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once more to see you

⤷ pairing: fem!farmer!reader x carpenter!natasha romanoff

synopsis: ❝ She's the handywoman everyone goes to for leaky pipes and infrastructure. You're the city-bred farmer who's not used to the countryside. You never thought you'd actually settle down in such a place, until you saw that fiery red hair and second-guessed yourself. It turns out that Pelican Town's carpenter prefers dainty little dresses after all.. ❞ ✦ 9,923 words.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ tags: 18+ content (mdni!!), a little conflicted smut, softdom!nat, oral (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), dirty talk, nipple sucking, slight breast fetish, a little orgasm teasing, aftercare, talking through it, internalised homophobia from reader, use of nicknames (sweetheart/sweet/sweetie, baby, attagirl), feminine reader (christian upbringing), fem reader x fem character, flirting i guess, unhappy marriage, technically nat cheats but she's unhappy sooo, demetrius is a bad husband, x reader perspective, no use of y/n, natasha romanoff has a southern accent, attempts at characterisation made

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Your eyes crack open from a restless, short slumber.

The countryside speeds past your sitting form in the rattling, tinny bus. The greenest of grass blankets a rural landscape, complementing a watercoloured sky. The sunset, a picturesque canvas fallen upon the world, its soft hues blend beautifully into a masterpiece.

The sun almost seems to dissolve into the rich, placid colours of the evening as it dips down past the eye, taking its final bow before the show ends.

You groan quietly in protest of your interrupted peace and rub your temples before looking out of the glass window.

You marvel at the serene sight before your eyes, and your demeanour instantly shifts to a more laid-back, calmer tone. The country has always been the prettiest view you've seen— it never fails to put you at ease. Your attention is peeled to it as you tilt your head and lean closer, obsessed; infatuated almost.

Imposing mountains tower over the vehicles, making you feel slightly smaller than usual. They’re green and rocky near their peaks, soaring to incredible heights. A few birds can be seen scattered around the almost-blue sky, flying with an elegant grace. Their wings flap with a light force, pushing them through the skyline.

The sun stands tall with the peak of day over the scenery, more harshly now with the leaving behind of spring. Trees are littered around the hills, their leaves a light green; the lush hue of an upcoming summer. A subtle breeze wafts into the bus with the slight, angled opening of your window. It hits your face and tousles your long locks, gentle and soothing— like being sung to a lullaby before sleep.

The patterned moquette cushioning is tattered from use—flat and uncomfortable under your weight. It smells like old diesel fumes mixed with a specific, abhorrent dampness that you've tried to block out for the past hour. Clutching your bag tighter, your form stays rigid.

You're not used to this kind of life, where your phone service doesn't work for more than an hour. You always got everything given to you on a silver platter growing up, privileged with a view of tall, bright skyscrapers and the midnight subway route. You never imagined yourself anywhere else.

Following the untimely death of your grandpa, you were his only heir alive. Living a 9-to-5 in a cramped office setting, clacking away at keys and tolerating it only for the check. You'd rather been anywhere else half the time. In his will, he had given to you his vast farm. Which resides in a small, unknown valley.

You said that at any chance you'd get, you would break free from your monotonous office job. When the opportunity arose, you clutched it with shaking hands of glee.

And now? You're travelling to that anywhere else in a dingy bus that just about classes as safe to operate.

Your focus diverts to a gateway sign that's slightly faded at its corners, where the metal gains rust on its poles. It reads: "Welcome to Pelican Town" in big, worn-out letters.

So the "anywhere else" has a name. Pelican Town.

The glee you felt that day at leaving behind a life you once had slowly dims with every second you spend on this bus. Sleep is no feat on this vehicle, with the engine coughing up every ten seconds.

Pressing your forehead to the fogged-up glass and taking a steadying deep breath, you watch as the valley begins to come into view.

The rich greenery dominates your peripheral vision as the bus drives under canopy trees that loom over the passengers. It's an old town, with exhausted fencing neatly laid on each side of the entrance.

Your gaze meanders around the foliage, and just before you can get enough, you're plunged into darkness. A long, winding tunnel is a challenge for the bus to scale, with its maximum speed just scraping 50 miles per hour.

When the light hits you, it's extreme and then not. The bus emerges from the tunnel, slowing to a halt at a run-down bus stop. You stretch and grip the handle of your bag tighter in preparation.

An announcement rings out of the flimsy speaker hung on the ceiling of the cramped vehicle. The voice that comes out of it is scratchy, grating.

"All passengers for Pelican Town, please get off the bus now. Pelican Town, people."

You rise from your chair, legs feeling like jelly after sitting for hours on end. Grabbing your suitcase and bag, you travel down the aisle with immense struggle before stepping off the bus. The doors hiss behind you, and with a loud splutter, off rolls the health hazard.

Dropping your bag on the ground and relaxing your shoulders, you're met with an unfamiliar face. A senior man, wearing a green button-up, brown overalls, and a messenger cap, stands proud in front of you.

"You must be the heir." He gives you a warm, welcoming smile. He has his hand outstretched for you.

"Welcome to Pelican Town. It's a small community here, so you'll fit right in. I'm Lewis." You clasp your hand in his and shake firmly.

"Hey, Lewis," you chirp. "This seems like a lovely little place."

"Sure is. I'm the mayor around here, have been for 20 years now. Come— let me show you to your farm.." He gestures with his head and spins on his heel, expecting you to follow. You hastily pick your bag up and roll your suitcase to catch up to him.

The sound of the wheels clattering against uneven cobblestone echoes between you and him. You have no clue what's waiting for you behind the thick abundance of plants. Anticipation streams through you with every step taken.

It's not a far walk to take from the bus stop, but when you freeze at the entrance, your eyes widen.

