Well hello! I did not expect my little fic to bring in this many new people. Welcome to my writing blog. I'm newer to writing fics (sorta) but very new to actually publishing them. Open to taking requests, asks, comments, whatever! I write primarily women and mostly Natasha, Wanda, Yelena, or Kate. This is an 18+ blog, so please put your age in your bio! I will block minors. Anyway, welcome everyone!
Summary : Steve and Sam set Natasha up with a professional ballerina, but they already know each other.
Pairing : Natasha Romanoff x ballerina!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : mentions of Nat’s past, sex is referenced, cursing, set sometime between AoU and CACW
Word count : 4.1k
Note : Hi all! This is supposed to be posted last week but my schedule’s currently all over the place, so I won't have a posting schedule this month but will still try to post regularly! I do have Joaquin Torres x reader in my drafts and a possible endurance racer!Bucky x rival driver!reader (24 of Hours of Le Mans au) coming out this month! Series will still be regularly updated! Anyways, enjoy!
Moving to this city had been a calculated decision. The ballet company you’d signed with was one of the most prestigious on the continent, and luckily, you’d found an apartment just a short walk from the studio. This city was different from Paris, from Moscow, from anywhere else your career had taken you, but different wasn’t necessarily bad.
Your new neighbour introduced himself within minutes of spotting you hauling boxes up the stairs.
Of course, you recognised him instantly.
Sam Wilson. A very public hero.
He knocked on your open door just as you were unpacking your duffel bag, his eyes immediately catching on the worn pointe shoes slung over the side.
“A ballerina, huh?” he said, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. “That explains the posture.”
You laughed, setting the bag down. “That obvious?”
“I know discipline when I see it,” Sam grinned. “So, what brings you here?”
“The company just brought me in for the new season.”
“Well, welcome to the building. Let me know if you need anything,” he offered, voice smooth as silk. Then, with a flash of that signature charm, he added, “Or if you just want a tour—dinner included, of course.”
You smiled. “That’s sweet, but no, thank you.”
Sam blinked, momentarily caught off guard. You could tell it took him a second to process the rejection.
“I’m flattered,” you said, realising this was the Sam Wilson—Avenger, national hero—and that turning him down probably wasn’t something that happened often. “I bet any straight woman would be helpless against your charm.”
His mouth parted slightly in understanding before he grinned. “Ah. Gotcha.” He nodded. “Well, let me tell you, we’re gonna be good friends. Maybe we could go out tonight and help each other get girls?”
You laughed. “Sounds fun.”
And just like that, Sam became not just your friendly neighbour, but also your friend.
At some point, he mentioned you in passing to Steve.
"She just moved in last month?" Steve asked over beers, taking a casual sip.
"Yeah, right down the hall from me," Sam said, leaning back against the bar. "She’s a ballerina, very disciplined.."
Steve nodded, intrigued. Sam was already the next part of his story. "We’ve been out for drinks a couple times— real good wingmen for each other. I mean, I think I’m good, but she’s got a whole system. We’re an elite team at the bar."
Steve huffed a quiet laugh. "That so?"
"Oh, yeah." Sam shook his head, chuckling. "One time, we spent half the night arguing over who got to flirt with this girl, only to realise she was the bouncer’s girlfriend. Thought we were gonna get kicked out for a second."
Steve chuckled. "Who backed down first?"
"Technically, her. But only because she said she liked my odds better in a bar fight." Sam took a sip of his beer, then pointed a finger at Steve. "Which I take as a huge compliment."
Steve laughed, shaking his head. He thought for a moment, then something seemed to click. "Natasha would like her."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "You think?"
"Yeah. Nat did ballet when she was younger. Still does sometimes."
That caught Sam’s attention. "No way."
Steve nodded. "Trained in Russia, back when she was a kid. She doesn’t talk about it much, but she’s still got it."
Sam shrugged. "Guess I gotta introduce them, then."
“Or,” Steve considered, “We could set them up on a blind date…”
—
Natasha Romanoff does not go on blind dates.
She didn’t even do dates in general, let alone ones orchestrated by well-meaning but clueless super soldiers who think she needs to “get out more.”
But Steve had been relentless— It was damn near impossible to brush him off entirely. You’ll like this one, he had promised. She’s Sam’s friend, he explained. Just one dinner. And, well—she had been looking for an excuse to wear the new black dress hanging in her closet, so she thought, why the hell not?
So, there she was, stepping into an upscale Brooklyn restaurant, already bracing herself for a dull evening filled with polite conversation and forced small talk with someone who would inevitably bore her.
And then she saw… you.
A ghost from her past.
For a moment, she just stood frozen, her eyes unreadable, but she didn’t hesitate for long. She approached and slid into the seat across from you, crossing one leg over the other.
"Hi again," she said with a raised eyebrow.
You didn’t look nearly as caught off guard. If anything, there was amusement in your eyes as you studied her posture— she still hadn’t fully relaxed.
"When Sam Wilson said he was setting me up on a blind date with someone who knew a thing or two about ballet," you said, lips curling into a wicked smile, "I thought it might be you."
Natasha let out a brief nervous laugh. "That so?"
