasting your salty tears. "Still, I am not enough. You are still going to settle for the companionship of a whore!"
Natasha watched in horror as you spoke, your words not seeming to come from you but from some broken, desperate part of yourself. Your voice was hollow, almost possessed, accusing her as if you were outside yourself watching this scene unfold. "I do not understand where this is coming from."
"Ser Tony brought some surprises especially for you tonight." You scoff, wiping off the tears away from your cheek.
The moment you mentioned Lord Commander Tony, Natasha knew already where you were coming from.
You took a step towards her, not even waiting for her explanation. Your lips were still trembling in anguish. "When you're deep inside some whore, remember the queen, alone in her chambers, carrying your child."
She stared as you disappeared on the empty doorway, your words slicing through her sharper than any Valyrian steel.
⧗
You woke up slowly, your head pounding as if someone had indeed beaten it repeatedly with a hammer. The familiar comforts of your own bed surrounded you—the soft silk sheets, the plush pillows—but they offered little relief from the throbbing pain in your skull. You missed sleeping in your own chambers, but you couldn't deny the feeling of missing sleeping in the bed of the king.
It's just been a night, one night.
You cursed under your breath as a sharp pain shot through your head when you moved too quickly. Your fingers pressed against your temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing pain that seemed amplified by every thought of last night's events. You tried desperately to remember the specifics of what had happened last night. But your memory was a blur—a jumble of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the running, suffocating in your own tears, and your own broken voice. But everything after that was a black hole.
"Don't think too much," the familiar voice of Maester Wanda cut through your haze of confusion. "You've already drunk yourself too much last night." You blinked, startled, as she entered your chambers with a tray bearing some herbals—likely headache remedies and probably some strong green tea that you hated the most. "And stop pressing your head like that, it'll only make it worse."
A pang of guilt in your stomach spread through your chest heavily from the thought of what you might have done to your unborn child.
"What happened last night?" you asked, almost in a rush like you were desperate to hear the aftermath of your scandal in the great hall.
"Lord Commander Tony and Lord Commander James are dead." She spoke in a flat tone, as if reciting facts rather than sharing devastating news.
The warm tea she brought you suddenly felt cold in your hands, memories began to trickle back into your mind like a slow leak. You remembered snatches of their hushed conversation from last night but not everything. You looked up at Maester Wanda, confusion and curiosity etched on your face as you tried to piece together the fragments of your memory. "H-How?" Your voice trembled slightly, your mind racing with questions and unspoken guilt.
"Beheaded," she paused, making the hairs of your skin straighten, "by the king."
"What?" you shook your head, squinting at nothing to get a glimpse of the memory. You're slowly getting there.
"The king has also declared that whores are no longer allowed within the castle walls."
"I let you use me however you pleased. I gave you my body, my loyalty, my everything. Still, I am not enough. You are still going to settle for the companionship of a whore!"
Your breath hitched as the full memory of your own words slammed back into you.
Two lives lost because of you. People will lose their way of living because of you.
The king did those, just for you.
For you.
"My grace, for you…" Maester Wanda calls, but when she cannot seem to get you out of your musings or rather self-sabotage, she calls you once again. "My grace."
"For me…" you murmured, staring into the steaming liquid as if it held all the answers, then you looked at Wanda who was staring at you like you were possessed. "I'm sorry, wait—for me? Another tea?" you pointed at the cup she has been holding for nearly a century now.
"Yes."
"Oh..." you placed the unfinished tea on your hands on the table and took the one in hers.
"Drink it all, my grace," Maester Wanda insisted firmly but kindly, taking another cup. "The herbs are specifically chosen to ensure a healthy pregnancy. You need your strength, especially now." She gave you a knowing look, implying the turmoil you were in wasn't helping the baby.
You slowly sat up in your bed, your hand shaking as you placed it carefully over your stomach. You are carrying the king's firstborn. A future king or queen of the realm. The heir to the Iron Throne. The most precious cargo in all of Westeros. How could you have been so reckless? You almost endangered the king's heir—your own child. The reckless drinking could have cost them their life before they even had a chance to breathe. Your touch was almost reverent yet trembling with guilt and fear.
Suddenly, there was a knock at your door. "My grace," came the voice of your lady-in-waiting from the other side. "The king is outside your chambers. She wishes to speak with you."
You looked at Maester Wanda, eyes wide with fear. That knowing fear of your eyes that she knows very well.
"I must leave now, your grace," she said softly, gathering her things. While you felt betrayed with her leaving. "Remember what I told you." She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before slipping out of the room.
The door was shut behind Maester Wanda, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the ominous presence on the other side of the door. Then, without any permission she enters.
The king doesn't need permission.
Something inexplicable happened when she entered. The room seemed to quiet, your racing heart settling into a gentle rhythm. The fear that should have gripped you evaporated, replaced with something soft and calm.
You found yourself staring at her.
Natasha approached you slowly—urgent and worried, her voice surprisingly soft as she asked, "How are you, my queen?"
You almost flinched when she spoke. She called you her queen, the title that she only uses whenever you're whimpering under her. Your body tensed slightly before you caught yourself. She noticed the subtle movement, her eyes held a mix of concern and something more profound, something that made your heart…flutter despite the circumstances.
All of a sudden, you were non-verbal.
The king's hand curled into fist at her side, a silent struggle evident on her face. She longed to reach out, to touch you, to assert her ownership over you. As your wife and king, she had every right to do so. Yet, she held herself back. Something in your vulnerable state stopped her. For the first time in her life, she respected boundaries—not out of duty or tradition, but out of genuine care for your well-being. Her fingers twitched slightly as if fighting the urge to touch your hair or caress your cheek.
"I-I would…I would never entertain Ser Tony's offer of companionship." She started, as if she's thinking that you're thinking the same. "I would never lay a finger on another woman."
For the first time, the king stuttered.
For the first time, the king was explaining herself.
For the first time, the king was giving you reassurance.
She didn't wait for a response, her purpose was clear—she had entered your chambers not to demand anything, but to offer reassurance and check on her queen.
"I…I would really appreciate it if you call me when you need something. Anything, at all." With a trembling hand—a rare display of emotion from the usually stoic and cruel king—she gently placed the deep red rose upon your bed. Then, without another word, she turned and left the chamber, closing the heavy doors behind.
You bit your lip as you stared at the rose for a long moment, then you brought it to your nose and inhaled its scent—she smelled like it.
For the first time, you found yourself smiling.
⧗
Months have passed and your once flat stomach now proudly displays a little bump. The gowns you wear are looser, tailored to accommodate your growing belly.
And the king finally returns from her long and grueling war. The first thing she asked for is your presence for dinner which is surprising because she would often expect you to be in her bed aiding her injuries and her other needs.
The moment you stepped into the dining hall, the room was already silent. Natasha was seated at the head of the table, her bruised eye standing out prominently against her beautiful face. As the maids assisted you to your seat, her gaze immediately drifted to your growing bump.
You gave her a smile when you're finally settled, trying to hide the desperate longing you felt for her. You had missed her terribly during her absence, although she was physically present in the castle, you rarely saw her. She kept her distance, believing that you no longer wanted her company because you never called for her like she asked of you. When she left, there were no more morning roses beside your bed every time you woke up. You missed the simple gesture, missing her even more.
Midway through the meal, the king set down her fork and turned to focus on you directly. "How are you feeling?"
You gave her a soft, reassuring smile. "I'm feeling much better now." You replied quietly—now that you're finally here. Of course you will never ever mention how lonely and scared you had been during her absence.
"And the little one?" she asks softly.
Your hand instinctively rested on your growing bump. "Kicking more often lately."
"It's kicking like a little dragon already?" Her bruised eye twitched with amusement.
You laughed before you even stopped yourself. And your giggles made Natasha's heart skip a beat. This was the first time she'd seen you like this—the soft, gentle woman who rarely showed her playful side, maybe because she didn't give you a chance. She continued to watch you unaware, it dawned on her that you were so much more than the woman she had taken to her bed out of responsibility and need. No, you were her wife—who has a beautiful smile. The mother of her child and possibly other children in the future.
"You have a beautiful smile." Natasha's words hung in the air, and she realized too late that she had spoken from the heart without filtering her thoughts.
The phrase made you freeze, your dark lashes fanning your cheeks as you blinked slowly, processing what she just said. And suddenly, out of all the moments you could've done it alone, you burped and the king let out a chuckle. Your eyes widened in mortification and you avoided her gaze entirely, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.
She loved how unfiltered and genuine you were, she wished she'd witnessed it sooner.
"I'm sorry, your grace." You whimpered, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment as you quickly covered your mouth with both hands. Her laughter only made your blush deepen further.
"Seems like the little one's practicing fire breathing now, huh?" She teased lightly, trying to ease your embarrassment with a playful joke.
Your cheeks deepened to an even darker shade of red. You looked down at your large belly, hiding your face with your loose dark hair. Your body wiggled slightly, like you were trying to suppress more tiny bubbles. The king watched your reaction closely, finding your shyness and embarrassment sexy as hell.
But now that she's trying to earn your trust, she tries her best to take care of her own needs. Besides, it's not bad to admire her wife's sexiness isn't it?
"How was the war?" It is now your turn to ask, your eyes scanning over her injured body—her swollen eye barely open and dried blood on her arms. Your voice was carefully neutral and hesitant, hiding your real question, "How are you?"
"We won," Natasha replied gruffly, her voice rough from talking and shouting commands during the battle. She began to ramble about the details, as she continued, she caught herself rambling about the more violent details, and remembering your delicate state, she quickly softened her tone, choosing gentler words. "The men fought well. Caraxes was magnificent and there were no major losses on our side…"
You listened attentively, but your gaze kept drifting back to her injuries. After a moment of hesitation, you gently pointed them out. "But...what about these?" you asked softly, looking up at her with those big, concerned eyes. "And your eye…"
Of course you were more concerned about her well-being than the battle's outcome.
"These are just battle scars. Nothing for you to worry about." Despite your nod, Natasha could see right through your reassured facade. The way you bit your lip gently and avoided meeting her gaze fully told her you were deeply worried. She watched as you unconsciously placed a protective hand over your swollen belly, "How about we do something tomorrow? What do you usually do?"
The sudden change in topic made you blink in surprise, but you immediately understood what she was trying to do—trying to distract you from her wounds and put your mind at ease. You loved her for knowing exactly what you needed, but what you need right now is to take care of her. "I usually go to the gardens in the morning. I walk."
"Well then, I'll walk with you every morning." She watched with satisfaction when that smile of yours appeared again. "And no worrying tonight. Alright?"
The morning was quick to come. You stirred awake to the gentle touch of your maid, who had come to inform you that the king was already waiting for you in the gardens. You groan adorably under the blankets, trying to hide your flushed cheeks. You were nervous about meeting her, but also excited to spend some time with her.
You rushed down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Your hand rested protectively on your belly as you moved quickly but carefully, your maids freaking out about how you're running down the halls like you're not carrying the next heir they will serve.
The cool morning air greeted you the moment you stepped into the gardens. But when you looked around, there was no sign of Natasha.
You slowly made your way through the garden maze, your hand gently resting on your belly as you entered. This was where Natasha had chased you before claiming you as hers. The memory was bittersweet—filled with nothing but fear.
But also the beginning of something beautiful.
A rustle of leaves and a sound of footsteps just in front of you pulled you out of your trance, and there you saw a figure behind the tall wall of grass. Without thinking, you giggled and started running. The sight gave you no fear anymore—but excitement. You ducked behind some bushes, hiding with a giggle while you looked behind you.
You saw her dash past another entry, her snow-like hair giving her an unfair advantage, but she was faster. You, on the other hand, knew every path like the back of your hand. Yes, she had lived here for the rest of her life but she was too busy with the responsibilities as a royalty to even memorize this maze. You laughed, swerving left then right, your dress billing behind you. She was good, but you were the master of this maze.
Just as you swung your head back to the path ahead. A familiar strong arm caught pulling you. You let out a surprised yet excited scream, you knew it was her.
And Natasha chuckles deeply, not letting you go.
Unable to contain yourself, you clung to her tightly, you gripped her arms, and buried your face into the crook of her neck. You sought comfort in her embrace after the chase. While Natasha, she hesitated, her hands hovering over your back. She was scared of hurting you, of breaking this fragile moment. But the way you held on to her, the way your body fit perfectly against her, made her crave more. This was the first time you had ever clung to her so openly, so needingly. She had seen you in her arms countless times, loveless, out of responsibility heir-making, but never like this—never with such raw vulnerability. It made her heart swell in her chest, filling her with a warmth she had never known before.
So she let her arms wrapped around you, pulling you even closer as she breathed in your sweet scent.
Then, she pressed soft, gentle kisses to your cheeks, your temple, your forehead—anywhere he could reach without breaking the fragile hold you had on her. Each kiss was filled with a desperate fear that this moment might end too soon, that you might pull away or realize how deeply she needed you.
"I cook…after I walk every morning, if you care to join?"
From that moment forward, something shifted between you. It felt almost like Natasha was courting you in the truest, oldest sense—flowers carefully placed on your bed each morning, slow walks together through the gardens, quiet meals where she gave you her full attention.
It was nothing like the hurried union forged out of duty and politics.
You still kept parts of yourself locked away, walls carefully standing. Natasha never pushed. She remembered vividly the morning you finally reached for her hand in the maze gardens. A simple gesture, almost fleeting—yet to her, it was everything. A sign that, piece by fragile piece, you were allowing her past the barricades of your heart.
And Natasha? She was utterly undone by you. If you whispered her name tenderly, she would sink to her knees. If you spat it in anger, she'd flinch like a beaten puppy.
"Natasha…"
"Where's Natasha?"
"I want Natasha."
"Natasha!"
"Natasha?"
Her name became your rhythm, your refrain—soft as a prayer, sharp as a blade, desperate as a plea, certain as a command. And each time, no matter the tone, it pulled her deeper under your spell.
The king was deep in discussions with several lords when every head turned the moment you entered the room. You walked further completely disregarding the other people present that weren't Natasha.
Right now, she is not the king to you, she is just Natasha—your Natasha.
"Natasha?" Some actually choked on their wine, spraying red liquid everywhere. Lord Thor's only eye twitched violently, thinking how insane you were for addressing the king by her name in front of them.
While Natasha stood there looking utterly domesticated and fucking loving it, while you acted like calling your terrifying wife by her first name was completely normal. Well, because it is—just for you. She missed hearing it in her own chambers, where she and only her can hear every roll of the syllables of her name from your mouth.
"I want to ride Caraxes." You declared firmly. The lords watched in disbelief at your request.
No one except Natasha herself had ever ridden Caraxes, the massive red dragon known for its fiery temper and unyielding loyalty to its owner. Yet here you were, a mere woman, requesting to ride the beast.
"Your grace…only the king can ride Caraxes," one of the lords spoke up boldly, his eyes narrowed in disbelief and slight offense that you'd even request such a thing. He turned to the king, expecting her to reject your demand immediately.
The king's smile faded slightly at the interruption, her eyes flashing with a hint of annoyance. If you weren't here she would've beheaded the lord on sight or maybe she should consider doing it the moment you leave the room. But she knew the lord had a point, carefully, she began to reject your request. "Love, riding Caraxes is not something that can be done on a whim. It requires strength, courage, and most importantly, the dragon's acceptance."
She saw the disappointment flicker across your face briefly before you composed yourself again. Surprising everyone, you simply nodded and apologized. "I understand. Forgive me for overstepping."
Natasha watched as you turned and walked out of the room without another word. She felt a peculiar sense of unease settle in her chest, an unfamiliar feeling that something was off about your sudden withdrawal and acceptance.
Maybe…she should have listened to her instincts.
"Your grace, the lady has been seen entering Dragonstone…" A servant rushed in with urgent news an hour after.
The lords exchanged shocked glances, having never seen their fearless king react with such sudden fear and urgency before. Natasha without a word rushed to get to Caraxes and head to Dragonstone.
When she reached the end of the path of the Dragonstone where the dragons rest, she froze.
You stood there, confused and terrified. You had no idea why you were drawn to this place. Like an unseen force had brought you here, against your will. But now, standing in front of the dragon, you realized the danger. Any wrong move could mean death. For you and for your child.
"Natasha?" you took a step back, voice shaky.
Of course there is no one to blame but yourself for being here.
"I'm sorry, Natasha." You whimpered, taking another step back as you can. The dragon's massive head loomed over you, its warm breath enveloping your entire body. You hear the gentle rumble of its purring. But the sheer size and power of the creature was terrifying. You clung to your stomach, crying softly.
The dragon slowly lowered its massive head, until it nudged your stomach gently, its scales rough against your silk dress. You cried out softly, your body tensing. The dragon huffed, its hot breath making your dress flutter. It nudged again, softer this time, like it was trying to communicate something. Gently, you raised your hand and shakily touched its snout, petting the creature that could reduce castles to rubble with a single breath.
Natasha's heart was in her throat, watching the scene unfold. No one had touched Balerion since King Alexei had died. Not even her. The dragon had been alone ever since, mourning its rider's death and growing increasingly wild and dangerous.
Maybe because it knows that you were carrying a Targaryen heir within you.
And all of a sudden the dragon cried out loudly, its massive throat vibrating with the force of its roar. You shouted and your panic heightened more. The sound echoed through the dragonstone, making the very walls shake. Seizing the opportunity, Natasha sprints forward and grabs you, pushing you behind her.
"Dekuragon arlī!" she shouts. (Step back)
The dragon continued to let out a low, mournful cry, its massive body shuddering as it listened to the daughter of its rider. This time, it felt different. The dragon seemed to sense something within you, something that made it act strangely… mournful and protective.
Slowly, carefully, you began to retreat towards the dragonstone. Once you were a safe distance away, she quickly assessed you, "Are you alright?" Natasha gently wiped the tears from your cheeks, her hands shaking slightly. You nodded silently, still stunned by what just happened. She looked down at your stomach, then back at you.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…I didn't mean to…I don't know why I was here. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you Natasha." She shushed you gently, wrapping her arms around you protectively.
At least you had the privilege of riding Caraxes on the way back to the Red Keep.
When you land, Natasha's mother and Maester Wanda are already waiting. Natasha immediately asked you to be escorted back to your room to rest.
Once you were gone, Melina grabbed her daughter's arm tightly, her eyes searching hers. "What happened?" she lowered her voice, "What she did was dangerous to your heir!"
Natasha met her mother's gaze steadily, her expression unreadable. "It wasn't angry. It wasn't violent or dangerous. Balerion cried gently, like it was...mourning something." She ran a hand through her hair, still struggling to comprehend what she'd witnessed. "And it touched her stomach…gently, mother."
"That's a very bad premonition, Natasha..." She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. "You need the heir. You need to make sure that the child she is carrying is safe!" Melina's face flushed with anger. Her hand waved in the air. "Not when she's running around like a fool, jeopardizing herself and the future heir! That girl is proving herself utterly unsuited to be the bearer of your child!"
"You do not speak of her like that!" Natasha's face contorted with anger, her finger jabbing aggressively towards her mother's face. "She is not some mindless vessel of my heir. She is my wife!"
Melina staggered back slightly, shocked by her daughter's anger. She placed a hand over her chest, her mouth opening and closing silently. Without another word, she turned on her heel and left the room, her silk robes swishing angrily behind her.
That night, Natasha tossed and turned in her massive bed. She was worried sick about you. She hadn't seen you since she abruptly asked Maester Wanda to escort you back to your chambers. You weren't present with your usual dinner with her as well. As midnight approached, Natasha finally gave up on trying to sleep. She got out of bed, pulling on a pair of black silk robe. She was too worried about you to stay in her room any longer so she decided to go check on you herself.
She found you standing by the balcony, overlooking the moonlit gardens. You were wrapped in a white silk robe, your hair cascading down your back. She could see that you hadn't eaten dinner—the tray of food she sent you was untouched on the table. "You didn't eat." You turned to face her, your eyes reflecting the moonlight. You expected her to scold you, to be angry or at least frustrated for not eating, to lecture you about not taking care of her heir. Instead, she just looked at you with those intense dark eyes, her voice soft. "You must be hungry."
She led you to the table, gently pushing you down onto the chair. She picked up the fork and began feeding you.
As she brought another spoonful of food to your lips, you felt a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the food. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as she fed you like a loving wife would.
She's not the king, she's just Natasha. Your wife. Your Natasha.
She noticed the tears glistening in your eyes. Her own expression softened even more, if that was possible. "Hey..." Her thumb gently brushed away a tear that had spilled over onto your cheek.