Honestly? You expected a lot from your grandpa. Overgrown bushes, wild plants, and absolute clutter were not in the consensus. You don't think you've seen some of these plants before in your life. Gone was the idea of the lavish farm you had been waiting for, then.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lewis scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. "It's— not the prettiest sight to look at right now. But it'll keep you busy for the next few days?"

"Yeah," you breathe out. "Busy. Very busy.."

You've watched the sun set and dip past the trees, and the clouds move with the birds as they flap. And you're nowhere near done.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you bend over to yank out yet another weed rooted firmly to the ground. You take a steeling deep breath before you position your forearms.

Your hair sticks to your face, the longer bits tied back into a lazy ponytail. You're in comfier clothes that have gone damp as a result of hard work, and your body starts to welcome a dull ache with open, loving arms.

Your lips purse as you heave with all your might, arms and fingers tense. The ache gets worse with every tug, and you wince at the burning feeling. With a powerful jolt, the weed rips out of the ground, and you don't think you've ever been happier in your life over a plant.

You exhale a breath you hadn't realised you held in and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. You throw the weed in a massive bucket you've lugged around for the past few hours. Your hand goes up to the surface of your nape, feeling the knotted tension there.

Looking at the plethora of mess you have yet to handle, you groan and bury your face in your hands.

"Your grip is wrong." A southern, feminine drawl sounds out from behind you, and you flinch. You hadn't heard anyone come in. Your body goes tense in alarm.

Your head whirls around to see a red-headed woman grinning at your demise, leaning against a wooden pillar with her arms crossed. Green eyes bore into you, and you looked down to meet an unbuttoned, checkered flannel covering a gray undershirt—with washed-out jeans, a leather belt, and lumberjack boots. Her hair was tied back into a half-updo, her waves spilling out just past her collarbone.

All of a sudden, your body feels.. weird.

A red-hot flush threatens to creep up your neck and expose your feelings. Fluttering beats against your abdomen; your heart rate rises. You don't notice the hitch in your breath or your stubborn, wandering gaze, nor the dry swallow you made to compose yourself. The accent does things you can't understand, a lingering tingle burning under your skin.

You blink and remember where you are, brushing a stray hair away from your face. "Excuse me?" You tilt your head in confusion, meeting the woman's gaze.

"You heard me. Your grip's wrong. Otherwise you'd have done more than that by now." She huffs in amusement, looking at the foliage seeping in. She stands up straight now, figure imposing and a good few inches taller than you.

"And you are...?" Your eyebrow pulls up.

The corner of her lip pulls up. "Natasha. Carpenter. I'm the reason this place even looks half decent."

You still look dazed, staring at Natasha with a bewildered look. A silence blankets your farm, with the ocassional rustle of leaves with the breeze. You make a mental note to check out the town at some point.

You rip through the quiet. "The buildings are all your doing?" You implore, fixing your posture and arching both your eyebrows.

"They're good, right?"

Natasha knocks on the hollow oak, the sound reverberating between you. "Made this one too. She's been standing for God knows how long now.." Her hand flattens against the wood and slides down it before taking paced steps in your direction.

A click of your tongue breaks the moment. "It was nice meeting you, Natasha from the mountains, but I am doing just fine with the weeding, thanks—" You turn your back to her, leaning over to pull the bucket with one hand, it dragging across the dirt.

She lets out a puff of air. "Suit yourself. Can tell you're a city girl."

You halt. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Natasha tilts her head. "What it means is you have no.. culture. Or experience. Are you even familiar with those concepts?" She condescends with a grin.

You roll your eyes, deadpanning. "That's funny." The red-headed woman watches your form carry the basket with strained arms and dump its contents into a large bin.

All Natasha does is watch you for a second before introducing her southern lilt back to your eardrums. "You met anybody else, or just me?"

"Just you. And Lewis." Your back is no longer to her, now gaping straight at her eyes. She responds with a noncommittal hum, looking back at the sky now. The moon gains volume with the agonising plunge of daytime; its dim, luminescent shape getting clearer. Stars start to pop up in the twilight, scattered around like a canvas on glitter.

"Well." Her folded arms drop to their sides. "Getting dark out now. Gotta hit the hay." Those green eyes stay persistent in their wake, gawking at you openly.

"Yep." You comment, making eye contact with Natasha. Your pupils meet a deep forest, enveloped in a spectrum of green hues. Flecks of yellow float around within the emeralds, adding shine.

"'Night." Her voice goes oddly soft, and the fluttering gets stronger. "Sweet dreams." She prolongs her syllables unintentionally, and it has an effect on you. Her back now faces you, the pattern of the flannel in your vision.

"Goodnight." You murmur, watching Natasha's figure disappear into the darkness. And then she pauses. Turns around again.

"I didn't get your name.." She calls out, and you respond. Natasha repeats your name under her breath, inaudible to you.

"It's pretty."

With that, you hear the shuffling of her receding footsteps. The absence of her presence hangs heavy in the air. You find yourself grateful for the night shadowing your abnormally red face. Wiping your sweaty hands on your trousers, you fumble with the keys to your new house.

A jerking open of the door brings you to the interior of a small, but cozy, cabin. It's got everything you need to live— so you're not complaining. You suck a deep breath in and out before unpacking.

Getting into bed that night was hard. Tucked in under the covers, a certain carpenter comes to mind. Her fiery hair and lumberjack boots floods the canal of your thoughts. Even the thought of her makes you feel that weirdness inside. You don't know what it is. But that's to ponder another day.

Head sinking into the plush pillow, your muscles relax, that chilling ache kicking in. The batting of your eyelashes shut sends you to a whole new existence entirely in the land of slumber.

Maybe this city girl will be alright after all..

Your 6:00am alarm wakes you up and has you rubbing your eyes in protest. You reluctantly get up and get ready for the day.