You hummed and nodded, taking a sip from your glass before placing it carefully down on the table, eyes never leaving her. "I figured it was either you or some government plant making sure I wasn’t secretly a spy. But then again..." You trailed off as your foot slid forward beneath the table, your heel gently brushing beneath the fabric of her dress. "That would still be you, wouldn’t it?" you murmured, your voice low, teasing.
For a good five seconds, Natasha didn’t move. She just stared at you, as if measuring you and weighing her response. She shifted her leg slightly, the barest hint of tension in her body, before leaning back just a little— inviting the touch of your heels on her calves. Her breath caught for a second as your foot stayed there, pressing just a little further.
It was strange— this was not how you imagined this meeting going when Sam insisted on setting you up on a blind date.
She sighed almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. "I never thought you’d be the blind-date type," she said, her voice husky.
You raised an eyebrow, a small chuckle escaping your lips. "Funny," you replied, your foot inching a little higher, this time the toe of your heel grazing her knee. "I could say the same for you."
You had met her years ago in Paris, before she was a public hero, long before the Battle of New York. Back then, she was a SHIELD spy sent to investigate a corruption case in a prestigious theatre. She had played the role of Natalie— a ballerina in your company, the woman who had torn your heart apart without even meaning to. The woman who disappeared without a trace, leaving you with nothing but a broken promise and more questions that you had room for in your mind.
You had moved on. Or at least, you thought you had.
When the Battle of New York happened and you saw her on the screen as Black Widow, you finally understood why she left— she had never been a professional ballerina in the first place.
But now, with the faint pressure of your heel against her skin, all of it had come rushing back. The way she had looked at you in that studio in Paris, the way her breath had hitched when you touched her, the way your body had melted into hers, the way you talked and talked for hours on end after rehearsal.
And now that she was here, it felt like she was a breath away from walking out of your life again.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she leaned forward just a little, her lips parting as if considering saying something—anything—until her breath caught again. A flush of red spread across her cheeks, and your foot, still pressing against her, slid a little higher— to her thighs.
"Nervous?" You asked.
"Not when I already know what you taste like."
And then, you brushed your heels under the curve of her calf one last time before slowly pulling it back.
The movement left both of you feeling... unsettled.
You cleared your throat, forcing a breath, trying to regain some semblance of control.
“So,” you said, leaning back just slightly, trying to sound casual. “Tell me, Natalie... do you still dance?”
Her lips slightly frowned at the name, but she held her composure. “Not really,” she said smoothly. “But sometimes I miss it.”
Her forehead softened, and for a moment, you wondered if she was thinking about you. About those nights in Paris, about all the filthy things you let her do to you in the studio full of mirrors.
“I always thought you had a pretty good pirouette,” you murmured, a sad smile playing at your lips. “Maybe I could help you improve it. I’ve gotten better with my technique over the years.”
“Oh?” She chuckled, “You’re offering dance lessons now?”
You leaned forward. “If you’re up for it.”
“I’m always up for learning new things,” she welcomed you, her tone a quiet challenge.
And there it was again—that suffocating tension. You hated the way she said it, like she knew exactly what was running through your mind, and maybe—just maybe—she was daring you to act on it.
Your fingers tapped against your glass. Natasha just watched you, the way she always had, like she was waiting to see what you would do next. Like she was testing you.
You leaned in. Just a little.
“Don’t think I forgot about you,” you said, “Or what happened in that studio.”
Her breath hitched.
“You think about that often?” she asked, testing the waters.
“Sometimes.” It was the truth. Perhaps dare of your own.
“Me too,” she admitted, almost shyly— well, as shy as Natasha could get.
Maybe this was a game. Maybe you were both feeling out the old heat, seeing if it still burned the same way.
Soon, the waiter approached, and you ordered without a second thought. As he walked away, you leaned in slightly.
The conversation began, almost reseted. You approached her, with an open mind this time. It started with light small talk, but soon enough, you both caught up on lost years. Old memories started to come up, touches lingered between shared laughs and reflective pauses.
When the check arrived and you paid, You hesitated for a moment, before asking, “Want to get out of here?”
Nat looked surprised… but also content. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Outside, the air was cool, but she was warm beside you. Her shoulders brushed against yours as she moved closer. It wasn’t an accident. It never was with her.
By the time you reached your place, you turned to her at the door, feeling your resolve fraying at the edges inside you.
“I don’t know how you keep doing this to me,” you murmured with a voice quiet enough only she could hear.
Natasha’s lips formed a knowing smile—the one that had haunted you for years. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the world outside. She stood there, close but not touching, her getflickering over you, as if deciding how far she was willing to let this go. But you both knew it had already gone too far.
You didn’t wait.
The tension had been building for years, and now, it finally snapped. Your hand found her waist, pulling her closer, and for a second, she just let herself fall into you.
“Been a long time, huh?” you asked.
She laughed. “You have no idea.”
Neither you nor Nat barely had time to settle before your mouth was on hers. The kiss was urgent, the kind that stole air from your lungs. She tasted like something red wine and trouble— something you should have let go of years ago— but never did.
Her hands were tugging at your shirt, pulling you in, nails scraping lightly over your skins. The years apart hadn’t dulled this. If anything, it had amplified it.
Your fingers found the zipper of her dress, and when it fell away, she was standing there in nothing but lace and skin. And fuck—she was everything you remembered. Everything and more.