You sniffed, looking into those green orbs. You saw no anger, no frustration, only concern and something else.
Something that looked like love.
"I'm scared, Natasha. I can't even take care of our baby right now."
Natasha set the fork aside and sank to her knees beside your chair, gently taking both of your trembling hands in hers. Her voice was steady but soft, carrying a quiet plea. "Listen to me. You're taking care of our baby right now—by eating, by resting, by not stressing. That is taking care of our baby."
But you were unraveling, your sobs shaking through your whole body. Words tumbled out of your mouth in fragments, incoherent even to yourself. "I went to Dragonstone…I defied you. I knew I could die there but I went. I don't-I don't even know why I did…"
Her heart cracked at every broken syllable. She reached for you, trying to soothe, but your cry was too loud to let her voice through in your mind.
So Natasha sat back down, tugging you gently into her lap. She didn't say anything, she didn't press. She simply wrapped her arms around you and held on, letting you cry until the storm passed.
Because the truth was inescapable—you owned her heart completely. She would set the world on fire if it meant protecting you.
Only you.
In her mind, Natasha admitted to herself that she had changed for you. She had done everything in her power to earn your trust, your love. She had softened her rough edges, tried to be the woman you deserved. And she couldn't lose that.
She couldn't lose you.
She knew that from the moment she saw you, you would be the end of her. That moment you walked down the aisle on your wedding day, her heart stopped. Those deadly eyes locked onto her, filled with a fire that both terrified and aroused her. She knew at that moment—you, this woman could end her. Literally or metaphorically.
You could destroy her with a single word, a single tear.
But she wouldn't have it any other way.
Targaryens were not supposed to have weaknesses. They were meant to be strong, unbreakable and mad. But Natasha had one—you. Your eyes could make her kneel. Your sharp tongue could cut her deep. Your body could make her forget she was a king.
Your love could destroy her.
"Take me to bed, Natasha..." you whimpered softly, eyes meeting here straight on.
In the blink of an eye, your clothes vanished and you were naked beneath her in your bed. Her touch was gentle as she traced your stomach with her fingers. She was scared—terrified that she would be too rough, too intense.
She is a dragon tamer, not some delicate lover. Her hands could crush, her hips could bruise, her mouth could devour. And right now, she was hovering over the most precious thing in her life.
As if you could read her mind. You lunged to kiss her fiercely and demandingly. Your hands gripped her neck possessively as you pulled her down more.
You needed her in any way you could get her—rough, soft, gentle, harsh. You just needed Natasha inside you, filling you up, marking you as hers. You didn't care about the manner or the intensity because it was her. It was always her.
Natasha tried to rein in her roughness, her kisses softening as she trailed them down your neck, your collarbone, and finally to your stomach. She was gentle, almost reverent, as she kissed the soft swell of your belly. Then, she gently rolled you onto your side, spooning behind you. This position was gentler, softer—perfect since she'd rather make love rather than take you. Your legs folded slightly as she slid deeper, her thrusts slow and deep. Her fingers played with your nipple softly before sliding to your hips pushing you back to her slightly to give her deeper access.
Your eyes fluttered closed as waves of pleasure washed over you. This was different—so different from the rough, always taking encounters you were used to. Natasha's gentle love-making was unfamiliar territory, and it felt incredible. Your mouth falls open slightly and gasps.
She kissed your shoulder gently, then nipped gently when you let out another soft sound.
In the past, you would bite your lip to stay silent, even as she pounded into you roughly. The pleasure was there, but you kept it locked inside, a wall between you two. You were distant, almost hollow, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of hearing you come apart.
Her voice was a low growl against your skin as she continued his slow, deep thrusts. "I want to hear you. No holding back those pretty sounds. Let me hear how much you want this..." she kissed along the shell of your ears, "Let me hear my girl." Your hands squeezed hers gently as she picked up the pace slightly, still gentle but more intense. She wanted to break down that wall you always kept up. "Please…"
The gentleness and her quiet plea cracked something open inside you. You moaned softly, not loud but definitely audible—a real sound of pleasure rather than forced silence. Natasha's eyes nearly rolled back at the sound. "There she is..." she praised softly, then kissed your shoulders again.
You started moaning louder, throwing your head back against her shoulder as she continued her gentle, deep thrusts. She was completely focused on you—on your sounds, your pleasure. And with that your orgasm was building quickly—your inner muscles fluttering around her as she fucked you through it. You were right there on the edge, your moans growing more desperate as he hit that perfect spot over and over.
As the pleasure crested, you couldn't hold back any longer—your muffled cries turning into a soft shout of her name.
"Natasha!"
She immediately trailed her fingers to your sensitive clit, helping you ride out your orgasm. She loved seeing you like this—completely undone and vulnerable not distant, not quiet. She continued to fuck you slowly, drawing out your pleasure for as long as possible.
After pulling out carefully, she immediately gathered you into her arms. She pressed soft kisses to your face, shoulders, anywhere she could reach. You sighed contentedly, burrowing back into her chest and making no move to cover up or move away. She smiled against your hair, you didn't move away from her unlike your usual immediate separation you used to do.
"I love you."
Her breath hitched in her chest as your whispered declaration reached her ears—just before you drifted off to sleep, completely unaware of the impact your words had on her.
"I love you more."
As your due date approached, Natasha became increasingly anxious and overprotective. She refused to let you do anything for yourself, even simple tasks like…walking.
"No more wandering the castle, no staying in the kitchen, no more...other activities until after the baby is born. You're to rest, eat, and sleep—nothing more." She paused, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before making herself comfortable in your arms, her large hand splayed protectively over your rounded belly. "I'll have maids bring up your meals and anything else you need. And I'll be here as much as possible, but when I can't be...you stay in here." She looked up and gave you a stern look. "Promise me."
You chuckled and leaned into her touch, your hand covering hers on your belly. "I'm pregnant, Natasha—not made of glass. I can still walk and talk and do all the things I always did." You raised her hand and kissed her hand gently.
"No." She pouts more like a stubborn kid than a king.
"Well, then no walks…" you started repeating her demands on you.
"That's right." Natasha agrees.
"No more cooking, the maids will bring the food up here." You kissed her head before resting your cheek on it.
"Yeah, that's right."
"And no more sex."
"That's ri—what?!"
You chuckled and Natasha made a frustrated noise. "Don't laugh at me." She grumbled and started toying the buttons of your gown near your chest.
"But you look so adorable right now." The woman who commanded armies and made difficult decisions was suddenly embarrassed talking about sex with her own wife.
"Maybe we don't have to completely stop everything," she murmured, unsure and awkward. Her hands were already toying with your tits.
"Oh, my love but I thought, no more other activities?"
"B-But there might be some things that are…like safe?" she finished, clearing her throat. A blush crept up her neck.
"Oh yeah?" you smirked and kissed her head. "Like what?"
"Like-like...oral..." slowly, you started pulling away from her and it made Natasha frown when she planned on sucking your swollen breasts. But her eyes widened as you slowly got onto your hands and knees, moving down her body, "or I mean—gentle touching. Positions that won't hurt." She sucked in a sharp breath when you pulled out her hardening cock from her pants. Her blush faded instantly, replaced by pure desire as she realized what you were doing.
"Like this?" you smirked, your hand started to work her up and down.
⧗
Natasha had been away for three long days, a mission to secure an alliance with a northern house keeping her away from your side. The nights were the hardest, sleeping alone in the big bed, her arms empty and her heart heavy. Her every waking thought was consumed by you. She wished for the negotiations to end swiftly, for the northern lords to agree to everything without delay. All she wanted was to mount her dragon and fly back home—to you.
She even wished she hadn't told you she'd be gone for three days. She knew seeing your emotional face before leaving would break her heart—your red eyes filled with tears asking when she'd return home safe. But ghosting wasn't an option either; leaving without warning would hurt worse than saying goodbye temporarily.
And now she's going back home.
Natasha finally arrives back at the castle, her heart pounding with anticipation. She dismounts Caraxes swiftly, handing the reins to a stable hand without a word.
All she can think about is seeing you.
Her eyes immediately found you standing beside her mother. She expected you to run into her arms like always—your silly little steps whenever you threw yourself at her—but instead, you stood there straight-backed and calm,
"Your grace." You bow your head respectfully.
Natasha frowns when you spoke, specifically about how you addressed her when you usually just call her by her name regardless of who's present in the room.
Her eyes never left you as her mother embraced her, her words of welcome and pride barely registering in her mind. You kept your head down, bowing at her—both of them. But all she wanted was for you to look up at her—to see those beautiful eyes filled with warmth and love instead of this cold formality.
"I'll be waiting in your chambers, your grace." You excused yourself, you already know what to do during these moments. Tend and aid the needs of the king after a long and stressful mission.
Natasha immediately followed through. Worry gnawed at her with each step, something was wrong with your tone tonight—with you.
She entered the chambers to find you standing before her dresser, carefully adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. The simple action should have been familiar, comforting—but tonight it only highlighted the distance between you.
She approached slowly, her voice soft and cautious. "Hey..."
As she reached out to gently turn your face towards her, you abruptly bowed your head, avoiding her touch and gaze. The gesture was a stark reminder of the royal etiquette you once despised but now embraced perfectly. Her hand hovered in the air before dropping helplessly to her side. "Stop it."
She watched you remain still, your posture perfect and unyielding. So cold. So calculating.
"Look at me."
"Your grace, I must tend your wounds." Your voice was even and emotionless as you recited your duties, avoiding her gaze.
Her jaw clenched as she unbuckled her belt, presenting her arm for you to tend to a small wound.
You approached her with a basin of warm water and clean clothes, your movements efficient and detached. She watched your hands move deftly over her wounds—so careful, so clinical—and something inside her cracked. The silence between you was suffocating, a far cry from the whispered comforts and playful teasing that usually filled these moments.
This wasn't you.
The woman who'd scold her for bleeding on silk sheets again, who kissed every scar like it was proof she'd come home—where was she tonight?
"Enough," Natasha snapped, her voice low but sharp as steel. She caught your wrist mid-motion, water spilling over the basin's edge. In one pull, she drew you closer, face to face with each other. "You don't treat me like a stranger," she said, each word deliberate, vibrating with restrained anger. "You don't treat me like I'm the king."
She held your gaze, eyes searching yours for something she couldn't find. The tension in her grip faltered, gentleness bleeding through the anger.
"It's just me…" she breathed, the words trembling at the edge of a plea. "It's just Natasha."
The silence that followed was heavy—too heavy—broken only by the faint drip of water into the basin between you.
Then, the door creaked open.
"Lady Melina has summoned you to dinner," said a maiden from the doorway, her tone careful, her eyes flicking between the two of you.
You froze, Natasha's hand still around your wrist. For a moment, no one moved.
Then, with a sudden jerk, you pulled your hand free. The motion sent a few droplets scattering to the floor. You stepped back, your breathing uneven but controlled, before smoothing down the front of your dress—palming the wrinkles away as though the gesture would show your composure.
"Tell her we'll be there shortly," you said, your voice steady, though your pulse thundered beneath your ribs.
⧗
Your due was nearing.
The healers said it would only be a matter of days now—perhaps less if the stars stayed aligned and the weather held. The child moved often, restless beneath your ribs, and each flutter reminded you of how quickly time had passed, and how much of it you had spent in silence.
You hadn't spoken to Natasha since that night. And you missed her.
It crept in quietly at first—in the pauses between breaths, in the empty half of the bed where she used to sleep, in the way your hand would drift unconsciously toward the space she once filled before you stopped yourself. Missing her wasn't supposed to hurt this much. Not when you'd told yourself it was over. Not when you knew better.
But her absence had weight—heavy, lingering, like smoke that refused to fade even after the fire was gone.
You would remember her voice when your room is quiet. You would remember the warmth of her hand against your back at night, the faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to her skin, the smell of roses every morning.
And then, you would remember her.
Lady Melina.
Her words still echoed in your mind, sharp and cold enough to cut through the memory of Natasha's touch.
"The Targaryens care for legacy, for blood that endures. Not for the hands that carry it, nor the hearts that break beneath it. You would do well to remember that."
You wanted to argue that it wasn't true. You are the queen, after all. You had earned that title beside her. You wanted to say that Natasha was not like the rest of them—not cruel, not calculating, not bound by blood and legacy the way her ancestors were.
But you didn't speak. You couldn't.
You wanted to say she loved differently. That you had seen it in the way her eyes softened when she looked at you, in the way her hands trembled the first time she felt the child move within you. You wanted to believe that those moments were real—that they meant something beyond duty, beyond the throne, beyond the endless cycle of heirs and names and history.
Because as much as you tried to steady your heart, it faltered beneath the weight of her words. You were too tired. Too raw. Too easily undone. And somewhere between your silence and her certainty, you began to believe it.
You began to believe that maybe Natasha did only care for the heir. That maybe the tenderness you saw in her was just another act of devotion—not to you, but to the crown.
And once the thought took root, it grew quietly, relentlessly, until even love began to feel like a mistake. And if that was the truth—if that was the cruel reality of being with a Targaryen—then you would live with it.
But what you couldn't accept, what you hadn't meant to allow, was the way your heart betrayed you.
You fell for her.
You fell for her because you felt it. You felt like it was right. You fell for her—for the woman behind the title, the one who smiled only when no one else was looking, who held your hand under the table, who had begged you not to treat her like a king.
You fell for Natasha.
And maybe that was the tragedy of it all—that you could love her as the woman she was, but she could never love you as anything more than the mother of her heir.
Natasha had been gone for a week.
Her mother's doing, of course. She had always held power in the kind that didn't need to be announced. A single word from her could move armies—or her daughter.
Natasha hadn't wanted to go. You knew that much. You'd seen it in the way she lingered by the doorway the day before she left, eyes dark and unreadable, her jaw set in that quiet defiance she wore whenever duty pressed against her will. The Northern House needed her, Lady Melina had said. Affairs of family. Matters of blood and so she went.
The nights had stretched long and cold. No one dared disturb you, but the emptiness in your chambers spoke loudly enough. You told yourself it was only a week—that she would return soon. But as the days passed and your body grew heavier, the ache of her absence became something sharper.
And so did the ache of your stomach.
The due was closer than you had let yourself believe.
You'd counted the days, felt the shifting weight inside you, the way your body had begun to slow, to ache—but somehow, you still thought you had time. You told yourself it wasn't yet, that you could hold on a little longer, that maybe Natasha would come before it happened. Maybe she would say something, anything, to make you believe she still saw you beyond the child, beyond the duty.
But life never waits for what the heart needs.
The first pain came like a warning. Fuck, it was a sharp pull low in your stomach that made you choke. You brushed it off, at first, steadying yourself against the edge of the table, convincing yourself it was nothing. But then came another, deeper this time, and your hand slipped, knocking over the goblet by your side.
Your maid rushed in, eyes wide as she took one look at you, at the way your knuckles had gone white clutching the chair for balance. Her voice broke through the haze of pain.
"It's time." She says. Your water finally broke.
You stared at her, heart pounding, breath shallow. You hadn't realized it would come now. You weren't ready. Not for the birth—and not for the truth that Natasha still hadn't come.
And as another wave hit, harder this time, you felt tears burn your eyes. You didn't know if it was from the pain—or because you wished, more than anything, that the first face you would see when it was over…would be hers.
Your chambers were thick with heat and panic, the scent of herbs and iron heavy in every breath. Candles flickered wildly as servants rushed. The cries that filled the room were yours—ragged, sharp, pulled from somewhere deep within you.
The healers crowded around your bed, their movements quick but steady, voices low and urgent as they worked. The whole room felt like it was spinning. Flashes of white cloth, the smell of sweat and metal, the sound of water being poured into basins. Through all the chaos, Maester Wanda stayed right beside you. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands covered in blood, but her face stayed calm—too calm, almost.
"Breathe," she said quietly, though there was steel in her tone. "Come on, with me. Breathe."
You tried. Gods, you really tried. But each wave of pain hit harder than the one before it, breaking through your body until tears spilled down your cheeks. You wanted to call for Natasha—her name sat on your tongue like something holy, something that could save you—but you couldn't say it. She should've been there. She should've been holding you.
But she wasn't.
Instead, it was Melina standing at the head of the bed, her hands folded neatly in front of her like she wasn't watching someone fight for their life. Her face didn't move—no fear, no softness, nothing. Just that same cold composure that came from years of knowing people were meant to bleed for the sake of duty—for Targaryens.
"She must not falter," Melina said, her voice low but sharp. "The heir must live."
Those words hurt more than the pain tearing through you. You bit your lip until you tasted blood, forcing yourself not to scream. And right then—as the room blurred around you—you realized this was what she meant all along.
It was never about you. It was about the heir.
Wanda squeezes your hand, her voice cutting through the haze. "Look at me," she said, steady and sure. "Don't drift off now."
You listened. You had to. Through tears and exhaustion, you met her eyes and pushed when she told you to.
You were losing too much blood. The sheets were soaked through, and no matter how many cloths the healers pressed against you, it just wouldn't stop. The sound of rain hammered hard against the windows, then came the thunder—loud, angry—and all at once, the candles flickered out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Your body went limp. The last thing you felt was the weight of Wanda's hand on your shoulder and her voice calling your name before everything went quiet.
Wanda's heart dropped. "No..." she whispered, already moving, checking for a pulse, shouting for more hands, more towels, anything. The room erupted into chaos.
And then came the pounding on the door. Hard, sharp, desperate.
"The king!" someone shouted over the noise. "The king is here!"
But Natasha wasn't just here. She was forcing her way in—the heavy door rattling under her fists as she slammed against it again and again.
"Open the damn door!" her voice cut through the thunder like lightning, rough and breaking all at once. "Let me in!"
Wanda froze for a heartbeat, torn between duty and fear. She shuts her eyes and instructs the healers before walking in the door. She must face the king. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, streaked with blood and sweat, but her eyes didn't waver when she was welcomed by the king behind the door. Already pushing herself in. The sound of rain hammered the castle walls, thunder rolling overhead like the world itself was holding its breath.
"Your grace," Wanda said, her voice steady but low. She tried pushing Natasha back, "you can see the queen after. Not now."
Natasha stopped only a few feet from her, drenched, chest heaving. "What's happening?" she demanded. Her tone wasn't cold this time—it was tight, afraid.
Melina came close behind, as if to rescue Maester Wanda to try and calm her daughter down. "Natasha, please, listen. They're doing everything they can—"
"What is happening!" Natasha shouted, cutting her mother off, her voice echoing down the corridor. She didn't even try to hide the shake in it.
The Maester didn't flinch. "She's losing so much blood," she said carefully with all honesty. "We're trying to keep her stable. Your grace, you need to stay out—"
"Lose the child if you must," Natasha snapped before she could finish. The words came out too fast, too sharp, like they'd clawed their way up her throat.
"That's not possible!" Melina barked, fury breaking through her composure. "Do you even hear yourself?"
But Natasha didn't even look at her mother. She stepped forward until she was inches from Wanda, her voice dropping low and dangerous. "If she doesn't come out of that room alive," she said, "every single person in there dies in my hand tonight."
She looked at her mother and went back to Wanda.
"And that includes the two of you."
For a moment, neither woman moved. The thunder hit so loud it rattled the walls. Then—silence.
The next sound was fire.
The storm had passed by the time the pyre was built. Down by the cliffs, the air was thick with smoke and salt. The waves below slammed against the rocks, spraying mist that caught in the wind. The pyre burned high, flames licking at the sky. Black and red banners snapped above it, the Targaryen sigil twisting in the wind. The smell of smoke mixed with the sea—sharp, heavy, hard to breathe through.
Natasha stood in silence. Alone. No songs. No words. Just the sound of fire and the ocean roaring below.
She stepped closer, her hair loose, her face blank except for the faint twitch in her jaw. Her hands were clenched at her sides, knuckles white. The firelight caught in her eyes, making them look almost gold.
For the first time since King Alexei's death, Balerion had left his keep.
The great dragon hadn't been seen in the skies for years—too wild, too dangerous, too bound to the late king to obey another rider. But when the pyre was lit that night, and the smoke rose over Dragonstone's cliffs, a sound split through the stormy air that made every man and beast freeze where they stood.
A cry. Deep and raw.
It started as a low rumble, almost like the earth itself groaning, and then it broke into something that could only be described as grief.
Natasha didn't move. She just stared up, her face illuminated by the burning pyre and the glow of Balerion's fire above.
The dragon's cry still echoed in her ears when the fire finally died. Natasha stood there long after the rain began to fall again, hissing as it met the dying embers.