Coming out in a pink sundress with a cute hairstyle and sitting on the sofa, your fingers scramble for the remote. You grasp it and study the buttons, before clicking the on button.

You're greeted with the sight of a weatherman conducting the screen with a stick. KOZU 5 is stamped at the bottom of the screen as the man drones on.

"—The weather tomorrow will be bright and sunny." After five minutes, you switch the screen off out of sheer boredom. Standing up and slipping your shoes on, you unlock the door and go wandering around the valley.

The town's bigger than you thought: a small plaza with a hospital, a shop called "Pierre's," and a saloon. Houses are dotted around, and you watch the residents run errands. Each house showcases a different story, with different lives. You see kids play around and a sweet old lady watering plants. A fountain sits in the middle of it all, with chiseled designs and thoughtfulness poured into it.

Your feet take you all over the place, and you walk so much that you end up in the mountains. It's quite a beautiful place, with evergreen trees looming. A lake is to your right, the sound of ripples being made and sloshing water hitting your ears. Bird calls fuse into the air as they soar through the air. A gentle summer wind plays with your hair, ruffling the strands. It's peaceful here.

Peaceful wasn't a thing in the city.

In front of you is a house nestled against mountain pines, adorned with sky-blue shingles for a roof. Spirals of smoke twirl up and out of the chimney, dissipating into thin air. Potted ferns perch on the rustic walls, bringing more personality to the house. A spruce sign above the door has a saw etched into it.

Eyebrow raised, you open the door, and a bell jingles softly.

You walk into a rural interior that feels like home. A tattered welcome rug sits at the door, trampled on from use. It smells like freshly cut wood and a hint of herbal medicine. An axe hangs on the back wall, along with framed pictures of smiling people. Directly in front of you lies a small desk with a till and ornamental plants.

And there she is.

Natasha, hunched over that small desk, bored out of her mind. Her ears prick up at the sound of the bell, and she looks up to see you.

"Mornin'." She has a grin on her face, her voice slightly raspy from fatigue. "What brings you here, sweetheart?"

She's wearing a white tank top that leaves little to the imagination, hugging a beautiful body. Jeans hang low on her waist, the chunky brown belt doing nothing to help. Those same thick boots are donned, scuffed with dirt and wood shavings. Her hair is tied back in a loose braid, with stray hairs framing her face.

Sweetheart. A pet name that shouldn't do what it's doing to you right now. Just affectionate. Southerners call everyone sweetheart. Your face heats up, and your lips purse as you try to conceal the rosiness.

"Nothing," you say, chipper in tone. "I was just wandering around. Didn't know you lived here."

"My husband and I. And our kids. Pretty snug place we have here."

"Husband?" Your eyes widen looking Natasha up and down. "You're married? And kids, too?"

Her expression morphs instantly. "Yep. Been married for years now.."

Natasha's tone is slightly off and bland, like the words are forced out of her mouth. Like she doesn't want to live with that fact. The awkward silence that follows is deafening, with both of you maintaining intense eye contact. You swallow dryly, fingers weaving in one another.

Natasha's eyes go elsewhere as the intensity of a past memory hits her all at once. Shouting. A low timbre, and her own voice.

"—That's not how you put the washing machine on."

"I'm sure I would know how to put on my own appliances." She glares at Demetrius. This was their fourth fight just this week, raised voices and heated arguments being the usual in this household now.

The relationship was far from healthy. It tugged at Natasha's nerves seeing her husband's attitude towards her. Even thinking of him as her husband made her body fill with disgust, rage, gnarly feelings that beg to come up and show themselves.

"Yeah? Well, it's fucking wrong.." His voice gradually gets louder, fists clenching under his crossed arms.

Fights like this over stupid, mundane things became a kind of normalcy that didn't sit right in the air. And it always ended the same way, with Demetrius charging down to the lab; Natasha slamming the front door shut behind her. To get a release.

The apologies never came either. It was just a shared look towards one another for an agonising amount of time, and then the two of them were 'okay.' As far as okay actually went.

Natasha's eyes widened with unspoken fury. "At least I actually do the chores around the house. I'm the only one around here who does the laundry, does the cooking, does it all—"

"Okay, calm down. You're getting aggressive."

"Aggressive? You were the one who started this bullshit.."

"Natasha, don't piss me off. It's been a long day." Demetrius grits out with a huff, form rigid against the wall.

"I've had a long day too. You're not the only one." Natasha sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Demetrius took a long moment to stare Natasha in her eyes. "You know what? I just can't deal with you anymore. Stupid fucking things like this.. I mean, seriously?"

"Then go. Go to your lab and hide away like you always do."

The man stormed off, feet thudding hard against the planks as his lab door swings shut behind him. Natasha slides on her leather jacket and her boots, slamming doors as well.

It was either this, or get a divorce and be happy. Find some peace. But Natasha couldn't afford happiness. So she tolerated it.

But at what cost?

She slowly comes back to the present, the spark fading back into her eyes. Her eyes flutter, processing where she is.

"So." You say, cutting the silence with a knife.

"So," Natasha echoes, tongue clicking as she leans in. She's visibly trying to recover from the flashback, piecing herself back together.

"Tell me about the face in front of me. I've said enough about myself."

And all it took were those words to start you off. The air between you changes dramatically.

You talk, and talk, and talk some more— the phrases spilling out of you. You'd trigger yourself, remembering a memory that had to be said that instant and then carry on. At this point, you just ramble on. Your posher, articulate accent shines within the one-sided conversation. It slips out on certain words, which makes Natasha inaudibly chuckle.

Surprisingly, she doesn't seem to mind it one bit. The red-haired woman looks at you with intent and a glint of adoration as the words come tumbling out. And she listens to every single bit. Resting her chin on her fist, her gaze never wavers.