She worked at the zipper of your own dress, and then it was gone, discarded along with whatever suffocating distance had been between you.
The next kiss was hungrier, her hands sliding over your breasts, pushing you back until you stumbled back toward the couch. She followed, her lips hot against your jaw, your throat, lower—
You moaned, as your hands found the curve of her waist, fingers digging in. “You sure?” you muttered against her skin.
Natasha just leaned in, her voice a whisper against your ear. “You’re the one who asked me to dance.”
Then she kissed you again, and the rest of the night blurred into the feeling of finally, finally having her in your arms again.
—
Morning light filtered through the curtains, the heat of the sun over your bare skin, but it wasn’t what woke you. It was the woman shifted beside you.
Natasha was already awake.
She laid beside you, propped on one elbow, fiery red hair spilling over her shoulder. Her green eyes studied you, but her irises were softer than you were used to. Alone, she felt different. She was no longerot the Avenger, not the ghost who slipped away without a trace. She looked more like the woman who had once whispered poetry in foreign languages against your collarbone, the woman who had slid into your arms after a long day at the studio.
You couldn’t help but stare for a moment, struggling to reconcile this version of her with the one you had known—the one who left without warning, without even a goodbye.
You sighed, staring at the ceiling before murmuring, “You’re leaving again?” Your voice was still groggy with sleep, but the words landed heavily. You thought you might be okay with her leaving. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Natasha was never easy to read.
“Would you rather I stay?”
"Natasha, you’re an Avenger." You laughed cynically, and it didn’t reach your eyes. "I can’t imagine this—what we’re doing—being anything more than what it was before."
She tilted her head, considering your words. “You wanted me to stay before.”
That stung more than it should have. It was true.
Once, you had wanted that more than anything. But time had turned longing into resentment, and now… you didn’t know what you even felt anymore.
“I didn’t know you were a spy,” you said instead, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Natasha only shrugged. “But you’re more than happy to sleep with me again?”
“I thought…” You ran a hand through your hair. You could feel frustration creeping in. “I thought I just wanted closure,” you admitted, quieter this time.
She leaned a bit closer. “What if we try?”
A breath hitched in your throat. “Try?”
Try? With her? After everything?
She shrugged casually, almost too casually. “Why not?”
You could think of and wanted to tell her a hundred reasons why not, but none of them made it past your lips. Instead, you rubbed at your temple. “Come to one of my shows first.”
“That’s your condition?”
“That’s a start.”
She stared at you for a second, then nodded. “I’ll be there.”
You studied her face for any sign of hesitation, expecting the same old pattern—empty promises, some semblance to the spy she was— but this time, something felt different.
“Sure you will,” you shook your head, half a laugh, half a challenge.
Her eyes held yours, stubborn as always. “I will.”
You wondered if you should make the mistake of believing her again.
—
Later, Natasha stepped out of your apartment, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. As luck would have it, she ran straight into Sam Wilson.
He took one look at her—at the slight smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, the tousled waves of red hair—and grinned like it was his birthday.
“Well, well, well,” he started
Natasha sighed, already regretting every thing she’d done that had led her to this moment— well, maybe except for you. “Not a word, Wilson.”
Sam held up his hands, though the mischief in his eyes gave him away. “Who, me? I didn’t say anything.” He stopped for a second before continuing, smug as ever: “Just… guessing it went well?”
She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head just enough to remind him who he was teasing. Sam, wisely, took a half-step back.
Natasha shook her head and pulled out her phone, her thumb scrolling through the ballet company’s rehearsal schedule.
You wanted to give conditions?
Fine.
But Natasha Romanoff had never been one to back down from a challenge.
—
The week after, Natasha sat in the velvet seat of the hall, her green eyes locked onto the stage. She had seen you dance before—up close, when she was dancing too. But this?
This was different.
The moment you stepped into the light, the theater ceased to exist, at least it did for Nat.
There was only you.
The lights draped over your skin like a second skin, outlining the lines of your body, the precision of every movement.
You were grace.
You were untouchable.
And Natasha was utterly ruined.
"You’re staring,” Steve snapped her out of her thoughts.
She ignored him. She regretted bringing him at all, really. But when she’d told him everything, he had insisted on coming with her for emotional support.
"If you’re serious about this, Romanoff, bring flowers,” he said yesterday, “No one says no to flowers."
So she had brought a carefully selected bouquet, now sitting awkwardly in her lap.
She probably should have brought Sam or Clint instead. But Sam would have teased you both mercilessly, and Clint— Clint would have just been Clint, and she didn’t think she could handle that tonight. Steve, at least, was nice.
She might have been wrong about that, too.
The final note triggered applause. It sounded like waves crashing through the theater.
Natasha was the first on her feet, flowers pressed against her chest, cheerkng for you.
Now, she had to face you.
—
Backstage was chaos—a flurry of dancers slipping out of their costumes, instructors giving feedback, and stagehands rearranging the props post-performance.
But Natasha only saw you.
You were still breathless from the performance, your skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat. Strands of hair had come loose from your bun, framing your face in untamed wisps. You looked otherworldly, untouchable— until your eyes landed on her. for the way your gaze softened the moment it landed on her.