It had been her decision. Her command.
She now looks down at the remains of the tiny bundle at the pyre's center. Natasha hadn't looked away. She couldn't. She had chosen this.
She had chosen you.
Because you had still been breathing. Barely.
The child—her heir, her blood, her legacy—was gone. Burned under the dragon's fire, the way kings and queens of her line were meant to return to the world. But this one had not ruled, had not even cried. And still, she had ordered the fire lit.
She didn't need the healers to tell her to decide because even before that, she had thought about this. She would choose you no matter what. And when she was told that they couldn't save you both, Lady Melina had spoken of duty, of the heir, of the realm. While Natasha had only stared at the blood on Maester Wanda's hands she knows is yours and from that, her decision is made.
She had thought that maybe the time Balerion cried when he touched you, he already saw what future holds for your child—fire.
Now, as she walked back through the castle halls, every sound was muffled by the weight in her chest. Her steps felt heavy, her breath slow. The scent of smoke clung to her hair, to her cloak, to her very skin. When she pushed open the doors to her chambers, the world seemed to still.
You were laying in her bed for the first time again, but fragile in a way she'd never seen you before.
Natasha reached you. Taking your hand to rest her forehead against the back of it. Her voice was rough when she spoke, low and trembling like something raw had finally cracked open inside her.
"I'd choose you," she whispered. "Every time. Against the throne, against my name—against the Gods themselves if I had to."
Her eyes stung, and her throat tightened, but she didn't look away from you.
"Let them call me heartless," she murmured, thumb tracing your knuckles. "Let them say I betrayed my house, my bloodline…I don't care."
She looked at you then—your lashes resting against your cheeks, your chest rising and falling so faintly it nearly stopped her heart.
"You're all I want," she breathed. "You're all I'll ever choose." The words hung there for a moment, soft and unshakable, like an oath spoken into the marrow of the world. Her forehead stayed against your hand until she felt it—the faintest squeeze of your fingers, weak but real.
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader The Loud House - 5 years later
Five years later, the Romanoff house is louder than ever. Six kids, two tired moms, and not enough coffee. Natasha’s retired. R’s stretched thin. The sparks are flickering, the teens are testing limits, and nobody said forever would be this complicated.
But love built this family. And maybe love is what will hold it together.
Masterlist | General Masterlist
Chapter Summary: just normal family crises
w/c:4.8k
“So, you can’t be angry.” Cara raised her hands in an unassuming way. She made sure the bedroom door was locked before she began to pace. “Technically, I’m an adult. I’m twenty years old, and it’s natural for… like… feelings to develop, right?”
“Cara?” you asked carefully. You shared a glance with Natasha, who seemed just as confused.
Cara nodded quickly, words tumbling out faster than her breath. “I’ve been seeing someone. A guy. For a while now. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think it was serious at first, but then—” She stopped, pressing her hands into her sweatshirt. “It got serious.”
You shifted on the edge of the bed. “Okay. That’s… normal. You’re twenty. You don’t have to hide that from us.”
Natasha leaned forward, voice measured. “What about Ezra?”
“We’re kind of on a break,” Cara said, with a shrug that didn’t quite mask her nerves. “With me at UPenn and him at Duke, it’s weird. Anyway, I met this guy.” That's where she reeled you in.
“He’s… he’s nice. Older, but not like crazy older. Just… older. He treats me well. I swear he does.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as she crossed her arms. You could almost hear the unspoken list of questions piling up in her head. But then Cara’s shoulders sank, her pacing slowing to a stop. The bravado cracked, and her voice came out smaller.
“That’s not the part I was scared to tell you.” She lifted her chin, but her eyes shone with something between fear and shame. “I thought I was pregnant.” The words dropped like glass on tile. She sat on the edge of the bed, eyes flicking between the two of you. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, I haven’t even taken a test yet. But I'm late. And for days I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I just… I panicked. But this guy, we are kind of on and off. Like we broke up for a while and it was break-up sex so...”
You didn’t know which part of this conversation to be appalled at first: the fact that your daughter was in a relationship with an older guy, the fact that she thought she might be pregnant, or the fact that she thought breakup sex was a good idea.
Natasha’s inhale was sharp, almost audible, the kind of sound she only made when she was holding back. Her arms folded tighter across her chest, knuckles white. “Breakup sex?” she echoed flatly.
Cara groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, please don’t repeat it back to me. I already know how stupid it sounds.”
“Stupid is one word,” Natasha nodded. "But you can't change the past."
You reached over and rested a hand on her leg. Not to calm her down, exactly, but just to let her know you were there.
Cara looked up, brief panic flashing through her eyes. It wasn't the first time you'd seen her scared like that, but it had been a while.
"What we are hearing right now," You looked to Natasha for confirmation. She tilted her chin in agreement. "Is that you came home because you are scared. You need help. You want us to help you. Right?"
"Yes," Cara breathed. "I thought you were going to look at me like I ruined everything. I didn't want to keep it from you guys. I would have gone to my friends, it's just they're not always the most mature, and I know you guys would know what to do."
“Well, we aren’t exactly in the business of keeping tests around,” you said with a small smirk.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Not really a need,” she added dryly.
Cara made a face and groaned again, this time dramatically. “Oh my god. You’re both lesbians. I get it.”
You and Natasha exchanged a look, half-amused, half-exasperated.
“But I can run to the store,” Natasha offered, her voice softening. “We’ll figure it out from there.”
“I don’t even know if I need one,” Cara mumbled. “I mean, I’m probably fine. I just… I don’t know. I freaked out.”
“That’s fair,” Natasha said, her voice more gentle now. “But if there’s even a chance, it’s better to know.”
There was a pause. Natasha’s eyes sharpened slightly. “What’s his name?”
Cara bristled, just a little. “Why does that matter?”
“Because we’re your parents,” you replied calmly. “And if someone’s in your life, especially in this context, we want to know who they are. That’s not unreasonable.”
“His name’s Shawn,” Cara muttered. “And before you ask, yes, I’m being safe. Well, most of the time. No, he’s not a creep. And yes, he’s from Philly.”
Natasha’s expression didn’t shift.
“He’s twenty-four,” Cara added reluctantly, arms crossing over her chest. “So he’s not like some sketchy thirty-year-old or whatever you’re imagining.”
You watched her, taking in the way she was gearing up to defend him, this guy you hadn’t even met. But underneath all that, you could see the worry still clinging to her edges.
“We just want you to be okay,” you said.
She relaxed a little, but didn't unfold her arms.
Natasha looked at the two of you, then exhaled and stood. Her shoulders had loosened, and she offered Cara a faint smile.
"Come on. We should get going. I'm guessing you'll want to do this as soon as possible."
Cara's eyes widened. "Like now?"
"There's no better time than now." You patted her leg. "Time to grow up."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cara grumbled. "I know."
********
The car ride was mostly quiet.
Cara picked at a hole in her pants, eyes trained on the passing traffic. The tension hadn’t completely faded, but there was an understanding now. Whatever happened, the three of you would handle it together. Natasha’s hand rested steady on the steering wheel, her eyes locked on the road, but Cara could see the thoughts stirring just beneath.
“You can say it, you know?” Cara said softly.
Natasha flicked her eyes toward her, then back to the road. “Say what?”
“That you’re disappointed in me.”
Natasha exhaled, long and slow, as she turned into the pharmacy parking lot. “We’re not disappointed,” she said as the engine idled. “I don’t even think we’ve had time to process it yet.”
Cara stared ahead. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it. I’d be mad too if I were you.”
“I’m not mad,” Natasha replied. Her voice was low, a little rough around the edges. “I’m… surprised. And maybe a little scared for you. That’s not the same as mad.”
Cara’s fingers tightened in her lap. “I didn’t think I’d ever be the kind of person who would end up in this situation.”
“You’re not the kind of person,” Natasha said, turning the ignition off and finally facing her. “You’re a person. You make choices. Sometimes dumb ones. But that doesn’t make you dumb. Or reckless. Or unlovable.”
Cara blinked. “That sounded like something Mom would say.”
Natasha smirked faintly. “Yeah, well. I pick up things.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Cara asked, barely above a whisper, “What if it’s positive?”
Natasha looked at her then, really looked at her. “Then we deal with it. We don’t leave you alone in it.”
Cara nodded, her throat visibly tight.
“Now,” Natasha added, already reaching for the door, “let’s go buy something we never thought we’d need to buy.”
Cara cracked a nervous smile. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
Natasha raised a brow as she opened her door. “We’re lesbians, baby. There’s literally never been a need for this in our house.”
Cara groaned. “Okay, I get it, you’re gay, can we not make it weirder?”
Natasha grinned despite herself. “Come on, drama queen.”
********
“Do we go digital or bulk pack?” Natasha bit her lip, her eyes scanning the shelves like she was selecting fine wine, not pee sticks.
“I don’t even know,” Cara mumbled, dragging her hands down her face. “I hate myself right now for even having to do this.”
“Suck it up, buttercup,” Natasha shrugged. “Which one do you want to pee on?”
“Don’t say it like that,” Cara groaned, reaching for the nearest pink box. “Just get the one that doesn’t talk.”
“Oh, so no digital voice assistant telling you congratulations or condolences?”
Cara looked like she might melt into the floor. “Mama.”
“Right, right,” Natasha chuckled, tossing a two-pack into the basket. “Nonverbal, budget-friendly trauma it is.”
******
The walk home on Wednesdays was usually Willow's favorite part of the day. Just her and Charlie, no adults, no one needing anything from her, and they usually weren't arguing with each other. Today felt different, lighter somehow, like she had something bouncing around in her chest she couldn't quite name.
"So," Charlie said, adjusting her overstuffed backpack that was covered in pins about climate change and equality. "How was practice?"
"Fine," Willow shrugged, watching the houses in their cul-de-sac get bigger and bigger. She couldn’t help but think back to the time her dad said theirs was the biggest house on the block. He wasn't lying. "Cheer has always been a fun thing for me, you know."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
Willow glanced sideways at her cousin. Sometimes Charlie was too perceptive for her own good. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh," Charlie grinned. "So Marcus just happens to stay after practice to help you work on your form out of the goodness of his heart?"
"He's just being nice," Willow's face went warm. “He helps everyone.”
"Sure, he does," Charlie hopped over a crack in the sidewalk. "Does he help everyone by bringing them Gatorade and helping them walk to their locker? What's he going to help you do next? Stretch?"
"How do you know half that stuff?" Willow stopped. "Are you spying on me between the hallways?"
"7th grade can be quite boring," Charlie teased. "Also, I was waiting for you yesterday, remember? You said you'd be out at 4:30. It was almost 5."
Willow groaned. "It's not like that. We're just friends. That's it."
"Okay," Charlie sighed. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of their footsteps mixing with the beautiful noises of nature. There were other kids on the block walking into their homes.
"Can I ask you something?" Charlie said suddenly.
"Always," Willow said.
"How do you know, like, when you like someone. Like really like them more than friends." She felt heat creep up her neck. "Not that I do. I'm just... curious."
Charlie was then quiet, which was unusual for her. When Willow looked over, she was chewing on her bottom lip, the way she did when she was thinking hard about something.
"I think it's different for everyone," Willow used some of her sixteen-year-old wisdom. "But maybe it's like when you think about them and everything gets warm and fluttery? And you want to know everything about them, or you get nervous just thinking about them."
"Would it be the same if it's a person you've been friends with for a long time?" Charlie tilted her head.
"I mean, I guess," Willow shrugged. "It might even be a better thing since you know how they'd react if you tell them."
"Also," Charlie continued, her voice getting softer. "Would it matter if they're a boy or a girl? Like, if you got the same feeling about a girl, would it be any different?"
Something in Charlie's tone made Willow slow her steps. She looked at her cousin and grinned. Charlie's cheeks were blushing, and she was fidgeting with the strap of her backpack.
"Charlie," Willow said gently. "Are we talking about you?"
"Maybe," Charlie's shoulders hunched slightly.
"Is this girl Savannah, your best friend?"
"Maybe," Charlie repeated, quieter this time. Suddenly, Charlie's recent activism on LGBTQ issues made sense.
Charlie took a shaky breath. "We've been best friends since second grade, you know? Like, inseparable. We do everything together. Environmental club, sleepovers, we even have matching friendship bracelets." She held up her wrist, showing a faded green and blue braided cord. "And lately, I just... when I'm around her, it feels different. Like when she smiles at me, my stomach does this weird flip thing. And when she hugs me goodbye, I don't want to let go."
They'd reached the corner of their street, and Willow could see their house in the distance. She gently pulled Charlie to stop walking for a moment.
"Charlie," Willow said carefully. "You know everyone kind of already knows you two have crushes on each other, right?"
Charlie's eyes went wide. "What?"
"I mean, you guys are pretty obvious. The way you look at each other, how you always find excuses to touch each other's hands, how you get all giggly and weird when the other one's around..." Willow smiled. "Even James noticed, and he's ten. Plus, you told us back then you were going to marry her."
"Oh my god." Charlie buried her face in her hands. "Savannah doesn't like me back, though. She probably thinks I'm just some weird kid who's obsessed with saving the whales."
"Charlie." Willow pulled her cousin's hands away from her face. "Trust me on this one. The way she looks at you? She likes you back."
"But what if I'm wrong? What if I mess up our friendship?" Charlie's voice was small and scared.
"What if you're right and you miss out on something amazing?" Willow countered. "Besides, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Mom and Mama are married to each other. You think they're going to have a problem with you liking girls?"
Charlie's shoulders relaxed a little. "I guess when you put it like that..."
"You're twelve, Charlie. You're allowed to figure yourself out. And whatever you figure out, we'll all love you the same." Willow bumped her shoulder. "Even if you are annoying about composting."
Charlie let out a watery laugh. "Thanks. And yeah, I guess I have been pretty intense about the composting thing."
"Just a little." Willow grinned.
"Can we... not tell anyone yet? About Savannah, I mean. I want to figure it out more first. Maybe actually talk to her about it."
"Of course." Willow squeezed her hand. "But Charlie? You know you can talk to me about this stuff, right? Anytime."
"I know." Charlie's smile was wobbly but genuine. "Same goes for you. About Marcus."
"There's nothing to talk about with Marcus."
"Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that."
They started walking again.
"So, maybe you could help me tell Mama I quit dancing," Charlie asked.
"You're just a bag full of surprises these days," Willow laughed. "Why do you want to quit dancing? You love dance."
"I do, but I kind of want to explore other styles," Charlie explained. They'd finally reached the doorstep. "I love ballet and always will, but I've been watching some other videos, and I want to try jazz or hip hop or something."
"I'll back you up," Willow said as they stepped inside. "Mama might be upset at first, because it's like her thing, but I don't think they'll mind. As long as you're happy, they're happy."
"Cool," Charlie nodded. She felt a bit better.
*******
Five minutes. The instructions on the pregnancy test said five minutes, and it turned out to be the longest time in your life. The three of you were barricaded in the bathroom, away from the outside world. The rest of the kids were spending their time cooking up their version of dinner. You and Natasha didn't even want to ask what that looked like. Right then, you were making sure your oldest baby was alright.
She sat on top of your bathroom counter, knees pulled to her chest, eyes closed. You sat on the cool tile floor, hands making little patterns on your thighs as you tried to occupy your mind. It was the first time today you'd gotten to truly sit and be quiet. Work had drained you, and you could feel the beginnings of your strength waning.
Natasha leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, watching Cara with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. The silence wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but it was heavy with all the things none of you were saying.
"How much longer?" Cara asked without opening her eyes.
You checked your phone. "Two more minutes."
"This is torture," she mumbled into her knees.
"Welcome to parenthood," Natasha said dryly. "Lots of waiting around for things that might change everything."
You shot her a look, but Cara actually cracked a small smile.
"Did you guys do this? The waiting thing, I mean. When you were trying to get us?" Cara lifted her head slightly.
"Different kind of waiting," you said softly. "But yeah. We did a lot of sitting in waiting rooms, staring at things, and waiting for phone calls that would tell us if our lives were about to change."
From somewhere in the house, you could hear Luke's voice calling for someone, followed by what sounded like pots clanging. Normal family chaos, continuing while the three of you sat suspended in this moment.
"Time," you announced quietly.
Cara's eyes flew open. For a second, none of you moved. Then Natasha pushed off from the door and reached for the test on the counter beside Cara.
She looked at it for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"Well?" Cara's voice was barely a whisper.
"Negative," Natasha said, handing it to her.
Cara stared at the single line for what felt like forever. Then her face crumpled, and she started crying, not the panicked tears you'd expected, but something deeper. Relief mixed with something else you couldn't quite name.
"Mom!" There was a yell from the other room, and you glanced toward the door, knowing you'd promised to come back to the chaos soon. Cara wiped her tears and bit her lip, looking smaller than her twenty years.
"Is it crazy that I've only ever wanted a baby with Ezra?" Her voice cracked just slightly. Then her eyes widened, and she quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. "Not like that! I don't mean—ugh—we didn't even... not until we were both eighteen. I just—I pictured my whole life with him, you know? Since I was fifteen."
Her voice trailed off. "I know I'm the one who broke up with him. And Shawn is... Shawn is great. He's funny, he listens, he really does. But I don't know. It's not the same."
Natasha didn't respond right away. She glanced down at the pregnancy test box in her hand, then back at Cara.
"It's not crazy," you said gently, pushing yourself up from the floor. Your knees protested after sitting on the cold tile. "First love feels like forever when you're living it."
"But I'm supposed to be grown up now," Cara whispered. "I'm in college. I should be over this."
"Says who?" Natasha finally spoke, her voice softer than it had been all day. "There's no timeline for getting over someone who meant everything to you."
“Do you think this means I should break up with him?”
“I think it means you should follow wherever your heart leads you,” Natasha patted her on the back.
Another crash from the hall, followed by Luke's distinctive giggle.
"We should probably..." you gestured toward the door.
Cara nodded, sliding down from the counter. "Yeah. And Moms ?" She looked between you and Natasha. "Thank you. For not making this weird. For just... being here."
"Always," you said, meaning it completely. “We need to discuss birth control more in depth after this.”
“Yeah, a long conversation,” Natasha nodded.
“God, please, no, I know,” Cara groaned. “I’m never having sex again.”
“A parent’s dream phase,” You muttered.
As you reached for the bathroom door handle, Cara caught your arm. "Can we not tell the others? About any of this? I just... I need some time to process."
"Of course," Natasha said immediately. "But Cara? You don't have to figure everything out right now. Sometimes it's okay to just be confused for a while." Cara nodded. She was okay with that.
The moment you opened the bathroom door, the smell hit you first—burnt cheese… or was that garlic bread? Probably the one Paige had proudly claimed she knew how to make.
The kitchen was a war zone.
Paige stood on a step stool, waving a wooden spoon like a conductor. “I told him the noodles go in after the water boils,” she snapped, glaring over at James.
James, who was trying to salvage what looked like a tray of overcooked lasagna, grimaced. Charlie was fanning the smoke alarm like it owed her money, a dish towel flapping violently in her hands.
“I swear I had it under control,” Willow groaned, holding Luke under the armpits as she tried to lift him down from the counter.
Luke was cross-legged, in superhero pajamas, and a colander on his head like a helmet. “I’m Uncle Steve!” he announced.
Behind you, Cara snickered, holding up her phone to record the scene. You could already hear the click of her tongue before she whispered, “This one’s going in the group chat.”
You and Natasha jumped into action without a word. Years of co-parenting turned you into a synchronized response unit. She snatched the dish towel from Charlie’s frantic hands and fanned the alarm with practiced precision.
“Nat, oven mitt,” you said, reaching back without looking.
She tossed it to you wordlessly, the two of you moving in sync like clockwork. While she waved away the smoke, you pulled the scorched tray from James with a sigh. The pan sizzled as you set it on the counter.
“Lucas Alexander Jameson Romanoff, if you don’t get your behind off my counter, I swear I will—”
Luke jumped down before you could finish the sentence, cape fluttering behind him like a retreating soldier.
“Lasagna takes years of practice,” Natasha scolded lightly, a smile pulling at her lips.
“We read the recipe book,” Charlie said, shaking her head, clearly betrayed.
“It had pictures and everything,” James added defensively.
Paige pointed her spoon at him. “And yet, the garlic bread still tastes like vengeance.”
Cara lowered her phone and smiled. “God, I missed this.”
You leaned back against the fridge, watching the controlled chaos with an exhale that almost felt like relief.
“Anyone want takeout?” you asked.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Natasha said, already reaching for her phone.