Behind those green eyes—you swear you can see something more simmering beneath the surface. Nothing like when Natasha was mentioning her husband. Not the blankness on her face, nor the cold figure of resentment in her pupils. Rather, a softness not expected from someone who comes off as tough.

You've never been looked at like this, and you don't know how to feel about it. Stared at like your every word is being absorbed into the other person's mind. Like Natasha's trying to understand you, not just listen on mindlessly.

And then her southern dialect seeps back into your heart, stopping you in your tracks.

"Hey— you into Pilates? You seem like the type."

You stiffen. "Pilates?" The incredulous tone is evident in your voice.

"Caroline hosts it on Tuesdays at her house." She cracks her fingers, eyes drifting down to the clacks before meeting your face.

"It's surprisingly good. You should come by." She smirks, looking at your outfit up and down.

"Yeah," you breathe. "I'll.. think about it. Yep. Pilates."

"Good." She hums in contentment, back straightening. "See you on Tuesday then?"

"Mhm. Tuesday." Your hand unconsciously reaches up to your hair out of restlessness. Natasha notices. She stares at your threading fingers that twist away at a strand, and then her eyes snap back up to yours.

The eye contact is different. A good different. You don't feel the urge to scramble away from her blatant stare, or sink in discomfort— nor dwell in a pit of awkwardness. It feels.. okay. Safe. Solace when it shouldn't be.

Amidst the okay and the safe bubbles other emotions: doubt. A grating feeling that doesn't seem to stop chewing at you. A weight on your chest, heavy— immovable.

The bell chiming softly snaps you out of whatever trance you were knee-deep in, and Natasha stands up fully, fingers drumming on the wood.

"Catch you later?" She jerks her head to the side, and before you can answer, she suddenly becomes occupied with a customer. Standing there and feeling out of place for a minute, you start to move.

You step out onto the stone path laid by her doorstep. A breath you hadn't realised you needed to exhale was let out. You swipe the stray hairs away from your face. Instead of moving back to the farm, you walk to the lake.

Lilypads float gently, carrying with them the weight of beautiful, champagne-pink lotus flowers. They drift with the gusts of air. Frogs and their calls are the only audible sounds in such a peaceful place.

It's a spacious chunk of land, surrounded by trees and small flowers blooming here and there. The soft hues blend together to create a divine kaleidoscope. Almost an escape from reality, you think. A comfort spot. You could get used to this view.

You sit down on the edge, watching the water ripple and sway as time passes. You sit on the edge with your thoughts to your left, right by your side.

The grating starts up again, gnawing at your being. It's always been there, even since you were little and didn't understand simple concepts. However, this was different. You understood it, embodied it.

Going to church with your mum and kneeling in front of the cross felt wrong. Like if there was a divine force up there, it could see into the depths of your soul. Prod around at everything you've built up defences around and ridicule you for it. Shame you for the one thing you hadn't told even the four walls of your room.

Reciting the prayers, all you felt was sin. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Disgust in yourself for not dousing it in holy water before it was irreversible. Because holy water would've made it all better, would've made the feelings go away, and the boy with her long, auburn hair.

It felt like a puppeteer pulling the strings of your very being, telling you what to feel, what not. What to say and what to keep quiet.

What to be and what not to be.

Even your whispered wishes to the stars never solved it. It didn't solve the pure hatred you had looking at girls stripping down in the changing rooms. Walking into rooms, the circus of dread started up— its endless mockery and taunts of something that was so distinctly you.

There was never a name for it, but it was branded into your skin as if it belonged there. Followed you around like a spirit, wishing nothing but doom upon you.

But did it ever really belong? You saw, you understood, you know. You know who you are, why you are; what it makes you. So why do those thoughts plague your mind and silently kill you from the inside?

You try to shake it off, intently staring at a certain fish swimming under the water to distract yourself. It didn't do much. But it did enough for you to stop thinking about it.

Now, you just sit there and.. let time pass.

You watch the sun leave you behind and the moon replace it. The light from the sky shines down on the water, creating an ethereal glow. Blanketing the moon is a masterpiece of indigos and charcoals, with stars dotted around.

The beautiful view makes you think.

As much as the moon tries to shine like the sun, it'll never be the sun; or anything like it at all.

Because all the moon does is shadow the sun from everyone at night.

Tuesday rolled around fast enough— and before you know it, you're in Caroline's living room with all the other females. Doing Pilates.

To be honest, you agreed. Even though you'd never done it before.

You roll a spare mat onto the floor and flatten it down before sitting atop it. The dress code— apparently there was a dress code for Pilates now— was "casual." So, naturally, you wore sports attire: a black, form-fitting tank top paired with white sweatpants.

The first pose was the "bird-dog." Whatever that was. You watched Caroline get into position entirely and took a deep breath before attempting it yourself.

It was a shit excuse for a pose. Your form was wonky, your arms not stretched, and if you held it any longer, you'd collapse face flat on the rubber foam. Looking around at everyone else's perfect posture, you winced in embarrassment.

Natasha peers sideways over you and lets out a snort.

"You need some help there, sweetheart?" She condescends with a wicked smile on her face.

The words are practically spat out of your mouth, teeth grinding together. "Help would be nice, actually."

The red-headed woman walks over to you, hips swaying in a dizzying pattern. That same red flannel drapes over her torso, layered with a gray undershirt and brown work trousers. Her eyelashes slightly bat at you as she gets closer, the sound of her steps inaudible.

She stops and kneels beside you. And then you feel her hands on you, scaling your body.

You stiffen with her wandering touch, a rosy pink coming down hard on your cheeks. One of her hands rests on your inner thigh, holding your leg up; the other has your chin tilted up. You can feel the warmth of her skin oozing through the thin layers of your clothes, and the flush only gets worse.