Oh.
She could tell you were surprised by the way your lips parted.
"You actually came,” you said.
She smiled, the bouquet in her hands feeling heavier than it should. “Told you I would.”
You glanced down at the flowers— deep red and bright pink roses, full and vibrant in the dim backstage lighting. When you looked back up, you looked amused.
"And you brought roses?” You teased, “Natasha Romanoff, are you courting me?"
Natasha let out a small, breathy laugh, glancing away for just a second before meeting your eyes again.
"I didn’t do it right last time, did I?" She was quieter now, more vulnerable than you had ever seen her before.
You stared her for a moment, fingers tracing the petals absently. Then, with the softest smile, you stepped closer. "No," you murmured. "But you’re getting there."
The space between you felt small. Too small.
Natasha had faced impossible odds. She had stood in the shadows of gods, stared down aliens that would send most running for their lives—and never once had she faltered.
But here, she felt close to.
You tilted your head, looking at her like you were peeling back layers she hadn’t meant to show, like you already knew what lay beneath.
Then you lifted the bouquet to your face, inhaling the scent of the roses.
When you lowered them, your smile only gotten gentler.
"Come with me." You didn’t wait for her answer. You simply turned, weaving effortlessly through the crowded backstage, and Natasha had no choice but to follow.
She ignored Steve’s stare from across the room. She ignored the scattered congratulations, the noise of post-performance chatte. None of it mattered.
Her entire world had narrowed down to the space between your shoulder as you led her toward your dressing room.
The door clicked shut behind you.
It was quieter here. More intimate. She saw costumes hung neatly along one wall, makeup brushes and scattered notes lay on the vanity, a half-empty water bottle sat beside a discarded pair of pointe shoes.
You set the roses down with careful hands, then turned to face her, arms crossing over your chest.
Natasha swallowed.?"You were incredible.”
You shrugged. "I know."
She huffed a small laugh, shifting in her feet. "Your pirouettes are getting even better—"
"Cut the shit, Nat." The teasing edge was gone. Your voice was smaller than it should have been, but it didn’t miss its mark.
Natasha froze.
You took a slow step forward, tilting your chin to meet her gaze head-on.
"You want me back?" you asked. "Then let’s talk about it."
Natasha let out a deep breath she didn’t realise she was even holding. She had walked into this moment prepared for a fight. She had expected distance, maybe even anger.
But this threw her off.
Her fingers twitched at her sides. She had trained her body to be still, to hide tension, but standing here—under your scrutiny—she felt exposed in a way she wasn’t sure she was even trained how to handle.
"I never wanted to leave." The words slipped out before before doubt could creep in and steal them away.
Your brow lifted, waiting. "But your job..."
"My job," she echoed, almost regretfully. She shook her head. "I'm sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have—"
"I don’t care about your job, Nat." You uncrossed your arms. "I care that you want to stay. I care that you’re here. That you’re making the effort—" Your eyes flicked down to the roses still sitting between you. It was undeniable proof of her presence, of the time she had carved out of a life you once thought had no room for you. "And you are now."
She swallowed hard. "I am."
"Will that change?"
She didn’t hesitate this time. "No."
"Prove it."
For the first time since she walked into the theater, Natasha hesitated.
Prove it.
You weren’t asking for promises. You weren’t asking for empty words.
You were asking for proof.
She could do a lot of things. She could lie. She could manipulate most people. She could break a man’s ribs with her bare hands and disappear before he even hit the ground.
But she want trained for this.
Finally, she took a deep breath. “Tell me how.” The words came out desperate.
You put the roses down and stepped forward, closing the space between you until she could smell the faint traces of sweat and perfume still clinging to your skin.
"Stay," you murmured.
It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a request.
It was an invitation.
And this time, Natasha wasn’t going to walk away.
The moment your lips met hers, Natasha forgot how to breathe.
There was no second-guessing—just the heat of your mouth against hers, the scent of roses and sweat filling the air. She didn’t think. Didn’t analyse like she used to. She just moved, her hands finding your waist, your back, the delicate fabric of your tutu brushing against her fingers.
You were still breathless from the performance, but you kissed her like you had all the time in the world. Like you had been waiting for this just as long as she had.
And then—
"Ahem."
Natasha nearly broke your nose when she turned around.
Steve stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused. "Just checking in." He held up his phone. "Clint and Sam are taking bets on whether you'd actually go through with this, so I figured I'd get confirmation."
Your lips were still kiss-bruised when you turned to him. "Captain Rogers," you said, not the least bit flustered. "Sam’s talked a lot about you. Pleasure to finally meet you."
Steve blinked. "Likewise."
Natasha groaned, pointing at her friend. "Steve. Get out."
He didn’t budge. "You sure? Because Clint bet ten bucks you’d chicken out, and I’d really like to send him a smug text."
Natasha leveled him with a glare sharp enough to cut vibranium. "Steve—"
He held up his hands, backing toward the door. "Alright, alright, I’m leaving. Don’t do anything I wouldn't do."
He barely made it two steps before Natasha called after him, "If you don’t leave right now, I swear to God, I will break something you—"
The door clicked shut.
Then, you huffed out a laugh. "So… your friends are betting on us?"