****
"So, we're never doing that again," Charlie commented as she munched on pizza. She looked around the table, seeing that you had half the same sentiments.
"Maybe we should send you all to Nana over the summer," you suggested. "She'll have you cooking by the end of week one."
"Maybe that's what should happen. There's no discipline around here," Cara commented, tearing off a piece of crust. "They get away with things I didn't."
"Like what?" Paige challenged, cheese stretching from her slice.
"Like burning down the kitchen," Cara shot back with a grin. "When I was twelve, if I so much as left a dish in the sink, I got a lecture about responsibility."
"That's because you were the guinea pig," Natasha said, reaching for another slice. "We had no idea what we were doing with you."
"Thanks for that," Cara laughed. "Builds confidence."
Luke had been quietly arranging his pepperonis in a perfect circle, but he looked up suddenly. "Cara, are you sad?"
The table went quiet. Luke had this way of cutting through everything with a simple question that hit right at the heart of things.
"Why would you think I'm sad, buddy?" Cara asked softly.
"Your eyes are puffy. And you smell like the bathroom soap," he said matter-of-factly, then went back to his pepperoni arrangement.
James nudged him under the table. "Luke, you can't just tell people they look weird."
"I didn't say weird. I said sad." Luke looked confused. "There's a difference and don’t touch me your hands are gross."
"It's okay," Cara said quickly, catching your eye across the table. "I'm not sad, Luke. Just... tired. College is exhausting."
Willow, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly perked up. "Speaking of college, what's it really like? Like, the freedom part of it?"
"Overrated," Cara said immediately. "Trust me, having to do your own laundry and remember to eat vegetables is not as fun as it sounds."
"But you can stay up as late as you want," Paige pointed out. "And eat ice cream for breakfast."
"Technically, yes. But your body starts to hate you pretty quickly."
"What about parties?" Charlie asked, trying to sound casual. "Are they like in the movies?"
Both you and Natasha raised eyebrows at that question.
"They're loud, crowded, and someone always breaks something," Cara said diplomatically. "Plus, cleaning up Solo cups at 2 AM is not the glamorous college experience you're imagining."
"But the people, though," Willow pressed. "Do you feel like... more yourself? Like, away from family and everything?" Something in Willow's tone made you look at her more carefully. There was something she wasn't saying.
"Sometimes," Cara said thoughtfully. "But honestly? I missed you guys more than I expected. Like, way more. It's weird being away from all this chaos."
"What's a Solo cup?" James asked innocently.
"Something people drink alcohol out of," Charlie informed him with the confidence of someone who definitely shouldn't know that.
"Charlotte," Natasha warned, but there was amusement in her voice.
"What? It's true!" Charlie protested. "They're red plastic cups. I've seen them in movies."
"Movies," you repeated flatly.
"And maybe some TikToks," she admitted sheepishly.
"You're twelve," Paige pointed out. "Why are you watching college party TikToks?"
"The algorithm is very aggressive," Charlie said defensively. You would talk late about how she was watching those TikToks, considering she didn’t have a phone yet, but now wasn’t the time.
Luke looked up from his pepperoni arrangement, which was now starting to resemble a flower. "What's alcohol?"
"Something that makes adults act like you when you're overtired," Cara said quickly, shooting you a grateful look for the save.
"Oh," Luke nodded like that made perfect sense. "So it makes them cranky and want to take naps?"
"Something like that," you said, trying not to laugh.
"Can we get back to the important stuff?" Paige interrupted. "Like whether Cara has a boyfriend again. She hasn’t been on the phone with Ezra this entire time, so that must mean something."
Cara nearly choked on her pizza. "Paige!"
"What? It's a valid question. You're in college. You're pretty. You must have guys asking you out."
"Or girls," Charlie added casually, but something in her tone made you think it wasn't as casual as she was trying to make it sound.
"Charlie's right," Willow said, and you caught the meaningful look that passed between the two of them. "College is supposed to be about figuring out who you are, right?"
Something was happening with these two, some conversation they'd had that the rest of you weren't privy to. You filed that away for later.
“It can be but I think I need to sit down and be alone in college,” Cara said. “Tell me about you guys though.”
********
You felt like the moment between you and your bed would never come. After half-assing your skincare routine and brushing your teeth on autopilot, you were finally in bed with your head sinking wonderfully into the pillow. Your bones ached in only the way they could after hours of work and parenting. You didn't even want to check your phone after all this. Your eyes were closing when you heard the faint creak of the floorboards just before the mattress dipped under Natasha's weight.
"You're back," you murmured, your voice scratchy with exhaustion.
Natasha settled beside you, her back against the headboard, one leg stretched long and the other bent loosely. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," you said. "Wasn't really sleeping."
A quiet beat passed.
"How was she?" you asked. "Cara?"
Natasha let out a breath. "Wired. Nervous. More vulnerable than I've seen her in a while." She paused. "Scared, mostly."
"She's a great kid," you said, opening your eyes to look at Natasha. "She doesn't think so."
You turned to look up at your wife, eyes soft. "You okay?"
Natasha didn't answer right away. She tilted her head back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know. I kept thinking about how young she is. How fast all of this came at her. How easy it is to fuck up and not even realize it until it's too late."
"She came to us," you said gently. "That has to count for something."
"It does," Natasha said, quieter this time. "It really does."
"I'm proud of how we handled that," Natasha said softly.
"We make a good team," you replied, meaning it completely.
She smiled. The same warm smile that had gotten you through six kids and countless crises. For a moment, everything felt steady again. Natasha leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I love you," she whispered, but your breathing had already deepened into sleep. She settled back on her side of the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time before closing her eyes.
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader The Loud House - 5 years later
Five years later, the Romanoff house is louder than ever. Six kids, two tired moms, and not enough coffee. Natasha’s retired. R’s stretched thin. The sparks are flickering, the teens are testing limits, and nobody said forever would be this complicated.
But love built this family. And maybe love is what will hold it together.
Masterlist | General Masterlist
Chapter Summary: We're in the swing of things
w/c:4.1k
It felt good to finally be out of the house and let your hair down, so to speak. What started as grabbing a quick bite had turned into you and the rest of the crew talking shop over drinks and fried appetizers. After five years at Workman, Deakins & Lowe LLP, and finally making partner, these people felt like a second family. The outdoor patio of Pappa’s Bar and Grill was relaxed despite the slight chill in the air, lit by string lights and warmed by the crackle of the fire pit in the center.
Kristen Bennett, Jack Hunter, Bill Jackson, Nancy Nguyen, and Kierra Doherty, your usual suspects, were all scattered around the table. You weren’t exactly friends outside of work (except for Kierra, who’d become close), but you all knew enough about each other to make these semi-monthly dinners feel more like a reunion than an obligation. You’d attend a family barbecue here and there, but most of it was just work.
As usual, Jack was being his usual bodacious and borderline inappropriate self. He knew the line; he just liked to toe it.
“…like some people have to beg their spouses and—” Jack was mid-sentence, loud enough to catch the attention of the neighboring table. He continued waving his beer bottle around. “Meanwhile, Kristen over here probably has men tripping over themselves for a glimpse of her schedule, let alone anything else. Me, on the other hand, am unimpressed.”
Kristen raised an eyebrow, unamused. “Oh, please. All I’d have to do is cross my legs the other way, and you’d be begging to get a whiff of it.”
The table erupted in laughter, yours included. You smirked into your drink, raising a brow at Jack, who clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.
“Damn, Kris. I need a cigarette after that, and I don’t even smoke,” Bill coughed through a laugh.
“Y’all are insane,” Kierra muttered, shaking her head with a grin.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Jack said, holding up his hands, “marriage doesn’t mean the spice rack’s full, okay? Some of us gotta pull teeth just to get a cuddle.”
“Maybe your problem is comparing affection to dental surgery,” Nancy offered, dry as ever.
You laughed again, letting your head fall back for a moment. It felt good, this easy banter, the heat of the fire pit flashing nearby, the cold bottle in your hand. It was one of those rare nights when your shoulders weren’t knotted up to your ears.
“y/n,” Kierra leaned over toward you, voice teasing, “please tell me the great and mighty Romanoff still makes time for romance. Give the people hope.”
You smiled, but the pause that followed was just a beat too long.
“She tries,” you said finally. “We try. It’s just… different now.”
Jack grunted. “Translation: y’all are tired as hell.”
“Bingo,” you said with a chuckle.
Kristen gave a mock pout. “And here I was thinking long-term love came with guaranteed orgasms and coordinated date nights.”
You raised your glass. “Only if you schedule it between school pickup, orthodontist appointments, and dinner prep.”
“Sounds depressing,” Jack shook his head, mock-shuddering. “You make married life sound like a prison sentence.”
Kristen let out a surprised laugh. Bill raised an eyebrow. Even Kierra glanced your way, curious.
You smirked, not missing a beat. “It’s not. I love Natasha. I love our life. But… sometimes life becomes routine. Comfortable. Predictable. And that’s not bad, it just—”
“Just ain’t sexy,” Jack cut in.
You pointed your fork at him. “It’s sexy in its own way. But yeah, it’s different than it used to be.”
Nancy sipped her wine. “You two were like it. Power couple. Still are.”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “We’ve just been doing this for almost two decades. A family, careers, everything. Sometimes it’s less about grand gestures and more about getting the dishwasher loaded before 10 pm.”
Kristen raised her glass. “Cheers to that depressing ass love story.”
You laughed. “Hey, love changes. And we’re evolving with it. That’s what matters.”
******
Across town, the soft music in the studio faded as Natasha brought her palms together in front of her chest. She peeked one eye open, nodding to the dozen or so women spread across the hardwood floor.
“And that’s your practice,” she said gently. “Thanks for showing up.”
A chorus of low thank-yous followed as mats were rolled and water bottles snapped shut. The room slowly emptied in a rustle of gym bags and casual chatter. Natasha moved to the corner, pressing a few buttons on her phone to stop the Spotify playlist. She checked the time and a message from you.
Catching up with the work crew. Will see you at home.
No, I love you. Not even one of those absurd emojis you usually threw in. She rolled her eyes, half-smiling despite herself.
“You used to bring your son, didn’t you?” a voice asked behind her.
Natasha turned. Hazel Greene, yes, that was actually her name, stood there with her mat slung over one shoulder. Mid-forties, great arms, way too much toner. Her hair was aiming for platinum but stalled somewhere between brass and rebellion.
“I did,” Natasha nodded. “When he was smaller. He liked the lights.”
Hazel smiled knowingly. “Now he’s too cool for Mom’s yoga class?”
Natasha huffed. “Something like that.”
She tossed her towel into her bag, already mentally texting Willow about setting up for dinner.
“I was wondering,” Hazel said, lingering, “about those self-defense classes. Are those coming back anytime soon?”
“I’m not sure,” Natasha said, lifting her brows slightly. “Wife and I agreed to cut back a bit. Spend more time with the kids. You know how it is.”
Hazel tilted her head, too casually. “Do I?”
Natasha gave her a polite smile. “Well, it’s worth it. Even if dinner ends up being cereal some nights.”
Hazel let out a breathy laugh. “Still. Must be nice. Having someone to come home to.”
Natasha’s smile didn’t move. “Depends on the night.”
Hazel laughed again, this time with a little edge of flirt. “Well… see you Thursday, Natasha.”
Natasha slung her bag over her shoulder. “Yep. See you then.”
She stepped out into the street with a hint of annoyance in her expression. Not because of Hazel. Not really. She could read the subtle flirtation but knew that wasn’t Hazel’s motive. If she even had one. That would be filed away in the weird column for now. She had bigger fish to fry literally.
********
The older girls sat around the kitchen counter, helping Natasha cook, although “helping” might’ve been generous. Mostly, they were picking at ingredients, arguing over who got to stir, and gossiping like it was their part-time job.
“And Zach,” Willow said dramatically, setting the table, “this guy in AP Lit, thinks he knows everything just because his dad works in the English department.” She rolled her eyes. “He has a retort for every single thing. It’s insane.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Cara said pointedly, flashing a look at her.
Willow ignored her, tossing a napkin down with flair.
Cara, unfazed, shoved more olives in her mouth straight from the jar. “When is Mom coming home?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled.
“Your Mom should be home soon,” Natasha replied, finishing off the salad.
“She’s usually late on week nights,” Willow offered casually. “Well, for the last few months, anyway.
“That’s interesting,” Cara said, cocking a brow at Natasha. “I thought you guys were cutting back.”
“Spring’s coming. There are things to wrap up.” Natasha’s voice was even. Firm. She wasn’t in the mood to elaborate. “It’s also interesting that you’re eating whole olives out of the jar after hating them for the first half of your life.”
Cara smirked. “Growth.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a personality.”
Willow snorted.
"Hello, family," you called, stepping into the house and kicking off your shoes. The smell hit you first, garlic and something citrusy. You wandered toward the kitchen, slipping off your coat. “Smells like garlic.”
“Garlic butter fish,” Natasha said, glancing over her shoulder from the stove.
You made your way around the kitchen, kissing the girls on the head. Willow first, as she was the closest. When you reached Cara, you kissed her temple and made a show of sniffing.
“Olives? Really?” you asked. “You’ve hated olives since forever.”
“Yeah, well,” Cara said, popping another one into her mouth, “turns out I’m a woman of mystery.”
You grinned and headed to the sink, washing your hands as your jacket slid off your shoulders and you set it onto the back of a chair. Natasha was already plating the fish. Her eyes flicked to the clock, then back to the pan.
“Did you eat?” She asked.
“A little bit. I had dinner with the crew,” you said as you dried your hands. “Just something small. Kierra says hi.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “She still with the firm?”
“Yeah, killing it too.” You turned to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Need help with anything?”
“I’m almost done.” Natasha moved around you to grab the salad tongs, her hand brushing lightly against your arm. You paused a second too long, then opened the fridge for a can of sparkling water. “Dinner smells amazing,” you offered, almost too late for it to land naturally.
Natasha gave a small hum in response, not quite a thank-you. “It’s a new recipe. Thought Luke would like it.”
“How was he today?” you asked, popping open your can of sparkling water.
Natasha turned off the burner and gestured for Cara and Willow to start plating.
“Bit of a meltdown before lunch.”
You looked up quickly. “What happened?”
“I forgot the strawberries,” Natasha said, not angry with herself, just tired. “Packed everything else, left them sitting in the fridge. He noticed right away.”
“Shit,” You winced. Then you nodded slowly, understanding. “That’s on me, too. I usually double-check his lunch the night before.”
Natasha gave a soft shrug. “It’s okay. I ran them over. His aide said he settled after that. We sat in the cafeteria together for a bit. He needed a reset.”
You leaned on the counter, watching her. “Was it a full shutdown?”
“Almost. He didn’t want to talk. Just kept pointing at his bag and saying ‘where are they?’ over and over. There were some tears.”
You sighed. “He hasn’t done that in a while.”
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s been more on edge this week. Like something’s just… off.”
You were quiet for a beat, thinking it through. “We can check with Ms. Dorsey. He has a therapy appointment tomorrow, right? Maybe something shifted in his routine at school. ”
Luke had gotten his official Level 1 Autism diagnosis just after his second birthday, back when his therapy sessions were a consideration and not a full step. The name for it hadn’t changed him; he was still the same sharp, funny, particular little boy, but it had given you tools for the days when he hit a wall. Most of the time, he handled the world just fine. At other times, it was harder.
Natasha gave a small nod. “You’re coming to that one?”
You reached for your water. “Yeah. I moved a meeting. Should be able to spin by for it.”
“That’s good,” Natasha said absently, as she set the salad on the counter. “He likes when we’re both there.” You hummed in agreement, the sound low, and looked toward the kids at the other end of the kitchen. You liked it when you both were there, too.
***********
Instead of asking more questions in the kitchen, you decided to go ahead and round up the younger kids from their rooms. Charlie was first. You knocked lightly before stepping in. She was cross-legged on her bed, hair piled in a messy bun, pencil moving quickly over her sketchpad. She didn’t look up when you came in.
“Hey, it’s time for dinner. Mama cooked,” you said.
“Okay, I’ll be down in a minute.” She didn’t pause her drawing.
“What’s that you’re working on?” you asked, easing down to sit at the edge of her bed.
Charlie shrugged, still sketching. “Just… an idea.”
You leaned in, expecting something half-finished, but the figure on the page was sharp and confident. It was a tall model in a fitted jacket, pleated skirt, and ankle boots. The proportions were perfect. The pose had movement.
“Wow,” you murmured. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of your designs. This is amazing.”
Charlie glanced at you, as if checking whether you meant it. “Yeah. I don’t… show people much.” She subtly shifted the pad toward herself, then thought better of it, letting you see.
“You should,” you said, and meant it. “This is good, Boo. Really good.”
She ducked her head, shading in the hemline. “Maybe.” A beat passed. “You used to look at my stuff all the time.”
The comment landed heavier than you expected. You reached over, nudging her knee gently. “Then I’ll just have to start again.”
Her pencil slowed, but she didn’t push you away.
“Listen,” you began, keeping your voice soft, “I’ve noticed your moods lately. You’ve been a little… off. Is something going on at school? Someone bothering you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “And no one bothers me anymore. I’m kind of a big deal at school.”
You smiled. “Okay, Miss Hot Shot. Anything else?”
Charlie huffed, setting down her pencil with a sigh. “Are you and Mama okay?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged, pretending to reach for her eraser. “Just… you’ve both been different. Like… you used to sit in here and talk to me after work. Now it’s like you’re always rushing somewhere.”
That made you pause. “We’re fine, Boo. Grown-up stuff, you know?”
She gave a small nod, though her eyes stayed on her sketchpad. “Yeah. I guess.”
You weren’t sure if “I guess” meant she believed you, but it sat in your chest as you patted her leg. “C’mon. Food’s getting cold.”
She stretched from the bed with another sigh, and you didn’t like the weight in that sound. As soon as she was within reach, you pulled her into a hug.
“Don’t worry about me and Mama. We’re fine. I’m sorry if it feels like I haven’t been paying attention to you. Work’s been busy, but that’s not an excuse.”
Charlie nodded into your shoulder. “Okay.” She pulled back, then hesitated before adding, “Maybe we could have a Mommy-Boo day? Just us. Soon.”
Her voice was light, almost teasing, but there was something in her eyes, like she was filing away whether you’d keep the promise.
You smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Soon,” you promised.
********
Natasha hadn’t been expecting you to come. She didn’t say so. She wasn’t the passive-aggressive type, but the subtle lift of her brows when she saw you pull into the parking lot said enough. It wasn’t a surprise that kept her eyes on you for a beat too long. It was a kind of guarded welcome. Luke didn’t seem to notice. The second you stepped out of the car, he launched himself at you, backpack bouncing. “Hi, Mommy!” he grinned, feet doing a little skip as you bent to hug him.
“Hey, buddy,” you smiled, kissing his head. He smelled like the school cafeteria and his favorite blueberry shampoo.
You took his hand, and he swung it with exaggerated force as the three of you walked in. The building was familiar, but in that way old places can feel slightly foreign if you haven’t visited in a while. The air inside was warm, scented with Lysol, coffee, and the unmistakable zing of Play-Doh.
The waiting room hadn’t changed, with the same laminate flooring, same bin of well-loved toys in the corner, and same cheerful posters about communication milestones.
Ms. Dorsey stepped out from her office. “Well, this is a nice surprise,” she said.
Luke didn’t respond. He was too busy making a beeline for the sensory bin.
“Hi,” you said, stepping forward. “I thought I’d join today.”
Natasha’s hand brushed your back as she passed to follow Luke inside. “Come on,” she said, without looking over her shoulder.
The therapy room was bright and uncluttered, with a low table in the center and rows of cubbies along the wall. The far shelf was stacked with games, puzzles, and those little visual schedule cards Luke used to cling to. You took the seat furthest from the table at first, but Natasha slid into the closer one, her bag at her feet. It was a small thing, but you noticed.
“Oh, I need to show you something!” Luke announced as soon as he sat down. He dug into his backpack and pulled out a pinwheel made of construction paper petals in every color, taped unevenly to a straw.
“I made this at school,” he said proudly, handing it first to you, then to Ms. Dorsey.
“It’s beautiful,” you told him. “You worked hard on this.”
Ms. Dorsey smiled warmly. “You did, Luke. And you remembered to bring it to show us, good job.” She set it gently on the shelf before pulling out today’s activity bin. “So, how’s he been at home?”
You glanced at Natasha, then answered. “Pretty good… a little more tired this week. He had a meltdown the other day because his strawberries weren’t in his lunch, but Natasha brought them to him and he calmed down.”