"Just like that," she murmurs. "Keep there."

Burning. A scalding burn blazes under your skin, all over your body in every crevice. It tugs at you, feeling right in all the wrong ways. She's married with children, you tell yourself, the words chanting like a mantra. She wouldn't touch someone else like this knowingly. And especially not another woman. Never another woman, not in a small town like this.

She smells like cedarwood and bergamot. She feels like an autumn morning, unintentionally perfect. You can feel her flyaway hairs against you, courageous red hair pinned down with a hair tie.

And then her hand starts to move. In a comforting gesture, probably. Caressing that spot in the innermost part of your thigh, moving up and down. Up and down. Slow rubs against your sweats that send sparks flying, shooting up into your abdomen and pooling.

It's nothing. It's casual. It feels like everything but casual. Her murmured words do nothing to help the situation, making the fire in you ignite brighter. You suck in a breath, tongue going down to wet your bottom lip— and you find yourself grateful she can't see your face.

"Stay there a little longer," Natasha whispers. "Just for me, sweet.."

Only for her. Your bottom lip trembled with her words, and you find yourself slowly losing your mind. The infectious thoughts claw at the back of your mind— but her touch overpowers any negativity.

Moving her hand from your chin, it slides down your arm, fingers slithering around your bare skin. Her hand stops at your wrist and holds it up properly. You can feel the rough calluses of her fingerpads, the harshness from manual labour holding your otherwise supple skin. Like it was precious, as if you were something fragile.

You feel her fingertips draw circles into your pulse with care. A kind of care nobody's shown you so far. And to make everything all worse, she meets your eyes.

The emeralds she possesses shine with a fierceness that can only be described as a sort of desire. Desire that shouldn't be sought out or pursued. The type that feels unlawful. Her pupils grow with every second spent looking into your eyes, trying to see inside you. To see the you behind the act, exposed and unknown to most.

The thought of being seen as precious goes straight down to your abdomen yet again, a weird warmth boiling. The effect a singular woman has on you is deafening, has you insane and undone.

It shouldn't be that way. It shouldn't cross your mind, yet here it is, a guest at the tourist hotspot of your head.

Caroline's voice snaps you both back into the room. "Great job, everybody! Next pose.."

You watch everybody get up into a new position— the scissors. Looked easy enough. Natasha moves so you can get into the pose. She watches you with a smirk, eyes dancing along your body and lingering on your tight shirt.

You did the right pose, but this time, your back was way off. Maybe on purpose. Your eyes meet Natasha's, and you feign struggle.

"So you just can't do Pilates, then." She huffs in amusement and steps between your legs, crouching slightly. Natasha pushes your left leg towards your face, eyes never leaving you.

"Guess you'll just have to help me. Every single time." You hum back.

Her murmur is almost inaudible. "Wouldn't mind that.." The flush on your cheeks goes hotter, the rosy pink turning into a deeper scarlet.

Natasha's knee is practically between your legs now as she puts that straining pain on you.

"Keep hold." She mutters, and the tension between you is palpable.

A packed silence flickers between you two, and it persists for longer than you'd like. Natasha's stares do nothing to stop the butterflies floating around.

After Pilates that day, you went about your day with another thought to gnaw on.

A redheaded carpenter.

Over the course of the past few weeks have been days of happiness. More happiness than you felt slaving away at that office job. You talked to everyone and made worthwhile friendships. Plus one confusing mess of feelings directed towards a certain red-haired woman.

It got so bad to the point where you intentionally broke parts of your buildings just so you could gape at Natasha cracking down at work, the way her muscles flex and strain holding heavy logs, or when she discards her flannel— showing off that figure you can't seem to look away from.

You're currently at Emily's house, trying on dresses. The whole town was having a party down at the saloon, so naturally, you wanted to dress up nicely.

Sitting at a vanity, the soft feel of makeup-brush bristles glazes over your skin, plastering deep hues of red over your cheeks. Powder dusts over your youthful skin, leaving a shimmering cloud. It flurries into the air before clearing up. You grab the tube of mascara and glide the wand over your eyelashes, making them longer.

With each product, you look more and more kept-together, prettier. A swipe of lipgloss and a smack of your lips, you admire yourself in the lit-up mirror.

You have on a satin, square-necked dress in navy blue, the fabric clinging impossibly to your sides. The hem sits comfortably at mid-thigh length, accentuating your legs. Black stilettos add a few inches to your height, and jewelry is dotted around your skin— around your wrist, your fingers, ears, your neck. Your hair is curled at it's edges, giving it more volume.

You stand and look at yourself one more time, smiling to yourself when a voice rips you out of your daze.

"We're gonna be late— come on..!" It's Emily's bubbly tone that rings out from behind the door.

When you emerge from the room, she gasps in adoration. "Oh, you're beautiful."

"Let's get out of here." You say, the corners of your lips pulled up wide.

The walk to the saloon was no trouble, but tugging the door open, you're introduced to a whole new world.

Polished wooden floorboards stretch across the room, catching the soft glow of lanterns resting on small circular tables. A long-winding, pristine bar dominates the main area, neatly lined with red-cushioned stools that await lively people after a long day of work.

Behind the counter, shelves gleam with a colorful assortment of spirits and glassware, flanked by a vintage jukebox in the corner, ready to spin through songs all night long.

Deep in the heart of the tavern, a brick fireplace cradles a steady warmth, its crackles soft in the otherwise rowdy room. It's situated next to a large, hand-carved wooden bear statue that guards the seating booths.

To the right, a wide archway reveals the lively arcade room. There, a green felt pool table sits beneath the arcade sign, positioned near glowing game cabinets and a vending machine, offering all the drinks and snacks needed for a good time.