Natasha rolled her eyes, dropping her forehead against your shoulder. "They’re never going to let this go."
You grinned, fingers still tangled in her hair. "Good thing I don’t scare easy."
Summary: It's been 1 year since Yelena returned from the snap. The world is still in chaos, but slowly putting itself back together again. Yelena is learning who she is again, and finally buying things of her own. She found an old record player in a thrift store a few weeks ago, and has been discovering music she likes. While browsing through a tiny record store in NYC, she finds one that sparks immediate memories.
It's warm in New York today. Yelena surprisingly has the day off, at least for now. She is strolling through the streets and decides to visit the record store. A few weeks ago, she found an old record player in the thrift store, and has been slowly finding more records for it. Her new, tiny apartment doesn't have much in it. So far she has only put a rug, a few pots and a small assortment of silverware, a couple of posters, an air mattress, and a dog bed for Fanny in it. Her record player sits on the floor, and the records she's acquired strewn around it, accompanied by small piles of laundry. Thinking of what to decorate or put in it is a headache Lena has not wanted to deal with. But music doesn't seem like such a chore. So into the record store she goes.
The store is small, no one is really in it. The store keeper behind the counter gives her a small nod and half wave while rummaging through a box as she walks in. She lets her fingers drag over shelves as she slowly walks by, rings making a light scraping sound every so often. She gets to the classic rock section. A genre that feels the most familiar to her. As she's flipping through vinyls, her hands stop on a dark cover, with a man holding up a thumb painted like the American flag. The title in the top right corner reads: American Pie. The song immediately comes back into Yelena's mind. With a hint of a smile, she walks to the cash register.
After climbing 4 flights of stairs and fumbling with her keys, Yelena is greeted by a wagging tail and stinky breath. She gives Fanny a pat, and the dog happily goes to lay back directly in front of the box fan. Yelena immediately opens the record and begins to play it. Sings along through the opening track straight from her childhood, then absent-mindedly shuffles around the apartment putting what little she has away while the second track plays. She finds herself sitting on the floor by the record player as the third track begins. She scans the back of the sleeve to see the track titles, this song is Vincent. It has a soft melody that draws her in.
Starry starry night, paint your palette blue and grey, look out on a summer's day, with eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Yelena's hands smooth over the record sleeve, sitting cross legged on the floor, she's paying more attention to these lyrics than the previous song.
Shadows on the hills, Sketch the trees and the daffodils, Catch the breeze and winter chills, In colors on the snow linen land
She pictures Ohio, she thinks of their first winter there. The way she was so excited on their first big snowfall. She remembers Natasha racing outside with her and teaching her how to catch snowflakes on her tongue.
Now I understand, What you tried to say to me, And you suffered for your sanity, And how you tried to set them free
Natasha's words play back in her mind as clear as ever - “I was actually trying to do something good. To make up for all the pain and suffering that we caused.” And she does, she does understand now. Yelena thinks of the guilt, and how she has tried to deal with it. The drinking, the throwing herself into her work, but Nat chose to try to right her wrongs. Lost In thought, she snaps back to the bridge of the song.
For they could not love you, But still your love was true, And when no hope was left in sight on that starry starry night, You took your life as lovers often do, But I could've told you Vincent, This world was never meant for on as beautiful as you
She stares out the tiny window across the apartment. She thinks of Natasha's sacrifice, now knowing the truth of how it happened, and not what Valentina sold her. She balls up her fists, angry and sad that the world does not talk of her sacrifice. They only discuss Tony's, her sister is more of a passing thought. But she remembers, maybe the world is not deserving of someone as selfless as Natasha.
Starry, starry night. Portraits hung in empty halls, Frameless heads on nameless walls, With eyes that watch the world and can't forget, Like the strangers that you've met, The ragged men in ragged clothes, The silver thorn, a bloody rose, Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Yelena doesn't know when, but she's moved to laying down on her back. Staring at the ceiling, letting the words wash over her as the record player's static string the song together. She thinks of the plaque in the city with the heroes that gave their lives to bring everyone back, to bring her back. Her sister's name is carved on two plaques in the city, one for the battle in 2012, the other for the fight for all humanity in 2023. She thinks of all the people that walk right by them, every day. Never stopping to think about it. How many people don't think of Natasha at all?
Now I think I know. What you tried to say to me. And how you suffered for your sanity. And you tried to set them free. They would not listen, they're not listening now. Perhaps they never will…
The last lyrics of the song echo in Yelena's head. Perhaps they never will learn from Natasha's warnings. The Avengers are disbanded. Threats, chaos, and terrible things ravage the world and no one is stepping up to help. She thinks back to Natasha's words - “Trying to be more than just a trained killer.” She cringes when she remembers her response. How she scoffed at the idea of a widow actually trying to better the world, how she mocked little girls calling a widow their hero. Except she was, and she always had been to Yelena. Long before she was ever an Avenger.