Ms. Dorsey nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. Anything else out of the ordinary?”
You hesitated, trying to think. “Not really, I don’t think…”
Natasha’s voice cut in, calm but precise. “He knocked over a chair on Monday when I asked him to put his shoes away. He got upset that it was ‘too loud’ in the kitchen, but it was just the dishwasher running. It took him about twenty minutes to settle, but he did clean up afterward.”
You blinked, not having heard about that.
“That’s helpful,” Ms. Dorsey said, jotting a note. “And after he calmed, was there anything in particular that helped?”
Natasha didn’t have to think about it. “Deep pressure on his shoulders. We counted to twenty together. That seemed to bring him down.”
Ms. Dorsey nodded. “So the coping strategy you’ve been practicing is still working, but the trigger seems to be noise-related again. That’s a shift from the last few weeks, when it was more about transitions.”
She turned to you. “Do you notice any changes in his noise sensitivity when you’re with him?”
You paused, caught off guard. “I… haven’t really noticed lately,” you admitted, glancing at Luke as he focused on lining up blocks in perfect rows.
“That’s okay,” Ms. Dorsey said gently. “Maybe keep an eye out this week. It’s not unusual for sensitivities to fluctuate.”
The session moved on there were beanbags, color sorting, and a speech game about making silly rhymes. Luke giggled when Natasha purposely messed up a word, correcting her with a smug little grin. You found yourself smiling, but there was a faint ache in your chest watching how seamlessly they worked together. Natasha read his cues like she was fluent in a language you’d half-forgotten.
When it wrapped, Luke came bouncing over, a neon-green Incredible Hulk sticker now stuck to his shirt. “Ice cream?” he asked, hopeful.
Natasha inhaled like she was about to say no, but you cut in first. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Luke bolted for the door. Natasha lingered, her eyes following him, then flicking back to you. One brow arched, somewhere between amused and exasperated, but she didn’t argue.
******
The drive home was quiet, save for Luke humming in the back seat. He’d done pretty well with not asking for his iPad during car rides lately. It was a boundary you’d both set for him, and he’d been surprisingly good about it. The little song he made up about ice cream didn’t have a real melody, just a looping tune only he seemed to understand. He sang it with such focus that Natasha didn’t dare interrupt.
When she pulled into the garage, you arrived just behind her. You’d decided to wait before going inside, answering a call from work that came through as you parked. Luke didn’t seem to notice or care; he unbuckled himself and hopped out the second her SUV stopped rolling.
“I’m telling Paige I had ice cream!” he announced proudly, bolting for the mudroom with his sticker held high.
Natasha shut off the engine and stepped out slowly, watching you from across the narrow space. You were still leaning against your driver’s side door, phone pressed to your ear. She could hear you laugh at something the caller said, your shoulders relaxing in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks.
She wondered what it was about and why that kind of ease seemed to happen more when you were talking to people who weren’t her.
When you caught her looking, you turned slightly away, finishing the call. “Okay, Leslie, thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Your tone was brisk again, businesslike, before you tucked the phone into your pocket.
She was leaning casually against the hood of her SUV when you stepped forward. The garage was dim except for the warm light spilling from the mudroom door.
“You being there today meant a lot to him,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but the truth in it was clear.
“I wish I’d been there Monday,” you admitted.
Her brows drew together slightly. “The chair thing?”
“Yeah. And just… he’s having trouble at school,” you said. “More than I thought.”
Natasha shifted her weight, crossing her arms. “Some days are just harder for him. He was already on edge before class even started. Missing snack was just the tipping point.”
You hesitated. “I just hate hearing about it after the fact.”
“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” she said. “I was trying to handle it so you wouldn’t have to come out of a meeting and feel like you’d failed him.”
That pricked something in you. Something like guilt, and a little bit of defensiveness. “I don’t want to be the parent who’s only there for the easy parts, Natasha.”
She studied you for a beat, her eyes softer than her words. “Then don’t be.”
The sound of Luke calling for Paige floated through the door, followed by her laughing reply. Natasha’s gaze lingered on you for another moment before she pushed off the hood. “Come on,” she said, nodding toward the house. “Before he talks her into dessert.”
Before Natasha could walk away, you caught her arm. She turned back, the overhead light catching in her eyes. You weren’t sure if she was bracing for an argument or something else, but she held your gaze.
“I’m trying,” you said quietly.
Her expression didn’t shift right away, but you felt the tension ease beneath your hand. “I know,” she murmured, voice low enough that it barely carried over the noise from inside.
“I don’t want you to think I’m—” You stopped, searching for the right word. “Absent.”
Natasha’s eyes softened, just slightly. “I don’t think that,” she said, though something in the way she blinked made you wonder if she was lying more to herself than to you.
“Tasha, I know you.”
Her eyes lit up at the sound, that old warmth rushing in before she could stop it. She looked down quickly, masking it with the faintest shake of her head.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” she said, still avoiding your gaze. “It’s just been a while since you called me that.”
You didn’t answer right away, letting the quiet do its work. Your thumb brushed her sleeve. “Guess I’ve been forgetting more than strawberries lately.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown, but she didn’t move. The air between you felt still, as if neither of you wanted to break it.
From inside, the sharp sound of two voices, Paige and Luke, arguing over something it broke through the moment. Natasha’s eyes flicked toward the door, and after a beat, she pulled back.
“Duty calls,” she murmured.
*****
You’d just finished your shower and slipped into your comfortable clothes when Cara stepped into your bedroom. With two braided pigtails, an oversized UPenn sweatshirt, and baggy sweats, she looked younger than her age, almost like the kid who used to trail behind you everywhere.
You studied her face, then glanced toward Natasha, who had looked up from folding laundry.
“Can we talk?” Cara asked. Her voice was steady, but the bite to her lip and the way her fist flexed open and closed, nails no doubt digging crescents into her palm, told you she was wound tight. It was enough to make you straighten.
You flicked a look toward the living room, where the faint sound of the TV bled through, then back at her.
“Sure,” you said.
She moved quickly, closing your bedroom door with a decisive click.
“I need to tell you something,” she began. “And it might surprise you.” Her eyes darted toward the floor. “You’re gonna want to sit down.”
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader The Loud House - 5 years later
Five years later, the Romanoff house is louder than ever. Six kids, two tired moms, and not enough coffee. Natasha’s retired. R’s stretched thin. The sparks are flickering, the teens are testing limits, and nobody said forever would be this complicated.
But love built this family. And maybe love is what will hold it together.
Masterlist | General Masterlist
Chapter Summary: We're back to the family we always knew.
w/c:5.8k
“Let’s go, James!” Natasha shouted from the bleachers, her voice loud and proud over the noise of bouncing basketballs and squeaky sneakers. James caught the pass cleanly, then dribbled quickly and smoothly down the court, #7 on his back, light on his feet, his tongue poking out in concentration.
Willow was next to her, texting at lightning speed, probably to that boy she still swore wasn’t her boyfriend. Charlie was deep in conversation with Savannah, hands flying with whatever middle school drama needed unpacking. Paige leaned into Natasha’s side, chipping away at her nail polish while watching the court with one eye. Luke was in his usual game-day setup, noise-canceling headphones snug over his ears, iPad clutched like a lifeline, his feet swinging gently beneath him.
Natasha glanced at her watch again, jaw tight. It was the third time in five minutes.
“She’s probably still at work,” Paige offered, not even looking up.
Natasha hummed low in her throat. “Probably.”
The gym was packed on a Tuesday night, complete with folding chairs, concession snacks, and a small-town basketball energy that felt like a playoff game. Though Cincinnati could hardly be considered a small town.
You entered as quietly as your heels would allow, weaving through parents and kids with your blazer still buttoned and apology already forming.
“Excuse me, excuse me— sorry—hi,” you said in hushed bursts as you climbed the aisle. You finally spotted them and squeezed in beside Paige, kissing the back of Luke’s head. He leaned toward you slightly, a rare win.
“Hi,” you whispered.
“Hi, Mommy,” Paige beamed.
“Hey,” Charlie mumbled, distracted.
Willow offered a nod without looking up from her phone.
And then there was Natasha, still watching the game, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable but not exactly warm.
“You’re late,” she said plainly.
“I know. Work ran long.” You gave her a quick smile, still catching your breath.
Her eyes flicked to your heels, your blouse, your lipstick that had worn off in the corners. “Still in work clothes.”
“Haven’t had time to change,” you said, voice light. “Stanford had some things to go over.”
Natasha finally turned to look at you, brow raised. “Did Stanford know your son had a game tonight?”
You resisted the urge to sigh. “Didn’t see fit to mention it.”
“Mmm.”
That was all she said. But the sound said enough.
Luke rested his head on your arm. You curled around him instinctively. Paige reached over to hold your hand.
You smiled and nodded like things were fine because they were, technically.
But it had been a while since Natasha reached for your hand first. A while since dinners weren’t rescheduled, since nights didn’t feel like shifts. And now, she didn’t have to say a word for you to feel it; her disappointment settled in the space beside you like a third presence.
You felt her watching before you even reached for your phone.
Just a glance. One buzz.
Leslie – Do you still want me to send that deck tonight or wait until tomorrow morning?
You didn’t even open the message.
Didn’t have to.
You locked the screen and slid the phone into your bag.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Natasha shake her head, subtle but sharp.
The whistle blew at halftime. Instead of heading towards the locker room with his teammates, James rushed over to you, sweating and beaming. Natasha stood first, already reaching into the oversized tote at her feet. She rummaged through it as you watched your kids interact. It felt amazing seeing them celebrate each other like they did.
"You're doing good, dude." Willow looked up from her phone to dap him up.
"Thanks, did you see my layup, Mama?" He asked as Natasha held out a chilled Gatorade for him.
"I did," Natasha nodded. "I saw everything. You're great out there." She smiled and then instructed him to drink. James took it eagerly, collapsing on the bench near the aisle. He guzzled down a hefty amount and passed it back to her.
"Star player," You joined in, ruffling his hair and kissing him on the head. He smiled at you a little sheepishly.
"I'm glad you made it," He nodded.
"Of course," You said. You leaned back slightly to glance at Natasha; her attention was on James, her hand absently smoothing over his back.
There was a shout from James' coach for him to come back to the court. It was still showtime. You never took your eyes away from Natasha, even when you knew she was purposely avoiding your gaze. Her mouth didn't move, but her jaw worked ever so slightly, as if holding something in. Not in front of the kids. You hated that you noticed.
You shifted closer to her, your voice low. "I'm sorry I was late."
Natasha didn't look at you. "I know."
“I didn’t mean to miss anything,” you added quietly. The noise of the gym filled the pause between you.
“You didn’t,” she said. “Technically.”
You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching. That word again.
Technically, you were here.
Technically, everything was fine. The bleachers around you filled with movement as parents stretched, younger siblings ran up and down the aisles, and the cheer team huddled by the snack table.
Luke hummed beside you, his headphones still on, his fingers tapping his iPad screen with precision. Paige showed you her half-peeled nail polish, talking about whether she should switch to glitter or not. You smiled, pretending to listen.
You felt Natasha watching you before she said anything. “Leslie?” she asked, voice cool.
Your brows knit. “What?”
“She texted you. I saw her name light up.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “It wasn’t urgent.”
"She's been texting you a lot lately," She mentioned.
"Work's been busy," You said. "We have a new partner. My hours should be better now that summer's rolling in. That's what we wanted, right?"
Natasha didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes followed James on the court, her hand now resting on Paige’s knee.
“I wanted you home,” she said finally. “Not… adjusting your hours to be more convenient about not being there.”
You exhaled through your nose and kept your tone steady. “That’s not fair.”
“I know it’s not,” she said. “But that’s what it feels like.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because she wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.
“You could’ve told me sooner you were feeling this way,” you tried, keeping your voice low so the kids wouldn’t hear.
Natasha gave you a look, not angry, just tired. “You would’ve said the timing was bad. It always is.”
Your eyes flicked to Luke, who had now leaned gently against you, his game paused. You ran your fingers through his curls.
James scored again, and the crowd cheered. Paige clapped, Willow let out a delayed “Yesss!” like she’d just caught up, and Charlie hollered James’s name, standing halfway up with both arms in the air.
Now truly wasn’t the right time.
********
You all met up outside in the school parking lot. James’s team had won, and the kids were buzzing, loud and restless in that way that always hit right before food and bed. Charlie and Willow were already arguing about who was riding shotgun in your car, Paige was bouncing in her shoes, and Luke was being gently steered by Natasha so he didn’t walk directly into someone’s bumper.
You were standing near the back of your SUV, debating who was riding with whom, when a woman broke off from a group of moms and headed toward you.
“Romanoff family,” she greeted. “Y’all look good.”
You looked up. Deena Troy. You recognized her as one of the boys’ moms. Her son played defense, always called James “J-dog” like they were in a buddy cop movie, and he especially hated it.
“Y/N, so good to see you,” she added, her smile wide and a little too familiar. “We’ve missed you at these things. It’s almost like you’re a ghost around here.”
You blinked. “Oh, well, I was here the week before last. And the one before that, I had to take Paige to urgent care. She had that stomach bug.”
“Oh, right,” Deena nodded, not missing a beat. “Still. Feels like forever.”
You smiled politely and tucked your hands into your pants pockets. “Time moves weird, I guess.”
“I was really sick,” Paige added from behind you, suddenly invested. “I threw up in Mommy’s car, and it smelled like soup for a week.”
Deena laughed like that was adorable. “Y’all are something else.”
Natasha gave her a polite nod, one arm draped across Charlie’s shoulders. “We try.”
Deena looked between the two of you. “Anyway, congrats to James, he was great out there. You should’ve heard the other moms. All-star this year for sure.”
“Thank you,” Natasha said, and you echoed it a second later.
“Well,” Deena smiled again. “Don’t be a stranger.”
She walked off before you could think of a response. Natasha turned her head just enough to look at you.
“I’ve missed maybe one game,” you muttered under your breath.
Natasha raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
“She made it sound like I’m never here.”
“She makes everything sound like that,” she replied, calm but not exactly comforting.
James jogged up beside you, holding his duffel bag and asking about pizza like nothing else mattered in the world.
“Are we getting pizza? I’m ready,” James bounced around Luke, pretending to make a free throw.
You nodded, adjusting his collar. “Of course, we’re getting pizza. It’s tradition.”
He grinned and ran ahead toward the cars.
You stayed behind for just a second longer, watching the kids scatter around Natasha like orbiting moons. This was your life.
**********
You frequented Jojo’s Pizza so much, they stopped handing you menus three years ago.
There was a booth by the window, long enough to squeeze all seven of you, with that one rip in the vinyl Natasha always ran her fingers over. It was practically part of the family now. You knew which crust everyone liked, how much red pepper Paige could handle before crying, and that James always stole olives off everyone’s slices.
Three pizzas, one to take home for lunch tomorrow. A giant salad. Tall sodas all around, something you used to put up a fight about, but that fight got old somewhere around kid number five. Luke had root beer tonight. That felt like progress.
You and Natasha sat at opposite ends of the booth, across from each other in the usual spots. Not on purpose. It had just become a habit. She was leaning in, trying to coax Luke out of the iPad trance he was in, her voice soft but steady.
“Buddy, come on. Just a few bites.”
Luke didn’t budge.
“Luke,” she said again, patient, hand resting on the table between them.
You watched her from your end, chin in your hand. You were too tired to help, or maybe just out of practice. You’d barely made it from the game to here without answering an email. The phone was still buzzing in your bag.
“Do you want the red plate?” Natasha asked, already reaching into her purse for it. It was a small travel-sized plastic plate with a rocket on it. Luke’s favorite. He finally looked up.
“Red plate,” he mumbled.
You smiled at that. It was the kind of thing she always remembered.
James was talking a mile a minute to Charlie and Paige, re-enacting the layup he missed and the one he landed. Charlie kept interrupting with “no, no, no, that’s not how it went!” and Paige was drawing hearts with her straw in her Sprite condensation. Willow was texting again, earbuds tucked in, half in the moment, half not.
Everything was...fine.
Natasha finally looked up at you. Briefly. You offered a little smile.
She didn’t return it, exactly. Just looked back down at Luke’s pizza.
That didn’t hurt, not really. Just registered. Like a minor muscle ache you’d gotten used to ignoring.
You could hear the kids laughing across the table. Charlie flung a crouton at James, who dramatically gasped like he’d been wounded. Paige giggled, snorting into her drink.
“Charlie, did you have any more homework that needs to be checked off tonight?” Natasha asked. “I’m thinking you guys need to head straight for showers and bed as soon as we get home.”
Charlie didn’t answer. Just gave a shrug that barely moved her shoulders. You caught the flicker of annoyance in Natasha’s eyes, quick, then gone. She didn’t push, just picked up her fork and kept eating.
But you weren’t about to let it slide.
“Charlotte,” you said, your tone firmer than Natasha’s. “Your mom asked you a question.”
Charlie huffed, still not looking up. “No. I did it during study hall.”
“Thank you,” Natasha said simply.
You leaned back, watching the way Charlie stabbed at her slice like it had done something to her. Sweet girl, turning moody with age, and picking you as the soft one lately, Natasha was starting to feel like the wall she bounced off of.
You reached for your drink. Across the booth, Natasha didn’t say anything, but you could feel the shift in her shoulders. That quiet gratitude when you backed her up.
“I’ll help with the showers when we get home,” you said to no one in particular, but it was meant for her. A peace offering, in its way.
“Okay,” Natasha said, and went back to cutting Luke’s pizza.
*****
You were standing in the doorway, overseeing Paige, Luke, and James' toothbrushing efforts before bed. Natasha was downstairs helping Charlie finish her homework, something she'd discovered at the last minute. Surprise, surprise.
You were zoning in and out of the conversation as you ticked off your to-do list in your head. Naturally, there was a little bickering as the kids passed down the tube of paste. Though they had their bathrooms, it was much easier this way.
“I can’t wait for the weekend,” Paige grinned around her toothbrush. She spit into the sink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She inspected her teeth in the mirror and turned to you. “Are you coming?”
“James, spit. You’re old enough to know you’re not supposed to eat the toothpaste,” You gently scolded. Though he was in a playful mood, and you didn’t mind it all that much, you were tired and ready to lie down. “What’s this weekend?” You asked Paige as you reached blindly for a towel to pass Luke.
“Oh! Mommy said I can get my ears double-pierced this weekend.”
You paused mid-reach, towel in hand. “She did?”
“Yeah,” Paige nodded confidently. “She said if I helped clean up my room and stopped bugging Luke about his bedtime stuff, I could do it.”
Your expression didn’t shift, but something in your chest tensed. “Did she, now.”
“She said I was old enough and it wasn’t a big deal.”
“Right,” you said, too evenly. “Well, you still need both parents to say yes. We’ll talk about it.”
Paige groaned, spitting into the sink. “But you always say we’ll talk about it. That means no.”
“And sometimes it means, ‘Let me talk to your mother first,’” you said gently but firmly.
“Fine,” She muttered. She began to stomp past you in true nine-year-old fashion. You held up a hand to stop her.
“It’s not a no,” You promised her.
“Okay,” She nodded. She wasn’t all too convinced, though. You leaned down, offering your cheek, and she kissed it with gusto.
“There’s my girl,” You said. “Now Luke, do you need help before bed or can you do bedtime on your own tonight?”
“I’m a big boy,” Luke said, shaking his head. “I can do it on my own.”
You waited until both boys were in their respective beds before you went downstairs.
Charlie stomped past you to go up to her bedroom. You didn't even want to ask. "Hey, Paige tells me you said she could get her ears pierced this weekend. I thought we agreed she was too young," You said. Natasha sighed and turned towards the fridge. She was finishing up with packing lunches. "Also, I thought I was packing lunches. You didn't have to do that."
Natasha didn’t answer right away. She pulled a sandwich bag out of the lunch drawer and dropped it into James’s lunchbox before finally turning to you.
“I was already in here. Figured I’d do it.”
You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes trained on the side of her face. “Okay. But… Paige?”
“She’s nine,” Natasha said, not defensive, just tired. “And it’s just ears.”
“We said ten.”
“No,” she corrected, “you said ten. I just didn’t argue.”
That stung a little more than you expected.
“She brought it up while we were folding laundry,” Natasha added. “I told her we’d see. I didn’t say yes.”
“Well, that’s not how she heard it,” you said, voice softer now.
Natasha rubbed at her forehead, closing the lid on the last lunchbox. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I was just trying to make her feel seen.”