Your eyes surface the room, looking around. And then, they stop on Natasha. Dressed in a white, button-up shirt and a rare pair of jeans without dirt marks on them. She made an effort. Their stares remained interlocked, neither of them making a move to look away.

But this time, gone is the usual lightness in her eyes when she peers at you. There's a heaviness there instead. No flirty gaze, no teasing looks. Strictly friendly, whatever that entailed.

Because standing beside Natasha was her husband.

Demetrius— the valley's scientist— dressed casually with his arm looped through Natasha's. His other hand nursed a beer, taking hearty sips from the rim. Her face was different, more uptight and reserved.

The saloon is full of life, the low hum of conversation with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter all hit your ears at once. It smells like cheap beer and leather fused together, with a hint of whiskey. Gus is stationed at the tap, refilling everyone's drinks and catering to the valley.

You join the celebration, glass raising and the sharp burn of gulping down alcohol hits the back of your throat harshly. You saunter over to the pool table, and give in to a game.

You lean over the table, stick in hand as everyone watches on with suspense. Positioning your fingers, the wood slides against your fingers before sending the cue ball across the green slate, hitting the winning pocket. You exclaim in loud, unhinged victory— your arms outstretched. Cheer arises that's just as fierce, aggressive pats to your back as you smirk at your opponent.

"I won," you jeer at them, pointing an accusing finger at them. "I am the best at pool in the whole town—" Your loose giggles fill the space as all eyes are on you.

Every set of eyes. Especially Natasha's.

She's been watching you all night, your drawn frown when you missed a pocket, your expression slowly unbundling with every sip of alcohol. You never got drunk, thankfully. Just.. loosened up. More free.

And Demetrius has been by her side all night, like a hovering parent. Natasha's irritation is evident on her face, so you decide to go rescue her. Surfing the crowd, you finally reach the pair.

"Hey," you say, out of breath. "Having fun?" You probe, looking between husband and wife.

"Yeah." Demetrius cuts in. "We like things like this. Right, Nat?" He shakes their looped arms, looking at the woman with anticipation.

"Mhm," she says noncommittally. "Favourite part of this lifestyle." Natasha's tone is flat, bored. Not containing the usual lilt or playfulness when she's with you.

You cringe and decide to intervene. "Nat, wanna get a drink?" You gesture with your head to two empty stools by the bar, and her expression changes.

"Sure." The light in her eyes is restored, brighter than ever. "Lead the way." Her arm leaves Demetrius' as she follows you down to the counter.

You hop on the stool, Natasha following suit. She beckons Gus to come over with a hand motion. "Two whiskeys." She holds up two fingers and her undivided attention shifts to you now.

"This is nice." You suddenly declare. "The celebrations, the community.."

"The city isn't like this?" Natasha probes, the question in her eyes. You shake your head in response.

"Nope. It's— actually kinda nice here."

Two glasses of bourbon hit the counter in front of you two, and Gus gives you a nod before tending to other people. She takes the glass closest to her with tentative hands, raising it in a silent gesture. You do the same, the rims clinking together.

"Cheers." Natasha tips her head back, and the liquid goes smoothly down her throat. You drink half of it, setting your glass down on the wood.

"Sometimes it gets too much around here." Your eyes dart to the face behind the accent. "But I wouldn't change it for the world. Not a single thing."

A quiet overcomes you for a short moment, before your lips open.

"I used to work in an office." Natasha lets out an abrupt laugh at your words, shoulders shaking.

"No way," she gasps incredulously. "You? In an office? I don't see that, sweetheart."

"Yep." You click your tongue. "A miserable 9-to-5 in a shitty cubicle for a workspace. I only did it for the money."

Natasha grimaces with a smile. "Sounds horrible." She swirls the contents of her glass idly, the whiskey sloshing around. The taller woman still tries to wear her chuckles off, but fails.

"But when I came here, I felt better. Like I wanted to be here." Your eyes meet again, and there's something more there. The ghost of realisation. A look of admiration your way.

You know exactly why you want to stay here, the answer rooted in your head. She's looking right back at you.

You clear your throat and stand up, changing the subject. "Let's dance."

Natasha blinks. "You want to dance. With me."

"Come on, don't tell me you're horrible at it—" At your teasing words, Natasha immediately leaves the stool, standing over you.

"Horrible my ass." She mumbles with a smirk before walking to the dance floor, expecting you to follow. Your heels clack against reinforced planks until they reach the area where the jukebox is.

A small crowd forms, and you fit right in with Natasha. Your bodies move like fluid, swaying with the tempo of the music. It's some brassy cornet solo with a deep, male timbre singing along to the melody.

You feel Natasha's body brush against yours now and then, and jolts charge through your body like electricity. Both of you get lost in the moment, giggling and carefree at each other's dancing moves.

And then the song gets slower, more intimate. You feel Natasha's frame against your back, her soft body moving against yours. Any watchers would brush it off as friendly— it was everything but friendly. Tingles spread across you the longer she was there, her presence making you lightheaded.

"You wanna leave to go somewhere quieter?" Natasha murmurs against your ear, her breath tickling your skin.

"Quiet sounds nice," You hum. "Why not?"

When her hand embraces yours, a warmth fills you from head to toe. She leads you through the people, and pushes the door open with her elbow.

The cold wind of eleven at night hits your face and you flinch like you've been slapped. But the feeling is momentary as you gape at the lit-up town. Old lampposts cast long, shaky shadows against the cobblestone. Windows filter in a golden light, illuminating like scattered jewels. Idle smoke from chimneys swirls up in the air, creating pretty paths before disappearing without a trace.

You shiver involuntarily, your body overcoming you in spasms. Natasha notices; of course she'd notice.