Yelena gets up and shuts the record player off. She stares out the window, forehead resting on the glass. Could I ever really be like her? Do more good? Be more than just a trained killer? She squeezes her eyes shut at the thought. A ping of her phone brings her out of her thoughts. Valentina has a new assignment for her…
Knowing that you love so deeply is a complicated matter. To know that you put your whole heart and soul into every little thing, yet also understanding that not everything or everyone has earned that type of love. Knowing that you'd pour every ounce of love you contain into a person and when that runs out god knows you'll find more, but also knowing that giving that does not mean they will stay. It doesn't mean they won't hurt you or break you. It doesn't mean they'll give you any back in return. Yet each time, you can't help but give it your everything. Maybe it's the foolish hope that maybe this one is different. That maybe this time, they'll pour themselves back into you until you're both so full so full the oceans are envious.
SUMMARY — after a morning of insatiable teasing, wanda and natasha take turns completely undoing you
WARNINGS — smut minors dni, soft dom natasha, soft dom wanda, teasing, lingerie, hickies, fingering, nipple play, choking, edging, oral (r and wanda receiving), begging, thigh grinding, face riding, nipple sucking, orgasms
Wanda has a knack for messing with the thermostat when you and Natasha leave, even if it’s just for a few hours. Your comfortable apartment might as well be decorated in icicles if she had her way, the wooden floorboards so chilly that your entire body tenses when the first bare foot is laid upon them after returning home from the shops. You groan Wanda’s name into the otherwise quiet space (save for the buzz of the air conditioner that’s working overtime to accommodate her request), pulling your arms tightly to your middle, practically drowning in her oversized hoodie that engulfs a third of your body. You shimmy out of your denim shorts, letting them pool around your ankles before taking a step forward, attempting, and failing, at adapting to the frigid shock that’s traveling up your body at lightning speed with every step toward the door.
Wanda snickers, knowing exactly what she’s being scolded for without any additional context. Natasha grumbles beneath her breath, coming out of the closet with a new set of comfy clothes on her body. Your girlfriend looks entirely domestic in her pajama bottoms and t-shirt, but the sharpness of her jaw and darkness of her eye reminds you of who she really is, and what she’s capable of. It’s not often that Natasha carries this energy home with her, but she’s been set in a mood for the last few days that has your muscles aching and thighs squeezing together, though she’s yet to relieve that second issue. She’s been teasing you for hours today, your outting to the shops no exception, seeing as she dragged you to each and every lingerie boutique with a sinister smirk on her lips and gave you a healthy description of the ways she’d fuck you into hell in every single skimpy set she suggested.
The thermostat is across the apartment in Natasha’s office, and you’d think that would mean the temperature of your space would remain consistent, considering Natasha craves consistency, but whenever she has the chance, Wanda’s grimey fingers sneak around the dial and twist it down to the low sixties. You have a suspicion she does it so that you and Natasha cuddle into her warm energy, the scarlet vibrations beneath her skin an incentive to cuddle close, but you can’t be entirely sure. Mostly because every time you’ve suggested that reason to her she denies it with a vicious scowl.
Where Wanda is in the apartment, you’re not entirely sure. She wasn’t in the kitchen when you came back from the shops and shouted your greetings with arms full of bags, and she’s not in your bedroom or Natasha’s office, but she’s close enough that her muffled laughter was audible from the bedroom, meaning she’s most likely waiting to catch you in the act of tampering with her air conditioning. On high alert, you hurriedly shuffle into Natasha’s office, letting the cream walls surround you and all of her possessions dance in your viewpoint as you make a b-line for the thermostat. Your fingers barely brush against the ridges of the knob before you feel hands snake around your waist and pull you backward. Your back rests against her chest, the material of her t-shirt rubbing against the material of her hoodie that you’ve stolen without permission. A shiver runs up your spine, and whether it's from the cold or sheer anticipation, you’re not entirely sure.
Her hot breath tickles the back of your neck, furthering the sensation of too hot and too cold that's quickly spreading across your body and down the very center of your bones. If bone marrow could evaporate from internal heat, you’re entirely sure that inside of your body would be dryer than a dessert right now. You lean back into her, finally becoming lax in her grip rather than tense from shock and adrenaline. One hand stays around your middle, while the other runs down your body until it reaches the bare skin of your thigh. Her fingers are warm, and the faint pulse of electricity beneath her skin is noticeable as she drags her fingers upward, now snaking beneath the fabric of her hoodie and scoping out your pantie situation without shame. Wanda is always warm, no thanks to the magic that she harbors in her soul, but it's become a comfort even on hot summer days when she can’t get her hands off of you for longer than a few minutes.
Your breath hitches when she meets the lace of your panties that are already sodden from arousal no thanks to Natasha’s morning of teasing. For a moment, your girlfriend loses her composure and the fingers around your middle squeeze into your skin in shock for how moist the center between your legs already is, but that weakness quickly disintegrates into a dominating stance that weakens your knees.
“I see Nat’s had some fun with you already.” She mouths the words dramatically against the side of your neck, teeth catching against your skin every few syllables. Hot saliva dampens your skin, and the stroke of her tongue against the shell of your ear has your joints quivering for something more. You whimper a response that’s hardly audible, torn between grabbing onto her or leaning forward to hold the wall. Your body feels like jelly, no longer frigid from the low temperature of the apartment.