“I get that,” you said. And you did. “But you can’t keep going solo on this kind of stuff, Tasha.”
“Solo?” She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “I didn’t realize I was. You’ve been… busy.”
You let that hang in the air a moment.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she added.
“No,” you said, swallowing, “but it’s not wrong.”
You both stood there for a minute, the kitchen silent save for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of the floor above as Charlie moved around her room.
You reached for one of the juice boxes, something to do with your hands.
“We’re on the same team, right?” you asked.
Natasha nodded slowly. “Of course we are.”
You rounded the counter and stood before her. She didn’t move. Her arms were still folded across her chest, and she looked at you like she was trying to see something beneath your skin.
You looked into her eyes for a beat, then leaned in. You pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and slow, letting it linger just a moment longer than it needed to. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into it either.
“I’m going to bed,” you said finally, voice low.
Natasha nodded once, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
You paused at the doorway, thinking maybe she’d say something more. But she didn’t. Just turned back toward the fridge, her hand reaching for the last lunch container like the conversation hadn’t settled anything at all.
Upstairs, the house was quiet. Kids asleep, lights off.
And tomorrow would come. Early, loud, and full. Just like always.
********
You woke up that morning hoping the day would be good.
You could feel the early beginnings of spring outside as you finished your morning stretch on the back patio.
Paige was her usual self, reading a book (you’d restricted iPad time in the mornings) on one of the patio chairs near you. It was rare you got time alone at home, but you weren’t complaining. You were glad she still wanted to be around you and with you. Your other girls were teenagers now, and just like you, way too busy with their own lives to have proper conversations most days.
You glanced over at Paige, her knees pulled up, thumb tucked beneath the spine of a paperback.
“What are we reading this morning?” you asked.
She held up the cover without looking up. The Mysterious Benedict Society.
You nodded. “Good choice.”
“It’s better than book two,” she said, matter-of-factly, before flipping the page. She’d read the entire series. You let yourself sink back into the moment. Birds chirping, the smell of damp grass, sunlight curling over the patio.
You stretched, arms overhead, breathing in the kind of peace that only comes with morning yoga.
Then the doorbell rang.
You didn’t rush. Mid-morning deliveries were usually Natasha’s thing: some yoga props for the studio, or a package, or Girl Scout cookies.
You assumed someone would answer.
Back in your house, you ventured to the foyer to find Cara standing in the entryway in a hoodie three sizes too big and her old high school slides. And Natasha had her arms around her, hugging her like she’d been gone longer than a semester.
“Hi,” Cara said with a breathy laugh when she saw you. Her eyes were rimmed with pink, and her suitcase was still parked crookedly at the front door.
You didn’t know what to say at first. You just blinked.
“Hey,” you managed, too quiet. Then again, louder. “Hey.”
You walked over. Natasha stepped back to give you space, but kept her hand on Cara’s shoulder like she didn’t want to let go just yet.
You reached for her, your fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie, pulling her in. Her face tucked into your neck like it used to when she was little.
“Baby,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”
“I just… I needed to come home,” she said. “Thought I’d drive back and surprise you guys for spring break. I know I had plans for Italy, but I thought this was better.”
And the way she said it? You knew something was off.
But you didn’t press yet. Because she was home. And you’d missed her.
And right now, that was enough.
“Well, let me grab your bags,” you said, already turning toward the door as Natasha gently steered her toward the living room. You knew her well enough to recognize the tactic. Pull her in close. Get a better look. Ask subtle questions masked as small talk. It was her version of checking vital signs.
“Oh, Cara, you’re here!” James skidded into the hallway, nearly tripping over a sneaker as he bolted toward her.
“Whoa, hey buddy,” Cara caught him in a quick hug, the first real smile hitting her face since she walked in. “You get taller every time I see you.”
Luke appeared behind him, slower, his dinosaur stuffed, clutched to his chest. He gave her a small wave but didn’t come in for a hug immediately. Still, Cara didn’t seem to mind.
“Hi, Lukey,” she said softly.
He nodded, eyes darting between her and Natasha, before disappearing toward the kitchen again.
You set her suitcase by the stairs and took a second to glance back.
Natasha was still watching her.
Smiling, but watching.
"So, where's Charlie?" Cara asked, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Probably somewhere in her room, brooding," Natasha shrugged. "She avoids us these days. Maybe you can get her to come out."
"It's worth a shot," Cara nodded. "I guess I'll go say hi." She thumbed toward the stairs and started climbing. James and Paige trailed behind her like ducklings, leaving just you and Natasha standing in the hallway.
You waited until the footsteps faded.
"She's pregnant," you said flatly.
Natasha turned to you, blinking. "You don’t know that."
You gave her a look. “She showed up crying in a hoodie that could fit both of us, skipped Italy for Ohio, and hugged you like she’d just dodged a felony. Either that or she did commit a felony.”
Natasha tried, really tried, not to smile. “Maybe she just missed us.”
“Sure,” you said. “Just like I wear my college sweatshirt and cry when I’m feeling blessed and centered.”
Natasha’s lips twitched. “Alright, so… maybe.”
“She wouldn’t even look me in the eye, Tasha. You saw that.”
“She’s always a little weird when she gets home.”
“She skipped Italy with boys and booze for us.”
Natasha’s brow lifted. “Oh.” She hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Exactly.”
There was a pause before Natasha opened the fridge and pulled out a juice box, stabbing the straw in without looking.
“So,” she said between sips. “We’re just gonna… wait it out?”
You leaned on the counter. “Yep. Let’s pretend we believe the spring break story, eat all her snacks, and wait for her to crack.”
“She’s got two days, tops,” Natasha nodded, holding up the juice box.
“To teenage scandal,” you said, clinking your coffee mug against it.
*****
Cara didn’t bother knocking on Charlie’s door. She marched right in, James and Paige flanking her like backup dancers. And then she froze. Gone were the unicorn decals, the twinkle lights, the soft pink walls. In their place: a moody, bold forest green. New comforter. Diffuser misting. Posters of artists that Cara didn’t recognize and a massive corkboard littered with quotes, photos, and sketches.
“What the hell?” Cara blinked. “Did I walk into the wrong house?”
Charlie was lying on her bed, hoodie pulled over her head, one leg bouncing. She didn’t look up.
“You’re not supposed to just walk in anymore.” James flopped onto her bean bag. “She gets angry about that.”
“When did you become broody?” Cara asked.
“You’ve been gone for two months. A lot can happen in two months.” Charlie finally sat up, tugging the hoodie off and eyeing Cara. “Hi.”
Hi,” Cara echoed, still scanning the walls. “Did you kill the pink paint yourself or hire someone?”
Charlie smirked. “It was mutual. We agreed to part ways.”
“You parted ways with glitter butterflies?” Paige asked, arms crossed like this was a personal betrayal.
“They were childish,” Charlie muttered, picking at her sock.
“You’re twelve,” James pointed out, collapsing back dramatically into the bean bag. “You are childish.”
Charlie grabbed a throw pillow and nailed him in the face without breaking eye contact. Cara laughed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Okay, so, what’s with the vibe shift? Are you in a band now? Starting a rebellion?” Charlie rolled her eyes. “It’s just paint.”
“Hmm,” Cara looked over at Charlie, really seeing her now. Gone were the days of baby fat and chubby cheeks. Her little sister had sharp cheekbones now, lip gloss on, and that bored confidence that only came with being twelve and misunderstood. She was growing up fast, and Cara was missing it.
She blinked, suddenly overwhelmed, and looked toward the door. “Okay. James, Paige? Out.”
“What?” James frowned. “Why do we have to go?”
“Because I said so.”
“I live here,” Paige muttered.
“I’m older. Bye.”
Charlie snorted as the two of them left, Paige muttering something about favoritism. The door clicked shut behind them.
Cara turned back to her. “So,” she said, flopping onto the edge of the bed, “how long are you planning to act like a tortured indie singer?”
Charlie rolled her eyes but smiled. “How long are you here for?”
“Couple of weeks.” Cara squinted. “Unless someone steals my room again, then I’m leaving immediately.”
Charlie leaned back on her elbows, grinning. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Not as dramatic as this room makeover,” Cara said, scanning the walls again. Then she froze, gasping. “Oh my God. Wait. Did you get your period?”
Charlie blinked. “I got that, like, a year ago.”
Cara’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?”
“You’re so late,” Charlie smirked. “Moms already gave me the speech and everything. There was a gift basket. You didn’t come home last summer.”
“You got a gift basket?!”
“Organic chocolate. Heating pad. The book called The Power Within. It was a whole thing.”
Cara threw herself backward onto the bed, groaning. “I was gone for five minutes.”
“You missed a lot,” Charlie said simply. “It happens.”
But even with the sass, her voice was soft. Cara sat up and looked at her again, this time, looking.
And yeah. She’d missed it.
Cara flopped dramatically across the bed again, her arm tossed over her face. “I can’t believe I missed your becoming a woman moment. That’s supposed to be a core memory.”
Charlie snorted. “What, like you were gonna braid my hair and give me a speech about moon cycles?”
“Yes!” Cara sat up, indignant. “That’s exactly what I would’ve done. I had a whole playlist in mind. Empowerment anthems. Some Alanis. Maybe a dramatic monologue.”
Charlie raised a brow. “You are so weird.”
“Thank you,” Cara said, completely unfazed. “Anyway, how are you really?”
Charlie shrugged, her face going neutral like she was deciding whether to answer seriously. “I’m fine.”
Cara didn’t push. She just bumped her shoulder gently. “Okay. But just so you know, I remember what it’s like being twelve. Everything feels like the end of the world, even when it’s not.”
Charlie was quiet for a beat. “It’s not that deep.”
“I believe you.” Cara smiled. “But if it ever is, I’m your girl, okay? Even if I’m late to the party.”
Charlie picked at the edge of her comforter, then looked up. “I missed you.”
Cara smiled. “I missed you, too.”
Charlie laid her head on Cara’s shoulder, and for a moment, there was nothing but the faint whir of the diffuser and the creak of the floorboards above them.
“I’ll tell you stuff,” Charlie said eventually, “just… not all at once.”
Cara nodded, letting her rest there. “That’s cool. I’ll be here.”
********
The sky was still faintly purple when Natasha decided to take a walk with Luke around the neighborhood, the last of the sunset tucked behind the trees. The streetlights blinked on one by one the farther they got from home.
She tugged on Max’s leash as the golden retriever nosed around a neighbor’s recycling bin. Midnight, as always, padded calmly at Luke’s side like she understood the assignment. Protective. Steady.
Luke didn’t say much at first. He rarely did on walks. He had his favorite Batman shirt on, hands stuffed in his pockets, flashlight pointed at the sidewalk ahead like he was scouting for clues.
“And Bluey has a baby sister named Bingo,” he said eventually, breaking the quiet. “Do you like that show, Mom?”
Natasha nodded. “I think so. It’s a pretty neat show.”
“Hmm.”
Max tugged forward again. Natasha gave a short pull-back. “He’s getting spoiled,” she muttered. “We don’t walk him enough.”
Luke hummed thoughtfully. “He’s still good. Just curious.”
They turned the corner, the soft sound of their steps and paws filling the silence between them.
“I used to be curious,” Luke added. “But now I mostly just like what I already know.”
Natasha smiled. “Safe feels better sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
They walked a few more blocks. Luke swung the flashlight side to side, making shadows dance across driveways. The street was hushed, windows glowing with early spring routines—TVs on, dinners cleared, bedtimes negotiated.
“You and Mommy are quiet lately,” Luke said, almost to himself.
Natasha didn’t respond right away. She looked ahead. “We’re just tired, buddy. Grown-up tired. Doesn’t mean anything bad.”
Luke nodded. “I’m not worried.”
She glanced down at him. “No?”
“No. I just noticed. Like how James notices when the pizza crust is different.”
Natasha chuckled under her breath. “You’re sharp.”
“You think it’s gonna get loud again?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Loud. Like before. Laughing and stuff.”
She didn’t answer right away. They passed the Stevens’ house. Midnight gave a shake, tags jingling.
“I hope so,” she said eventually. “We’ve just been busy. Grown-ups get like that sometimes.”
“Me too,” Luke nodded. “I think it was nice when we were loud.”
Natasha smiled, something soft cracking open in her chest. “We’ve always been a pretty loud bunch, huh?”
Luke shrugged. “I guess.”
They walked in comfortable silence for another stretch before Natasha added, “I’m proud of you, you know. For sticking with us. Being more social with your siblings. I know it can be tough.”
“Well… James is nicer now,” Luke pointed out, matter-of-fact.
Natasha let out a surprised laugh, short and real. “Yeah. He’s getting there.”
Luke nodded like a tiny sage. “He says sorry faster now.”
Natasha reached over and ruffled his hair gently. “So do you.”
He gave a little smile and pointed his flashlight toward home.
************
The house was a bit too tame for Natasha's liking when she stepped inside with Luke. He'd immediately kicked off his shoes and rushed to the theater room in the basement to join his siblings. The dishwasher was running in the background, and the scent of lavender detergent wafted in the air. You were on the couch in one of your college shirts, legs tucked beneath you, flipping absently through channels you weren't watching. Natasha thought you looked pretty that way.
"How was your walk?" You asked.
"It was good," She said, setting her keys down on the coffee table. "Luke's going to sleep well tonight. Said Max and Midnight got him tired."
"He said he misses the noise," You smiled.
"He told me that too on our walk," She unzipped her jacket. She sat beside you, close enough but not quite touching. She let herself lean into the couch cushion a bit. "What are you watching?"
"Love is blind," You answered. "Not really my type of show, but it's interesting." Natasha hummed. "That's the one where people get engaged with seeing each other?"
"Mh-hmm," You nodded. "And then they acted shocked when it didn't work."
She chuckled under her breath, low and amused. "Maybe they like the idea more than the person." You shrugged. It could be possible.
You leaned into Natasha's side and breathed in her scent. "Anything on the schedule I should be worried about?"
"Not that I'm aware of," She said. "Anything at work I should be worried about?"
You thought for a moment and shook your head. "No, nope." You leaned up to kiss her lips. It was soft and tender. It felt like the right moment. Her hand caressed your face as she kissed you back. The moment lingered full and hopeful until she pulled away.
"I have to shower," She said.
"I could join you?" You suggested.
Natasha smiled, small and tired, brushing her thumb along your cheekbone like muscle memory.
“I think I just need a minute,” she said gently. Not cold. Not distant. Just honest.
You gave the faintest nod, trying not to let your face fall too much. “Yeah. Of course.”
She stood, her body moving slower than usual, like she was sorting through thoughts with every step. The soft padding of her feet against the hardwood filled the quiet between you. The same quiet Luke had noticed.
“I’ll be there soon,” you offered, your voice light, mirror her words from last night.
Natasha turned back, halfway down the hall, hand braced against the wall. “I know.”
And then she disappeared around the corner.
The dishwasher clicked off in the kitchen. A laugh rose faintly from the basement, then quieted again. You sat there a moment longer, remote resting on your thigh, the show still flickering on screen.
You thought about how it used to be. About how easy it was to follow her up without thinking.
But tonight… You just stayed where you were. Letting the silence stretch again. Still together. Still trying.
Summary: Wanda was structured, steady. You were chaos with a passport and a firestarter soul.
It worked—until it didn’t. Until cherry blossoms turned into missed connections and soft-spoken arguments in kitchens full of cold tea.
Authors note: I needed to add a little hurt/comfort~
The apartment smelled like leftover takeout and stale coffee. Rain pattered quietly against the windows, this time without any romance.
Wanda sat cross-legged on the living room floor, her laptop surrounded by folders, spreadsheets, and highlighters she hadn’t touched since undergrad. Her hair was twisted up messily, glasses perched low on her nose, and her shoulders had hunched into a curve of exhaustion.
You watched her from the kitchen, two steaming mugs of tea in your hands. You hesitated before speaking.
“Come to Japan with me.”
She didn’t look up. “What?”
“I found these last-minute flights,” you said gently, placing the mug near her elbow. “Cherry blossom season. We could leave Friday night. Just for a week.”
Wanda let out a breath that was almost a laugh—but not a good one.
“I can’t just go to Japan,” she said flatly.
“Why not?”
She finally looked up.
“Because I have work, babe.”
“I know, I’m not saying drop everything forever—just a little break. You’ve barely looked away from that screen in three days.”
Her fingers tightened around her pen. “Because I have deadlines. People depend on me.”
“So do I,” you said softly.
That struck something. You saw it in her jaw—how it clenched, how her eyes flickered like you’d hit a nerve you hadn’t meant to.
“You always do this,” she said suddenly, voice clipped. “You just float above everything, expecting me to follow like life’s a goddamn postcard.”
Your breath caught. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” she snapped. “You don’t have an office. Or meetings. You don’t have a boss breathing down your neck or coworkers waiting on you to deliver. You get to run when things get heavy.”
“I don’t run, Wanda,” you said, quieter now. “I go. I live. I bring you with me every chance I get.”
“Well maybe I can’t keep up with that.”
Silence. Awful. Ringing.
You stood there with your palms flat on the counter, trying to breathe past the sudden tightness in your chest. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t cry. Not yet.
“I’m not asking you to keep up,” you finally said. “I’m asking you to meet me, now and then. To want to.”
Wanda turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked tired. Not just from work. From you. Or maybe from wanting both too much.
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
“Forget Japan,” you said after a moment. “Just… forget it.”
You left the tea untouched and walked to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind you.
Wanda didn’t follow.
Not that night.
✧ ೃ༄" ✉️*ੈ✩
A Few Days Later
Wanda hadn’t meant to leave things like this.
But the week blurred past her in emails and long meetings and late nights under sterile office lights. You’d gone quiet—still present, still kind, but dimmer somehow. The laughter you usually carried in your pocket like spare change had faded, tucked away for safer times.
You didn’t fight again. That almost made it worse.
You kissed her forehead before bed. Made her coffee in the morning. But there was a carefulness in your touch now. Like you were setting her down instead of holding on.
On Thursday morning, Wanda left before sunrise, hoping to clear her head at the office.
When she came home that night—raincoat dripping, hair frizzed from the storm—she noticed right away:
The apartment was still.
No music. No humming from the kitchen. No you.
Just a folded note on the counter.
She recognized your handwriting instantly.
Traded those tickets in for a weekend getaway up in Maine. Thought the quiet might do me good. I left your ticket here if you want to come up. – Y.
The train stub was tucked neatly beneath the paper. Round-trip. Saturday morning.
Wanda stared at it for a long time.
She looked around the apartment—at the couch where you’d pulled her onto your lap after a long day. At the scarf you’d left hanging by the door. At the stillness that had taken your place.
You weren’t punishing her. She knew that.
You were giving her space.
But God, did it feel like the air had gone out of the room.
She set the note down and ran a hand through her hair. The ache in her chest pulsed dully, a slow realization spreading like ink in water:
She missed you.
Even more than she had thought.
Not just the spontaneity. Not the spark.
You.
✧ ೃ༄" ✉️*ੈ✩
Weekend in Maine
The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the kind of stillness that only exists far from cell towers. It was a single-floor thing, half-modern and half-forgotten, tucked into a clearing that looked like it had been waiting for you your whole life.
You’d arrived late Friday afternoon. Built a fire. Unpacked exactly one bag. Spent the night watching shadows dance across the walls and listening to the wind brush against the trees.
But the only thing you really watched was the door.
You told yourself you wouldn’t get your hopes up.
That Wanda had work. That it was short notice. That maybe it was just too soon.
But the second morning light cracked through the blinds and spilled across the hardwood, you were back at it—watching. Hoping.
Waiting.
By the time Saturday afternoon rolled in, you’d made peace with being alone here. You curled up by the fireplace with an old book you never finished, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a steaming mug forgotten beside you.
And then—
You heard the tires on gravel.
Your breath caught.
You stayed still, barely daring to move, until the knock came soft against the cabin door.
When you opened it, there she was.
Windblown, cheeks flushed from the cold, suitcase in hand, eyes searching yours like she didn’t believe you were really standing there.
You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “You came.”
Wanda shifted her weight, eyes soft. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to.”
“You were,” you said without hesitation.
For a moment, you both just stood there, letting the silence stretch between you like a held breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, voice almost lost to the breeze.
You shook your head. “You don’t have to be.”
“But I am. I should’ve just… told you I was drowning. Instead of making you feel like a storm.”
Your smile was faint but real. “I’ve always been a storm. You just forgot you liked the rain.”
Wanda stepped forward, slowly. “Can I come in?”
You opened the door wider, stepping aside. “You don’t even have to ask.”