Slipping off her leather jacket, she drapes it around your shoulders, coating you in her warmth. You sigh in relief, wrapping the material tighter around you. Her jacket still smells like freshly cut wood— a scent you've secretly come to love. You subtly inhale her odor, feeling the warmth crawl everywhere and the fluttering kickstarting.

Natasha takes a moment to just stare into your eyes and come to terms with herself. She looks down at your intertwined hands and squeezes gently, calling your name out.

"Look at me." She jerks your chin to face her. Your short-lived bewilderment morphs into a sweet smile.

"What is it, Nat—?"

Before you can even react, you feel lips holding yours captive. Your eyes widen and you stand frozen in shock, watching the centerpiece of every dream you've had kiss you with such an intensity it makes you dizzy.

And then you kiss back just as hard.

Pent-up feelings and unspoken tension thrive in the small space between you as she ushers you to the worn wall of the saloon. Your back hits the bricks as you try to keep up with Natasha, tongues moving like synchronised swimmers. The weight of a million words is dumped on the tip of your tongue. I like this. I like you.

Keep going and don't stop.

But your prayers are disregarded as the sound of rowdy voices from the saloon makes Natasha pull away from you like touching a hot stove. She puts a few feet of distance between you, and you're left dazed, hurt. Confused.

Your lips part and she speaks before you can. "Not here." Natasha shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "It's too risky and if someone had walked through that door—" She almost looked mad at herself for letting it get this far.

"My cabin," you mutter, interrupting the taller woman's spiraling. "Nobody’s gonna come there, Nat. We'll have all the privacy we need."

Natasha grabs your wrist and the two of you dart. Two women, tangled in a complicated mess, picking themselves rather than any possible variable. Two women, one stumbling over her heels, the other tugging her by the arm. Their footsteps echo in the quiet of midnight, thuds against dirt and stone loud.

She runs with purpose, moving like the world's going to end if she doesn't get more of your taste. Natasha knows the way to your farm off by heart now— could even get there blindfolded if she had to. Her flannel swishes with the breeze as you try to catch up with Natasha, hair blowing violently.

As soon as your cabin door slams shuts behind you, lips are on yours. Desperate. Needy. Natasha's soft, pillowy lips touch yours and for a second, your breath hitches and you forget how to function.

"Nat—" you gasp.

"Shh. I need this. Need this so bad.." She murmurs and doesn't give you time to respond before she's back to heated kissing, hand coming up to cradle your head. You moan in her mouth and lean in, giving as much passion back.

The two of you kiss like there's no tomorrow. Kissing like you'll run out of time before it's too late. Her fingers map you everywhere, callused hands hard at work memorising your feel. Squeezing your hips, she lets you breathe before descending on your neck.

"Been thinking 'bout you. All the damn time."

Messy, sloppy kisses on your jawline, the column of your neck, your collarbone. Your head lolls back against the oak as she takes your skin for herself. Piercing bites make you whine out in pleasure, sure to leave their mark for the coming hours. Your fingers, out of instinct, run up to her hair, weaving through the auburn strands.

They're not short and cropped like the other people you've kissed. Her hair is long and gorgeous, the last glint of sunlight before cold days. Your hand almost fits perfectly, as if it were meant to be there.

Not a rougher, masculine hand. But a feminine, softer one. Running through feminine hair.

You feel her fingers crawl up your dress and you forget how to breathe. Hand slipping past the waistband of your underwear, her fingertips tease you; and you let out an embarrassing whimper.

"Look at that," she smirks. "Already? 'Haven't even started, sweetie."

Natasha's fingers tease your slit, rubbing up and down, making your back arch off the door. A press to your clit has you gasp, grinding up into her hand.

"I like it when you wear the sundresses. They're cute little things. Think about taking them off you now and then."

Your whine in response makes the red-head chuckle. "What, you like the idea of me going fucking insane over your dainty little clothes?" That southern lilt does absolutely nothing for you, making your face even redder.

Who knew that kisses to your neck and teases to your clit were your ultimate demise? And then, her fingers plunge into you before you can react— stopping the teasing. You gasp, eyes rolling back in a moan.

"Oh, oh gosh, Nat.."

Your hands claw at the wood, making crescent-shaped indents. Natasha will fix that later. You knew her hands were divine, but her fingers inside of you? That was a whole new level of pleasure. Feeling her rough hand move in and out of you with her mouth all over you— This was bliss. Pure, unfiltered bliss she's giving you.

"You're tight, sweetie." Natasha drawls with a smirk. Her biceps flex as she does your pussy, the muscle straining slightly. Both of you are covered in a sheen of sweat, the air smelling like forbidden acts.

"Squeezing my fingers so well, hmmh?" You press your lips together in an attempt to compose yourself, even when her words unravel you with each syllable.

"Mhm," you whine, practically trying to merge your pussy with her hand. Even words were a feat, being fingered in all the right ways.

Somewhere tangled up in the arousal, another finger joined in. The wet sound that reverberates around the room is obscene, dirty almost. Natasha's fingers work you like a dream, hitting the sweet spots whilst knuckles-deep inside you.

"Was thinking about my jacket on you all night, sweetie."

That mouth? Those lips worshipped you like no other. You were a shrine and she was an eager devotee, hypnotized by the sheer sight of your body. And Natasha just can't seem to get enough.

You don't think you've ever been so needy in your life.

Your body tenses as she touches that beautiful, beautiful spongy layer inside of you, hitting the jackpot with those sweet spots.

"Wanna— wanna come.." You say desperately, feeling your vision start to claw white at the edges.

"Mmm-mm," she tsks. "Not wasting your orgasm on my fingers, baby." You feel her curl inside you and let out a high-pitched groan.

Panting heavily, you look at her and swallow. "Nat, we can't— You're married. You have children."