You’ve almost forgotten about the fingers between your legs in favor of focusing entirely on the hot tongue on your neck, but you’re quickly reminded of their presence when she resumes her adventure of breaking you down. Her fingers explore the lace with careful thought, her mouth sucking a deep purple bruise into your sensitive skin simultaneously. The stimulation you're receiving has your brain absolutely malfunctioning, and you almost don’t recognize her fingers pulling your panties to the side until it’s too late, and a finger is prodding your entrance and pushing deep into your velvety walls. The squelch of your juices is an embarrassing sound that echoes around the office, one that makes your eyes pinch shut in dread, but has Wanda entirely intoxicated. Her eyes are a deep shade of green, pupils blown out so wide her entire eye is almost black with lust. Her own thighs shake with need, but she’s so absorbed with you and your body and your reactions that it doesn’t register in her mind that she’s dripping down her legs.
The hand around your midsection wanders beneath the hoodie, pulling it up and exposing the skin of your torso as it makes its way higher. The lace covering your chest matches the lace of your panties in feel, and it's a softness and intricacy that Wanda hasn’t felt before. Her fingers are still hammering into you, but an added sensation of fingers pulling at your nipples sends your nerves into a state of pure white hot sensitivity that all you can hear is a high pitched ringing.
“Liking that new set I bought her?” Natasha leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest as she watches Wanda unravel you with ease, no thanks to her hours of relentless teasing. You’re like putty in the older woman's hands, melting into her chest with breathless whimpers and whines every time she strokes just right or not enough. Natasha’s resting easily, amused and turned on by the show she’s walked into, although she’d been counting down how long it would take Wanda to devour you whole once she realized you’d gone out in her hoodie. She always was the possessive one out of you three.
“Liking the show?” Wanda rebuttals, moving the lace away from your chest in favor of plucking purposefully at your nipples. The hand between your legs quickens its pace, though even with the brutal speed she’s jackhammering you with, there's a gentleness to her touch that amplifies the feelings she’s provoking. Natasha snorts, though there is little amusement in the sound, pushing off the wall and stepping closer to the pair of you. She wraps a hand around Wanda’s throat, squeezing in just the right way with just the right amount of pressure that has your girlfriend struggling to keep her eyes open, entirely dismantling the dominating stance she previously held.
Natasha smirks, leaning in close to Wanda’s face, reminding the redhead who’s really in charge. “Hands off. I’m gonna be the one to finish her off, and it’s definitely not going to be in my office.” Wanda huffs, retracting her fingers from your center, eyes pinched shut at the desperate whine you pitch at the loss of sensation.
“No! No please.” You’re desperate, arching your hips into the gentle hand that’s fixing the lace over your puffy lips, strings of arousal connecting your skin to the soft white lace that’s entirely ruined by now. Your gaze is hazy and unfocused, entirely lost in the trenches of pleasure that have abruptly stopped before you were ready.
Natasha shushes you, cupping your face in her freezing hands and lowering her lips to yours. Her kiss is sweet and slow, but your tongue is filled with urgency as it battles her for dominance, even though you’re aware that you’re not going to win. Natasha bites down on your bottom lip before she pulls away from the kiss, dropping her hands from your cheeks and giving you an even glance.
“Both of you in the bedroom. Now.” She demands, waiting for you to scramble out of the office and into the bedroom before she reaches toward the thermostat, and turns the dial back toward the low seventies, completely intent on buying a lock that keeps Wanda’s troublesome fingers away.
When she returns to your shared bedroom, she notices that the little clothes you had on have been scattered across the floor in messy piles, and that despite her warning, Wanda is between your legs, devouring your pussy with a feverish desire that almost distracts her from the plan she had. The redheads tongue laps at your sensitive folds, and the sound of suction being broken as Wanda pulls away from your clit in favor of lapping at your gushing entrance provokes goosebumps to rise on Natasha’s spine. The older redhead clears her throat, unhappy with the predicament she’s found the both of you in, although she has a feeling you’re not the one who initiated this encounter. The sound of suction being broken for the second time seems to remind Wanda of the orders she’s been given, and when she pulls away from your dripping center sheepishly to smile at Natasha with slick coated lips, a blush rises on her cheeks.
“I’ll get to you later.” Natasha rolls her eyes at Wanda, though there is a fondness in the way her lips quiver into a grin that she tries to hide for the sake of keeping up appearances. Not bothering to undress herself, Natasha kneels on the edge of the bed, bearing her weight on the mattress that sinks in tune with her. She hovers above your trembling body, drinking in the sight of you so pathetically desperate and aching for relief, knowing that she’s partially to blame without even touching you. “What about you, hm?” One evil finger snakes between your legs, ghosting over your swollen clit with a gentle pass before it disappears entirely. “Have you had enough teasing today, malysh?”
“Nat.” You whine in response, knowing that she knows the answer, and reaching for her t-shirt to pull her flush against your chest, desperate to close the gap between you. You whine when the fabric brushes against your sensitive nipples, no thanks to Wanda’s pinching and twisting earlier. “Please. Natty, please!”
Wanda’s a panting mess behind you, and with the jerky motions of the mattress, you have an inkling her hand in down her pants and she’s relieving the ache between her legs without interruption, unlike you. Your hips scramble to find a rhythm in grinding against Natasha’s leg, desperate whines falling around your lips as you get into a good pace that knocks your clit just right with every other pass. Cold hands settle on your hips after a few seconds, pinning you in place with gentle urgency.