Once she was inside, you took her coat gently from her shoulders. She kicked off her boots, eyes sweeping over the place—the way you’d stocked the little kitchen, the fire still glowing low, the throw blanket you’d left folded on the couch like you’d set a place for her.
When you turned back around, she was just… watching you. Like maybe she’d missed something about you. Like maybe she was seeing it now.
“Hey,” you said softly.
“Yeah?”
You smiled. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Wanda walked into your arms like she belonged there.
Because she did.
✧ ೃ༄" ✉️*ੈ✩
The soup simmered on the stove, simple and rich—something from a recipe card you half-followed, half-guessed. Wanda had taken over halfway through, sleeves rolled up, fingers dusted in herbs, barefoot on the cold wood floor.
It felt like old rhythm. Like coming back to something that never fully left.
You handed her a spoon to taste, your pinky brushing hers. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything. Just gave a little hum of approval as the broth touched her tongue.
“Perfect,” she said.
“Not bad for a storm, huh?”
She gave you a look—gentle, tired. “You’re not a storm.”
You smirked. “I’m at least a heavy breeze.”
She huffed, but her mouth quirked up too. And that was enough.
You ate curled together on the couch, soup bowls warm in your hands, wrapped in the same blanket. Outside, the trees swayed in the dark, and the wind made the windows creak now and then. But in here? It was still. Steady.
You’d put on a record earlier—some old vinyl you’d found in the cabin’s little shelf, jazzy and low and scratchy with time. It made everything feel like a memory in motion.
Wanda set her bowl aside first, leaning back against the cushions. Her head found your shoulder like it had always known the way.
You spoke first. Quietly.
“Do you think we’re too different?”
She was still for a beat. Then, “Sometimes.”
It wasn’t cruel. Just honest.
“I love how free you are,” she continued, voice soft in the dim firelight. “But it scares me, too. Because I don’t always know how to hold it. How to not get left behind.”
You reached for her hand, twining your fingers together.
“I don’t want you to keep up,” you said. “I want you with me. Wherever that is. Even if we don’t move at the same speed.”
She sighed, forehead nudging your collarbone.
“I don’t want to slow you down.”
“You don’t,” you whispered. “You ground me. You make the world make sense when it doesn’t.”
Wanda was quiet again. Then, almost a whisper: “I didn’t come up here because I felt guilty. I came because I missed you.”
You closed your eyes, her words settling in like warmth.
“I missed you too,” you said. “So much it hurt.”
Her fingers curled tighter into yours.
“I want to try,” she said. “To let go, sometimes. To not let fear run the show.”
You turned your head and kissed her hair, breathing her in.
“And I’ll try not to tug too hard when I run. I promise I’ll always leave room for you to catch up.”
She laughed, just a little. “What if one day I’m the one pulling you forward?”
You smiled against her temple. “Then I’ll follow you anywhere.”
The fire crackled low behind you, throwing flickering shadows against the worn wooden walls. The music hummed softly, a muted jazz tune winding through the room like a gentle pulse.
You and Wanda sat close—so close that every breath was shared, every heartbeat nearly audible.
Her fingers still twined with yours, warm and steady.
You shifted just a fraction, the heat between you building, slow and sure.
Her head tilted up, eyes searching yours with something tender and brave.
Without a word, your lips met.
Soft at first—testing, delicate—like the quietest brush of flame.
Wanda’s breath hitched, and you deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate.
Your hands slid up to cradle her face, thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones.
She melted against your touch, lips parting as the kiss deepened—hungry but gentle, a conversation without words.
Time stretched and folded, the outside world fading into the background.
Your bodies leaned closer, knees brushing, hearts pounding in sync.
You pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, breath mingling, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth.
“Stay,” she whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.
And with that, the kiss resumed—longer this time, full of all the love and longing neither dared say aloud.
In the quiet cabin, under the soft glow of firelight, the world narrowed to just you and Wanda—two wild souls finding home in each other’s arms.
Summary: Wanda never expected her second date to end in a kiss that changed everything—or to find herself halfway across the world, following someone who lived like the wind.
Word Count: 2.2k
Warnings: sapphic romance, implied intimacy (soft, suggestive, not explicit), poetic, metaphor-rich language, impulsive travel & whirlwind romance, emotional vulnerability & character introspection, fear of flying, mild anxiety, rain-soaked kisses & barefoot dancing, secondhand embarrassment
Authors note: Here is the first chapter where you bring Wanda into your element
The bar was loud. Not with music, but with people—voices tumbling over each other like dice on a table. Wanda could barely hear her own thoughts over the clatter of glass, the heat of bodies pressed too close.
But you—
You didn’t care. You thrived in the noise. In chaos.
You leaned across the booth, eyes sharp and glittering. Your voice was low, but she heard you perfectly. She always did.
“You ever been to Barcelona?”
Wanda blinked. “What?”
You smiled like you knew something she didn’t.
“Barcelona. Spain. Gaudí. Tapas. Flamenco.” Your fingers traced idle patterns on her wrist, grounding and electric all at once. “We should go.”
Wanda laughed—soft, unsure. “We’re only on our second date.”
Your eyes didn’t flinch. “Exactly. Let’s make it count.”
You were bold like that. Fearless. Like the future didn’t scare you and neither did she.
She should’ve said something sensible. Too soon. Too much. Too far.
But then your fingers slipped under the sleeve of her sweater, just barely, and your touch made her pulse stutter. It wasn’t even the contact—it was the confidence. The casual intimacy of someone who already knew how she liked to be held.
Her breath caught when you leaned in, lips brushing just beside her ear. “We don’t have to go right now,” you murmured. “But say yes. Someday. Say you’ll come with me.”
Wanda turned to you. Eyes on your mouth. A flicker of heat rising beneath her skin like a storm was coming.
And then you kissed her.
Not polite. Not pretty. Not the kind of kiss that asks permission.
It was hungry. Hot. Hands in her hair, her thighs, her ribs—wherever they could find warmth. Wanda's fingers clenched the front of your coat, grounding herself in you, in this, in the rising tide of something she couldn’t name.
She pulled back just enough to breathe, lips still barely touching yours.
“I’ll come,” she whispered.
And she meant every word.
Even then, she knew.
You were fire.
And she was already burning.
✧ ೃ༄" ✉️*ੈ✩
Wanda hadn’t said much since takeoff.
You noticed the way her hands stayed folded in her lap, thumbs worrying at each other like they had something to prove. Her seatbelt was still tight across her waist even though the sign had long since turned off. Her eyes flickered between the window and the seat in front of her, never quite landing.
The plane hummed around you, a low mechanical lullaby, but she sat rigid like one wrong move would send you spiraling.
“Are you okay?” you asked gently, nudging your knee against hers.
She gave a tight smile. “Fine.”
You tilted your head. “Is that a real fine or a fake fine?”
Wanda sighed, dragging her gaze to yours. “I just… don’t love flying.”
You softened immediately. “Bad experiences?”
She shook her head. “No. Just… the idea of being this far off the ground. No control. It gets in my head.”
You nodded. You didn’t try to downplay it, didn’t make a joke or say you’re safe, planes are safer than cars or some other statistic that wouldn’t land.
Instead, you unbuckled your seatbelt.
“Come here.”
Wanda blinked. “What?”
You patted your lap.
Her eyes widened. “We are not—on a plane—”
You smirked. “No one cares, Wands. Besides, I didn’t say I was gonna do anything scandalous. I just want you closer.”
She hesitated for a moment too long, until you reached over and pulled her gently by the hand. She sighed but let you guide her, tucking herself sideways into your seat, legs draped over yours, body pressed close.
“There,” you said, wrapping your arms around her. “Better?”
Wanda exhaled against your shoulder, her breath warm through the cotton of your shirt.
“Yeah. Actually… yeah.”
You kissed the top of her head. “I got you, okay? You’re not falling. You’re flying with me.”
She smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “You always say the most ridiculous things.”
“Yeah,” you whispered, “but I say them with conviction.”
She laughed softly, relaxing by inches until the tension melted out of her spine. Her fingers slipped into yours, grounding herself there, in your lap, in the clouds.
It wasn’t the turbulence that stole her breath after that—it was you.
Wanda hadn’t known what to expect from this trip.
She hadn’t expected the warmth of the sun that kissed her shoulders despite it being mid-winter. She hadn’t expected the cobblestones beneath her boots to feel like a heartbeat. She certainly hadn’t expected you, hand in hers, pulling her down side streets and alleyways with the eagerness of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.
But what really took her by surprise was this:
Your Spanish.
It rolled off your tongue like silk. Smooth and easy, not showy. Like it belonged to you. Like you weren’t performing, just being.
Wanda watched as you leaned in toward a market vendor with a soft grin, asking about the woven bracelets laid out in a rainbow across the sun-warmed table. The man smiled—wrinkled eyes lighting up as you complimented his craft, your voice low and affectionate, like you knew how to speak to people without needing to raise your volume.
She didn’t catch every word, but the rhythm of it was enough. You looked alive in a way she’d never seen—brows lifted, lips curved, animated hands helping the words land. She’d seen you flirt and tease and laugh before. But this was different.
You were glowing.
You turned and held up a handmade necklace strung with tiny amber beads. “What do you think?” you asked her, back in English. “Too much?”
Wanda blinked, still halfway stunned by the sound of you in another language. “It’s perfect.”
You grinned and handed the man a few crumpled bills with a thank-you that made him smile again and press a small good-luck charm into your palm as a gift. You turned back to Wanda and slipped the necklace into her hands.
“For you,” you said.
She shook her head. “But you liked it.”
You shrugged. “I like you more.”
She blushed, heat blooming in her cheeks, but you were already moving, tugging her toward another stall that smelled like oranges and leather and sun.
You stopped at every table. Every trinket. You picked up books you couldn’t read, scarves you’d never wear, a ceramic spoon rest shaped like a cat that you insisted “had a good soul.”
“Don’t you ever stop?” she teased as you added a vintage postcard to the pile growing in your tote bag.
“Why would I?” you replied, looking around like everything was magic. “There’s beauty in all this junk. Someone just has to see it.”
She laughed softly, watching you twirl in the middle of the market, scarf fluttering behind you like a flame. People didn’t even look twice—you belonged here. You always did.
And Wanda—who had once believed love was supposed to be quiet, safe, controlled—was suddenly learning how wrong she’d been.
Because loving you?
It was messy. Unfolding. Bursting.
Like this city. Like the street beneath her feet. Like the look on your face when you pulled her close and whispered, "Te ves tan bonita cuando sonríes."
You look so pretty when you smile.
And she did.
Because of you.
✧ ೃ༄" ✉️*ੈ✩
The sun was just beginning to dip when you tugged Wanda’s hand and said, “Dinner’s on me tonight.”
“You already bought me a spoon rest shaped like a cat,” she teased.
“That was love,” you replied. “This is dinner.”
She followed you willingly, the heat of the day still clinging to her skin, your fingers interlaced with hers as you weaved through narrow streets with cobbled paths and wrought-iron balconies.
It felt less like walking somewhere and more like being led into a secret.
You didn’t give her the name. Just a smile, a promise.
And then you turned the corner, and there it was—small, warm, almost hidden. The kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. No neon sign. Just a hand-painted tile above the door and ivy spilling down from the rooftop like an invitation.
Wanda blinked. “This is your favorite place?”
You grinned. “Has been for years.”
Years.
She didn’t realize how that one word could both ground her and catch her off guard.
You pushed open the door and immediately—
“¡Cariño!”
An older woman, no taller than your shoulder, emerged from the back with flour-dusted hands and a smile that nearly split her face.
Wanda barely had time to process before the woman was cupping your cheeks and placing a kiss on each one like she’d missed you for decades.
“You didn’t tell me you were back!” the woman scolded in Spanish, her voice thick with affection.
“Wanted to surprise you,” you replied in kind, and Wanda watched as your eyes softened in a way she hadn’t seen before—not playful, not wild. Just home.
The woman turned to Wanda, eyes sharp but kind. “And this one? ¿Tu novia?”
You smiled, arm curling around Wanda’s waist. “Sí. This is Wanda.”
Wanda, to her credit, smiled through her surprise as the woman immediately pulled her into the same double-cheek kiss ritual. Her hands were strong and warm, and Wanda felt like she was being measured and welcomed all at once.
“She’s beautiful,” the woman whispered, like she was telling a secret. “Good choice.”
Wanda blushed, flustered, and you just chuckled.
The woman—her name was Rosa, Wanda would later learn—ushered you both to a table near the window without menus. “You’ll have what I make. No arguments.”
You didn’t argue.
You never had.
Once Rosa disappeared into the kitchen, Wanda leaned over and looked at you, brows lifted. “You’ve been here before?”
You sipped your wine with a little shrug. “A few times. It was my second home for a while. Stayed in a flat nearby when I was twenty. Didn’t know anyone. She fed me like I was hers.”
Wanda looked around. The restaurant was only half-full, filled with locals laughing, eating, talking with their hands. No tourists. No English menus. This wasn’t a find-from-a-blog kind of place. This was one of your roots.
“You never told me that,” she said softly.
“There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” you said. “Not because I’m hiding anything… I just want to show you in the right moments. When it’ll mean something.”
Wanda’s gaze lingered on you. “It means something now.”
You reached across the table and brushed your fingers over hers. “Then I’m glad I brought you here.”
Dinner came in slow waves—jamón sliced paper-thin, olives that tasted like sunlight, bread warm enough to melt butter on touch, and finally, a paella so rich and full it made Wanda close her eyes after the first bite.
By the end, you were leaning back in your chair, Rosa clucking in satisfaction as she poured you both another glass of wine. Wanda felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food.
And later, walking back to the hotel with your arm around her shoulders and your voice humming low as you spoke about the stars over Montjuïc, she realized:
You didn’t just move through the world.
The world moved for you.
✧ ೃ༄" ✉️*ੈ✩
Three Days Later
The rain came fast.
One moment the plaza was bright with sun and the sound of distant music, and the next, the sky cracked open with a low rumble and poured like it had been holding its breath for weeks.
Wanda gasped, laughing as the first drops splattered across her shoulders, warm and sudden. You were already tugging off your jacket, holding it over her head like it could do a damn thing.
“It’s fine, I’m fine—” she tried to protest.
But you shook your head, grinning. “No way. You’ve got that ‘hair still styled for photos’ look. Can’t have you melting in the streets.”
“You’re the one who insisted we walk back instead of taking the metro.”
“And it was a beautiful idea,” you replied, already soaked through, shirt clinging to your collarbones, eyes alive. “Just a slightly damp one now.”
You looked like chaos incarnate, and Wanda had never wanted to kiss you more.
Then the thunder rolled again, low and thrilling, and you grabbed her hand. “Come on!”
“Where are we going?!”
But you didn’t answer—you just ran.
Through the sheets of water, over the tiles slick with sudden puddles, down narrow streets where the drainage couldn’t keep up and your feet splashed wildly. Wanda’s breath hitched as she laughed and stumbled after you, soaked to the skin, cheeks aching from smiling too hard.
You stopped only when you reached a tiny square she hadn’t noticed before—cracked pavement, ivy-covered walls, and a single musician still playing beneath an overhang, unbothered by the storm.
His song was low, something yearning and old, like it belonged to the rain.
You turned to her then, your hand still warm in hers despite the chill. Hair plastered to your forehead. Eyes shining.
“Dance with me.”
“Now?”
“Especially now.”
You pulled her close—no formality, no choreography. Just hands on her waist, her arms around your neck, bodies swaying barefoot in the flood of sound and rain.
The world disappeared. Or maybe it just stepped back to let you two be the center of it.
Rain ran down the curve of her neck, your fingers brushed it away. She tilted her head, leaned in, and kissed you slow—like a thank-you. Like yes. Like always.
You grinned against her lips.
“I told you,” you whispered, “Barcelona’s magic when it storms.”
She smiled back, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re magic when it storms.”
And in that moment, soaked and breathless in a stranger’s square, Wanda Maximoff knew she could live inside the eye of your chaos forever.
Summary: Wanda had always lived life by the book—measured, grounded, safe.
Then you crashed into her world like a passport stamp and a promise of frost.
You kissed her like freedom. Danced barefoot through her mornings.
Whispered Prague against her skin and set her whole soul on fire.
She used to need a plan. Now she just needs you. You, wild thing. Fire-hearted.
You who taught her that home isn’t a place—it’s a person.
Word Count: 343
Warnings: poetic language, metaphor-heavy prose, implied intimacy (soft/flirty, not explicit), mentions of travel / wanderlust, emotional vulnerability, sapphic themes
Authors note: I got this idea from one of those your sign, your aesthetic tiktoks and I just couldn't resist making this.
Wanda had never met anyone like you.
You were the kind of person who booked a flight on a whim, who collected stamps in your passport like postcards from former versions of yourself. You’d drag her to flea markets in foreign cities just to buy earrings from old women with knowing smiles. You spoke bits of languages like love notes scrawled in your brain, imperfect but reverent.
“Come with me to Prague,” you whispered against her neck once, breath warm like the fire you carried everywhere. “Let’s go before the frost sets in.”
And Wanda—sensible, structured Wanda—had said yes.
Because with you, she always did.
You were wild in the way wind is wild. You were early winter—bracing, beautiful, unexpected. That crispness that makes you breathe deeper. The kind of person who wore scarves like armor and laughed with your whole body. Your eyes sparkled like you knew secrets the rest of the world would never guess.
She found you barefoot in the kitchen this morning, spinning to a jazz record on vinyl like you were the music itself. A half-made cup of coffee forgotten on the counter. Hair unbrushed. Mouth smiling.
“You’re going to burn your toast,” Wanda warned, leaning against the doorway with her arms folded but her heart open.
You winked. “I’ll set the whole house on fire if you’re not careful.”
And she believed you.
Because you burned hot. Even in the dead of winter.
You brought the world to her doorstep. Stories in your suitcase, dreams in your voice. She had learned to live in motion beside you, to throw away the map and follow the sound of your laughter instead. You taught her that home wasn’t a place, it was a heartbeat—and yours beat like a drum in her chest.
And when you kissed her—soft, slow, reverent—it was like thawing. Like something buried deep in her melting back into itself. She cupped your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and whispered, “How did I ever live without this?”
Y/N, about Wanda: I mean, yeah, she's clearly mentally ill. But you gotta admit it's a little charming watching her walk around pretending like she's not.
In the Presence of Gods | Attending!Wanda x Intern!Reader
Summary: In the high-stakes world of the NICU, you step into the demanding orbit of Dr. Wanda Maximoff. What starts as a tense first encounter slowly sparks something unspoken, a gravity neither of you can defy. As the lines blur between duty and desire, a deeper story begins to stir, one that neither of you are ready for, but can't seem to resist.
Word count: 4.5k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, unspecified age gap, medical procedures, medical terminology, power imbalance due to professional setting, warnings will be updated
ONE | TWO | THREE
You are the first to arrive, well before the first rays of sunlight graze the horizon.
The air outside is sharp with early morning cold, the kind that clings to your skin no matter how tightly you wrap your jacket around yourself. Now, inside, it lingers in a different way. The air is heavy with antiseptic and a biting mixture of sleep and bleach.
The hospital at this hour is nothing like what you imagined. It doesn't feel like television or textbooks. It feels too quiet and heavy, haunted by the lives it couldn't save.
You move without thinking, muscle memory already learning the turns. Down the hallway, past the elevator bank, and through a grey door labeled STAFF ONLY. The locker room smells like detergent and cold steel, like first-day-nerves and deodorant. It's empty and the light only comes to life when you enter and the motion sensor gets triggered.
You change quickly and with purpose, but even speed can't ward off the anxiety that's crawling up your spine. You fold your hoodie with too much precision, redoing it twice. Slip into your scrubs, tug on the long sleeve shirt layered underneath, and double check that your laces are tied securely. Once you're satisfied, you grab your coat, square your shoulders and smooth down the front of your scrubs before you walk back out into the hallway.
You ride the elevator alone, the metal walls reflect a hundred pale version of yourself. Your white coat slung over one arm and your tablet clutched between damp hands. You keep checking your badge, your name, the credentials printed neatly in plastic. As if they might vanish, as if someone might step in, press a hand to your chest, and say: No, not you. Not yet.
Most days have been feeling like this since you started your first shift at the hospital, but tonight the feeling of being an imposter is particularly strong.
The doors open to the third floor with a mechanical ding that sounds too loud in the silence. When you step out, you scan the corridor like it might look different than it did during orientation, but it doesn't, although it feels like it should.