“Stay with me.” Natasha whispers endearingly, mouth hovering just above yours now, her breath hot against your skin. She wasn’t so attentive all those hours ago at the shops, but you’re grateful for her change in heart that will hopefully lead to you getting that orgasm you’ve been chasing for days. “Mouth or fingers, which do you want?”
“M-Mouth. Your mouth, please. Please.” You beg, dropping your hands into her hair when she moves down toward your hot center, picking up where Wanda left off. The first pass of her tongue through your sticky folds is gentle, testing the waters, before she dives in completely, vulgar sounds escaping your lips as she goes to work in cleaning you out, pushing her tongue into your entrance as far as it’ll reach before extracting it and making a pass over your sensitive clit. Her fingers tug at your nipples, flicking over the sensitive nubs that have handled so much abuse already.
“M-More. Please.” Your broken request is met with efficiency, Natasha shuffling farther down your body and abandoning your nipples so that one hand can hold your hips in place, while the other plunges two fingers into your dripping entrance that was previously stretched out by Wanda. Your nipples aren’t left to recover for long however, as Wanda crawls overtop of you, sopping pussy in eyeshot as her hot mouth engulfs your over sensitive nubs with an urgency you’ve only met a few other times.
Natasha’s fingers are curling into your velvety walls, hitting that perfect spot inside of you that makes your nerves feel like there are a few thousand fireworks exploding inside of them. Straining your neck, you attach your mouth to Wanda’s cunt, moaning at the slight tang of her arousal on your tongue. Her hips twitch at the sudden sensation, entirely sensitive from her own stimulation just seconds ago, but within seconds she’s searching for more from you, beginning to grind into your mouth with a passion, chasing her own high as Natasha brings you closer to your own.
Natasha can feel you getting close around her fingers, so she doubles down on her pace, and blows a cold stream directly onto your clit, giving you permission to finally fall over the edge. As she coaxes you through your orgasm, Wanda falls apart as well, hips spluttering to find friction as she rides your tongue until she's satisfied, the both of you collapsing into a pile of weak limbs that provokes an infectious giggle from Natasha’s chest.
Crawling up into the center of the bed and settling into your typical cuddling position where you’re in the middle and Natasha’s are around both of you, she makes sure to drum her fingers against Wanda’s belly before speaking, “Wands, the next time you touch that thermostat, it won't end as nicely for you.”
I know I’m super late but I just watched I saw the light and was wondering if you could gif the scene where Audrey leaves a message at hank’s hotel I need to talk to you you soon of a bitch did you get that? Thanks!
I know it hurts. I know it wasn't, and still isn't, fair. I know you had to be the mother, the example, the wise one, the rough draft, the tutor, the schemer, the glue, the shoulder to cry on, the one to carry the emotional weights, the caretaker, the organizer, the father, the pioneer, and more. I wish you didn't have to be all of those things from such a young age. But I'd like you to know that to me, you're also; the biggest fan, the only one who understands, the protector, the listener, the comforter, the guiding light, the best friend by blood, the resounding "you'll figure it out, I promise" voice, the hero, and so much more. I know it doesn't negate the past, but I hope it evens the score a little.
I was 8 years old the first time I kissed a girl. Not because I was dared, not because I was replicating something I saw on TV, but because I wanted to. I didn't understand why yet, and I wouldn't for several years after that. I was just a kid playing house. I'd never met a lesbian that I knew of, don't even think I really knew that word. And yet somehow, for 8 year old me, the "right" kind of house for me to play a mom in, was one with two moms instead of one. Flash forward to 9, and I'm the one at the sleepover who starts truth or dare. Subconsciously hoping that someone dares one of the girls to kiss me. I'd never seen a pride parade or been told that some women date women. But I always suggested truth or dare at the sleepover. Moving on to 12 year old me, all my friends have crushes on boys at school. "Who do you like?" They ask. Not wanting to feel left out or different, I picked the first boy I saw walking past our lunch table. The other girls giggled because apparently no other girls liked that boy. Neither did I. When I was 13 I got a "boyfriend", because that's what all my friends were doing. We hung out on playgrounds, and he'd carry my backpack for me. One day, he kissed me in the orchestra hallway, and I remember not being nervous or excited about it. But I remembered what it was like when my friend's hand brushed against mine or she tucked the tag into my shirt. The Disney princesses never ended up with another princess. The love songs were never about their friends. And the stories in class never told of a girl who liked other girls. But here I was, 13 years old, asking her if she needed help tying her shoes, helping her braid her hair, and "getting cold" at the sleepover to get closer to her. I was never "taught" to be gay. I was never shown that people like me could be and ARE queer. I was only ever shown straight representation, taught that a normal marriage was between a woman and a man, and I never saw a rainbow flag at school. I liked girls anyway. No amount of rainbow or representation will turn a child queer. Just like no amount of straight representation could turn me straight. But it will tell that child that queer is not a set look, background, or way of life. It will tell that child who's terrified to admit to herself that she isn't straight that she is not broken, weird, and most of all, she's not alone. And that can save a child's life. So, while the rainbows and education might make you uncomfortable, I'll take you being uncomfortable over the loss of a child's life any damn day.