The halls of Stark Memorial are ghostly in the dim light, a faint blue glow cast by LED panels and machines that breathe in rhythm with sleeping infants. There is no overhead chatter, and no pagers ringing unless you're in the pit. There is just the soft hum of life support an the low hiss of oxygen flowing through tiny tubes.
At this time of night, even the vending machines seem to whisper.
You walk past the glass of Bay A, where row of incubators gleam under heat lamps. You glance in on instinct, careful not to let your footsteps echo too loudly. Inside, tiny chests rise and fall, skin like butterfly wings lit up by a thousand monitors and cables. Babies whose lives are measured in grams and seconds.
Your shoes squeak once on the polished floors and you flinch. Biting the inside of your cheek, you curse the rubber on your new sneakers.
The NICU is pristine; sterile in a way that feels sacred. Sleek glass walls and warm air. You grip your tablet tighter, fingers white at the knuckles, trying to look like you belong. Your chin juts forward in false confidence, a posture learned from prep schools and dinner tables with surgeons.
You still feel like an outsider, though.
Behind the nurse's station at the centre of the unit, a woman with dark-rimmed glasses murmurs into a chart, massaging her temples with two fingers. She doesn't notice you at first, too absorbed in some scribbles, until your steps falter just short of the counter. Her head snaps up, and surprise darts across her face. Interns aren't expected until six.
Her brows lift. "You're early."
You catch her name tag as she closes the file. Darcy. Her voice is low but alert, like she's lived too many night shifts. Despite the tiredness behind her eyes, a polite smile lightens up her face.
"Either you couldn't sleep, or you're trying to impress the newcomer upstairs." Her fingers lock under her chin. "Which is it?"
You exhale softly through your nose, trying to smother a nervous laugh "Both?"
She huffs, pushing her rolling chair back with a squeal and coming around the counter. "Well, in that case; let's get you prepped."
Her tone shifts. It becomes brisk, but not unkind. She nods toward the NICU bays. "We've got fifteen in bed spaces. Five vented, two preemies under 28 weeks and Baby Hope..." she pauses. "Hope had a rough stretch overnight. She's in Bay A. You'll want to watch her."
Your fingers start tapping at the tablet instinctively, casting your face in cool light. "Shaky stats?"
"Couple of desats just before four. The O2 bump helped, but not much. Labs are on file, in case you want to review them. I left notes on fluid balance, but you might want to push them during rounds."
You nod along, eyes skimming Hope's chart. Tiny vitals. Post-op day four. "They're watching for NEC, right?"
"Yeah, Dr. Rambeau flagged her yesterday."
You nod, scrolling faster, but not fast enough to miss anything. You want her to think you're fluent in this, not panicking inside.
Darcy tilts her head, lips pushed into a pout thoughtfully. "Smart girl."
Startled, you look up with furrowed brows. "Not a lot of interns would've clocked that, let alone read notes older than twelve hours."
You blink, surprised by the compliment. You don't let get to your head, even when in place like this, it's the closes thing you can get to being seen. You quietly store it away and keep it in the back of your mind as a little badge of honour.
She studies you again, a little more curiously now, and nods toward the darkened NICU bays. "You thinking NICU?"
Hesitating, you shrug like it doesn't matter, like you haven't been here since four on purpose. "I'm floating for now."
She clicks her tongue, smirking. "You wouldn't be here before the janitors if you weren't thinking of something."
You fight the smile tugging at your lips and shrug again. This time it's an admission.
Darcy leans closer, her voice hushed. "Dr. Maximoff's schedule got posted around two. She's making her own rounds at seven, but if she finds you doing some prep work, it might score you some points with her, or not. Hard to say."
You lift your chin high and press your lips together. "I'll take my chances."
She grins, stepping back. "Smart and brave."
She doesn't retreat to her seat immediately, though. She lingers for moment, watching you a little differently now, not just as the ghost of an intern, not just as another kid trying to prove something. No, there is now the faintest sign of recognition in her eyes, like maybe she remember what it was like to be young and unsure and desperate to matter in a place like this.
"You keep showing up like this and people are going to start noticing," she says, tone gentler now. "Make sure it's for the right reason."
You draw your head back, caught off guard. You nod, words stuck somewhere in the back of your throat.
Darcy holds your gaze a moment longer before she retakes her seat behind the counter, already reaching for her pen and falling back into her prior motion.
You glance at the incubator again. Hope's monitor beeps softly. You are here. You are early. You are ready.
Or at least you are trying to be.
But readiness isn't always enough.
You tell yourself you're here because you want the edge, the good cases, the right eyes on you, the surgical rotation you're already chasing, but it's more than that, it's always has been more.
You grew up in a house where excellence was expected, not celebrated. Your father, a decorated trauma surgeon who spent years operating in combat zones, still talks in battlefield metaphors. Your mother, Chief of Cardiothoracics at one of the top hospitals in the country, rarely blinked unless someone was coding.
You didn't inherit ambition, you were raised in it.
Your path to medicine wasn't a choice; it was a legacy, a name that had to continue to carry weight. You knew how to stitch an arm back on before you were twelve, had internships arranged before you could drive. Dinner conversations resembled board reviews more than anything. They were cold, clinical, demanding. Praise was performance-based, and weakness wasn't even a language.
Your parents already decided your specialty. Neuro, maybe, or cardio. Something worthy of pedigree, something with blood and pressure and glory.
But when you walked into the NICU for the first time, saw the quiet blinking incubators, the impossibly small fists curling in their sleep, something cracked open. It was gentle and terrifying and oh-so deeply yours.
This wasn't loud. It wasn't showy. No one would ever applaud you for wanting it. Everyone calls this unit the pink squad. It's too soft, too feminine. There's not enough adrenaline, not enough glory. But here, in this ward, with these fragile lives and impossible odds, you see a quiet conviction. It might not be flashy or heroic, but at least it's real, and entirely your own.
You read the research. You've seen the clips. You've watched surgeries that looked like miracles. In-utero heart repairs, twin separations, emergency C-sections with five teams and mere seconds to act.
And there's always one name coming up.
Wanda Maximoff.
Medical journals love to centre their articles around her. She's a myth, a legend with blood on her hands and a no-bullshit policy. The rumours about her are as big as the name she carries. She lost her sons, left her husband. Vanished. Reappeared. Chose this, out of all places in the world.
You don't know if Dr. Maximoff will ever take you seriously. She's a woman whose name your parents only mentioned with begrudging respect. But if there's one place you might finally choose yourself, it will be here.
You adjust your name badge, catching your reflection in the glass. Light blue scrubs over a lilac long-sleeve shirt, a white coat that is too clean, and a name badge that still creaks with every step you take. Your braid is already coming loose and when you try to fix it, your hands shake too much. No matter how hard you try, when you look at yourself, you still feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her parents' clothes.
A low rumble from the end of the hallway interrupts your racing thoughts. The elevator stops with a faint groan before the doors drag open.
Footsteps.
You straighten your spine, joints cracking. You glance sideways, heart thundering in your chest.
A figure in dark crimson scrubs steps out of the elevator. Her stride is confident, unhurried. Her features are sharp and striking, a face carved not from marble, but from grief.
She doesn't pause, doesn't even look around, but her piercing green eyes flicker to you.
Just a second.
Just long enough to burn.
The corridor is brighter now, smelling of coffee and disinfectant. Warm sunlight seeps through the slatted blinds, but the weight in your chest hasn't lightened. The rhythm of the hospital has shifted. Coffee cups, clipped heels, shuffling clipboards. The quiet reverence of the night has been replaced by the low-level chaos of a new shift.
You stand stiffly, pinned between Yelena and Peter in the morning line up. You'd stayed in the NICU longer than necessary, memorising Hope's labs and tracing her chart like a scripture. It was comforting, structured, clear. Something you could fix.
But now, that clarity is gone and the nerves are kicking back in.
Peter's yawning, Yelena's already on her second espresso, and MJ gives you a once-over with a raised eyebrow.
"You look like you've lost a bet with death."
You don't answer, too focused on the footsteps echoing from down the hall.
She turns the corner no longer in scrubs but in tailored black slacks and a burgundy silk blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing lean forearms and a watch that glints under the fluorescent lights. Her heels are matte black, and her posture is absolute. A tablet is tucked under one arm, her coat draped elegantly across the other.
Without a word, she walks directly past the group of interns. No introduction. No greetings, just the clicking of her heels as she makes a sharp turn into a nearby patient room.
The group stares after her, collectively dumbstruck.
"Jesus," Peter breathes, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "Did anyone else feel their soul leave their body?"
Darcy, who just exited a patient's room, hides her amused smile behind a clipboard. "That was your cue, kids."
There's a beat of stillness, and then, chaos.
Everyone lunges at once. Badges jostle, pens fall, someone drops their tablet with a soft curse. You fumble with yours but manage to keep it pressed to your chest as you rush after them.
"Bay D," Dr. Maximoff announces from inside the room, tapping her tablet once. "Mrs. Lawrence. Who wants to brief?"
The interns crowd the doorway, jockeying for position, trying to compose yourselves as if you hadn't just been herded like panicked sheep.
Her eyes scan the group, but she doesn't look at you. Something inside of you stirs. You want her to look at you, want her to see you. The patient's name barely registers before you open your mouth.
And then, a mistake.
"I–uh–she–Mrs. Lawrence is–"
Dr. Maximoff's eyes darken, her brows crease in the centre. She doesn't let you finish.
"I'm not sure if someone has informed you," she says cooly, "But these files–" she taps the screen in your trembling hands "–are meant to be read and memorised. Not just held."
Heat blooms up your neck, eyes darting to the floor, where the edge of your too-clean white sneakers meets sterile tile. Shame pulses behind your eyes. You shouldn't have spent all your time in the NICU, you should've checked on the OBGYN patients too.
She sighs, and you can feel her rolling her eyes. "What a shame. I was told you were more than just a pretty face."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
"Belova."
Yelena fires off the case facts without hesitation, clinical and complete. You don't even hear them. Your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears, but at least the spotlight is no longer on you.
MJ bumps your arm with her shoulder, and you nod just enough to signal that you're still breathing.
Peter leans in when Dr. Maximoff turns to head to the next room, voice low. "Well, at least she thinks you're pretty?"
After going through the Bay B patients, mostly young mothers in the waiting, the next stop is Bay A. The air shifts as your team steps into the NICU's glass-panelled sanctuary. Dr. Maximoff stands at the centre of it all, poised and regal.
"Next," she says, eyes darting to an isolette fleetingly. "Jane Doe. Twenty-six-week preemie. Brought in three nights ago from the ED. No ID, no parental contact."
You already know which isolette she means. You find the little body under warm heating lamps, chest covered in tapes and tubes.
"She was found abandoned outside an apartment complex. Vitals unstable. Underwent PDA ligation on postnatal day two. Currently vented. Minimal urine output overnight."
Her voice faces for just a breath. Her eyes move to the side, to another incubator in the corner. You shift on your heels, trying to gain a better look.
Two boys lie nestled together, sharing one pod. One baby's skin is yellowed from jaundice, the other's stomach is covered by gauze, their hands curled instinctively around the other's. A laminated note is clipped to the side of the isolette with a blue whale tag: Twin therapy in progress. Post-op, Day 2.
Dr. Maximoff's attention lingers a second longer than necessary. The stoic mask on her face doesn't change, but something in her eyes does. You think you see it, but it's fleeting; a flicker of pain or memory. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and her gaze snaps back to you.
"Well, doctor?" Her voice cuts clean. "Would you like to contribute anything about your favourite glass box visitor?"
Your spine goes rigid. How does she know? Did Darcy say something?"
"She's... fragile," you say, voice low and a little shaky. "Post-op day four. Temperature's trending low. Vent setting bumped twice in the last 24 hours. She desatted again before rounds. Labs are pending."
"Diagnosis?"
You steel yourself. "NEC is a concern, especially with the feed residuals increasing and abdominal girth trending up."
Wanda studies you. "And if it is?"
You meet her gaze with a racing heart, inhaling sharply. "Prep for emergency surgery, resection if the bowel's compromised. There is a high risk of sepsis if not caught in time."
She nods, just once. "Good."
Then, her gaze shifts to the rest of the group. "She doesn't need you to hesitate. Not today. Not ever. Until she's claimed, she is our responsibility. That includes you. Do not let your focus drift just because she doesn't have a name."
The interns disperse as soon as the rounds are over, their footsteps echoing down the hospital corridor as they head toward their NICU and OBGYN assignments for the day.
Dr. Maximoff's voice cuts through the din, your name on the tip of her tongue. “You’re with me today.”
Your heart skips a beat, hope blooming in the centre of your chest. Perhaps you had impressed her, despite your earlier slip-up. Perhaps she saw something worth watching closely.
“Thank you, Dr. Maximoff," you say softly, chin lowered in gratitude.
“Stark Memorial is still a teaching hospital," she replies flatly, eyes trained on some labs. "And you clearly need the most teaching.”
Your lips part in surprise. You want to say something, to push back, but the words get stuck somewhere along the way. Instead, you simply nod, swallowing the lump of humiliation. Today wasn't your strongest, but you can't remember the last time someone saw you as the runt of the litter.
Kate chuckles from the sidelines without looking up from her notes. "Try not to mess this up too badly, rookie."
Flinching, you break eye contact with her. The comment comes with sharp teeth that sink into your flesh and nestle underneath your skin. The stark comparison between you and Kate gives you the final blow, a right hook to your guts. She doesn't need to try, she's already earned her place in the few weeks you've been here. Everyone knows she's the favoured one, the one with all the answers all the time. She's already impressed half the staff with her nurtured talent. You don't cower, but there is a noticeable shift to your posture.
Dr. Maximoff's attention snaps to Kate. Her eyes narrow and her lips pull into a thin line.
"Bishop," she says, voice as sharp as a blade. "You're off my service. I don't need another intern wasting my time."
Startled with wide eyes, Kate opens her mouth to protest.
"I'm sure Dr. Romanoff will be more than happy to have you join her today," Dr. Maximoff cuts her off, dismissing her without much room to argue.
Kate's smirk falters and she turns with a downcast expression, grabbing her things without another word. It's not like she was a big fan of neonatal anyway.
You keep your attention ahead, jaw locked. Focusing on something at the far end of the unit. Pretending like you didn't hear her will make your wounded pride less fatal.
Dr. Maximoff watches you for a long moment, a faint glint of something unreadable crossing her features. For a brief instant, the sharp lines of her face soften, a quiet warmth breaking through. Then, with a quiet, unimpressed sigh, she shakes her head, dismissing a thought not worth entertaining.
"Let's see if you're worth the trouble," she says, already turning without checking if you're following.
You remain rooted to your spot. There was no clear instruction, no destination given.
She doesn't look back, she doesn't have to. Her voice cuts through the air effortlessly. "First lesson: when I walk, you walk."
Exhaling heavily, you drop down in a blue plastic chair like you've been discharged from combat. Your back aches, your legs are sore, and there is a migraine waiting to pounce behind your eyes. You peel off your white coat and let it hang limply off the back of the chair, like it might somehow shed the humiliation with it.
Peter waves a chocolate bar in your face. "You're not eating? She really is Satan reincarnated with a pager."
You take the bar without a word, and let the wrapper crinkle in your fingers without unwrapping it. The day has only begun, so who knows, maybe you will need the sugary support later on.
"Don't tell me the vagina squad isn't everything you imagined?" Kate teases, kicking her feet up on another chair.
You glare at her, but you barely have the energy to look angry. “Why are you even here? You're not NICU-assigned."
She shrugs, swinging one leg over the other. "Emotional support, mostly, but I also like to witness suffering firsthand."
You let your head fall to the table with a groan. At least the table is cold enough to ground you and extinguish the fire on your cheeks.
Kate steals the chocolate bar from your limp grip and tears it open. "Honestly, she's probably not even a doctor. She might as well just be a demon that learned to suture."
"Probably someone who hates interns," Peter mutters, half-serious, half-terrified.
"She doesn't hate us," Yelena adds, dropping into the seat across from you with a half-eaten granola bar in hand. "She just believes in pain as a teaching method."
"Spoken like a true trauma junkie," Kate mutters, not even glancing at her.
"Pain builds character and calluses" Yelena shrugs. "Both of which are very useful when you're wrist deep in someone's chest."
Kate raises a sharp eyebrow. "I think you need therapy."
Yelena grins. "I need trauma bays and a good night out."
"She made me do med rec on all four overnight admits," you mutter into your arms. "One mother only spoke Hungarian and another kept calling me Linda and mixing up the names of the medication."
Peter winces. "Ouch."
"And she watched me do it without giving any input. She just stood there sipping her coffee with that bored look in her eyes." Your wave your hand around the general direction of your face.
"Wait, she watched?" Kate cackles, clearly finding enjoyment in your pain.
"Didn't say a word."
"I have to admit, her stillness is very unsettling," Yelena adds, thoughtfully taking a bite of her granola bar. "It's almost like she's judging your entire life through a single glance."
"She probably is," MJ says as she slides into the last open chair like she's been listening the whole time, which she probably has. "I'm sure she knows all our secrets, even before we've admitted them to ourselves. There's something about those piercing green eyes..." Everyone turns to look at MJ, but she just shrugs. "I heard she once made a fellow cry in the elevator from just a look."
"It's not fair," Peter whispers, poking at the food on his plate. "Hot people shouldn't be allowed that kind of power."
"She handed me the entire patient list of the floor and told me to write every note. You want to learn, don't you? she said. Like it was a fucking gift and I should be thanking her on my knees for her generosity."
"That's so hot," Kate sighs dreamily.
You shoot her a look. "You're damaged."
"She's terrifying," Peter agrees. "But in a very sexually confusing way."
"You guys are sick," you whine, pressing your face further into the crook of your arms.
Peter leans in, an encouraging smile on his lips. "Hey, for what it's worth... you didn't choke."
You blink up at him, skeptical, remembering the horrors from a few hours ago, not to mention the few times you slipped up while talking to patients with her breathing down your neck.
"Well, okay, yes, you did, but not on the hard stuff."
You grunt. "You are terrible at pep talks."
"I'm working on it."
"Give him points for honesty," MJ says, drinking a suspiciously green substance from a mason jar. "It's more than most people in this hospital will offer."
Kate tosses her empty wrapper at Peter. "He's like an over-eager puppy. Useless in crisis but you keep him around because he means well."
Peter gasps, mock-offended. "I'll have you know I was a Boy Scout and know perfectly well how to react in crisis."
"That actually explains the pathological need to help," Yelena deadpans.
"Okay, but for real," Kate leans forward conspiratorially, eyes bright with mischief, "do you think she knows she's hot, or is it just part of the ice queen aesthetic?"
"Please," MJ mutters. "She knows it and she weaponises it."
"I didn't realise I was the topic of such passionate lunchtime discussion."
You freeze.
The whole table freezes.
Because standing behind you, again, like she apparrated out of the floor tiles, is Dr. Maximoff.
Her eyes briefly dart over the group, then they settle you. "If you have that much energy to gossip, I assume your notes are done."
Your mouth opens, then closes. To be absolutely fair, you did not gossip with them. You were just sitting here, overthinking your career choices. You swallow the bitter taste on the back of your tongue.
"They will be," you manage, voice cracking. "Soon."
"Good," she replies before leaning forward so that only you can really hear her next words. "Next time, unwrap the chocolate. Your blood sugar's tanked, and it makes your hands shaky and your reaction slow."
She pulls away with the same calm, elegant efficiency she always moves with, but just before she walks off, she throws one final comment over her shoulder.
"And for the record," her gaze cuts briefly to Peter, Kate, MJ and Yelena, "if I hated interns, you'd know. You wouldn't still be here."
And then she's gone, heels clicking sharply as she disappears through the cafeteria doors. Silence follows her until all of you are certain that she won't come back.
You sit there frozen for a beat longer than anyone else. Heart still pounding, stomach still in such tight knots that you consider getting a consult with Dr. Wilson.
"I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes."
Kate fans herself with a napkin. "Is it bad that I want her to step on me with those heels?"
Peter exhales shakily. "That was... something."
Yelena tilts her head, studying you, no, dissecting you. "She likes you."
"That's not possible."
"She watches you like she's already memorised your blood type."
Peter stares at you like he's something for the first time now. "She told you to eat something, didn't she? I think you just got knighted by the Ice Queen."
"Or marked for death," Yelena offers.
You press your palms into the sockets of your eyes until you see stars dancing across your vision, unsure which is worse, and why, somehow, you want both to be true.