Her assault on your neck stops, and she's frozen for a few seconds. You whine with urgency when her fingers leave you, the air shifting.

As her hands comes up to cup your face, Natasha's thumbs graze your cheeks. In the jade crystals of her eyes, that same unspokenness clings on. Those same conflicting feelings you've had to carry the burden of for as long as you can remember.

"Just.. let me have this," she whispers, forehead touching yours. "Let us have this." She pulls away slightly, her hand coming to entwine yours. She squeezes gently, eyes never leaving yours.

"Your bedroom?" She raises an eyebrow.

"To the left. Down the hall, at the end.." you breathe, and all of a sudden, a hand tugs you around your own space. Your heels and her boots thud together as Natasha basically drags you to your room.

When the door shuts behind the two of you, you see pale fingers slide up the spruce to twist the lock. Green eyes befall you again, and plush lips envelope yours. This time, you're backed up to the foot of the bed. Natasha's hands grab your waist and push you, sitting you down.

"This is wrong," you gasp for air, voice cracking. "So fucking wrong.."

"Then let's be wrong together." Natasha declares, a rasp in her tone. "I'd always be wrong that way."

You can hear the displeased audience in your head jeer at your actions, the numbing feeling getting worse. Your body drowns in doubt, in self-consciousness. You shove it back down, focusing on the alluring woman in front of you.

Tilting your chin up, she starts at your jaw this time, kissing down to the square neck of your dress. Littering marks, she makes sure to be careful, sucking on easily hidden spaces.

And then, Natasha pauses. "You okay, sweetheart? Too much?"

"Not enough." You grit out, and that was all the confirmation she needed.

As she goes down on your body, Natasha slowly goes into a kneeling position. Peppered kisses are everywhere all at once. The redhead pauses at the valley of your breasts, letting out a guttural moan. A hand comes up to cup one of them, groping the flesh.

"Oh, god.. You're so—" Her thumb comes up to your nipple. Squeezing it gently and stroking the nub, you whine, leaning your head forward.

"These are so fucking perfect, baby. You don't even know." Her fingers alternate between massaging the skin and teasing your hardening nipples. When her hot mouth grazes you, that's when you whimper loudly.

Knees buckling, you watch her work with such precision, pushing to see what your weaknesses are, what makes you groan louder.

"I have to stop myself from staring at them, you know." Her eyes are ravenous as she licks eagerly. "When I'm alone, I get off to them like a needy bitch." She spits the words out like they're poison. A groan joins the heated air between you as she feels you up.

"I love these. Fucking hell.." She bites her lip as she takes a moment to look at your breasts. Her tongue swipes over her lips before reluctantly moving on, kissing a trail down you.

Finally, on her knees, her hands crawl up your legs, her touch provoking tingles. They stop at the hem of your dress— and Natasha looks up at you for confirmation.

"Can I..?" She looks at you with pleading eyes, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, planting a peck on your inner thigh.

"Yeah," you nod eagerly. "Please—"

But before she continues, her hands move down to your heels, unclasping the buckle gently and peeling off each of your stilettos before discarding them carelessly. A small, caring act amongst the shared desire.

A shit-eating grin bestows upon Natasha's mouth, and the navy edge rides up until your lower half is exposed to her. Her fingers hook in your underwear and slip them off, joining the disoriented shoes.

She pats your thigh. "Lift your legs up onto my shoulders." You obey, and the weight of your flesh goes onto Natasha.

"Attagirl." The murmur from her is all you hear before she dives in between your legs, and a satisfied moan leaves you. Fingers draw back to her head like a magnet, combing Natasha's hair.

"Tell me if it gets too bad, baby."

Her hands come to grab as much of your thighs as she can muster, and her tongue works miracles on you— turning you into a whiny, whimpering mess. This is nothing like her fingers. This is better. The hairs on your skin stand up; a mountain of pleasure building in your abdomen.

Your eyes look up, and you wish they had never looked up.

The cross your mother insisted you have mounted somewhere in your cabin, so you just threw it up on one of your bedroom walls and left it there. And suddenly the blush drains from your face, leaving an uncomfortable, pasty white hue.

The nausea arrives in savage waves, not giving you time to process anything.

The woman you've been thinking about every waking second for the past weeks is finally right where you dreamt she'd be— yet, you're so.. odd. Out of place. Like this shouldn't go the way that it is.

You can feel the frowns and glares of everyone back home. All their faces hovering above you, whispering the words of God into your ears. No child of sin is a child of Jesus Christ.

It doesn't feel like a sin. It feels majestic, feels right in every sense possible. It shouldn't be that way.

Her tongue feels heavenly on you. But every second that you stare at the cross watching over your every move, the bile threatens to rise up your throat.

You're going against everything you were taught. Everything that shows the warning signs of sin. Sin. You need to repent, you have to cure yourself as soon as possible, cure yourself before it spreads too much—

But what if nothing's the cure? What if she's the cure? Her flames for hair, her low waisted jeans, his her lumberjack boots jammed with dirt and wood shavings.

Natasha's voice, low and soft, snaps you out of it. "You okay, sweetheart? Want me to keep going—?"

"Yes." you say impulsively. "Just.. carry on. Please."

Her hand pats your thigh as she goes back to giving you just what you need. Natasha starts a steady deep rhythm. She smiles and smirks at your reactions. You cry out and grab her hair behind you, pushing her face deeper into you.

"You're doing so well, baby—" Her words vibrate against you and all that comes out of your mouth are needy noises. "So good.."

You feel Natasha moan in you, switching between sucking your clit and reaching her tongue into unexplored places.

"Nat.. Nat, oh— please.. Please." You're thrusting in her face now, not caring how needy you look. You throw your head back, forcing your gaze to leave the cross as you go against it.

Your skin burns. Not from the thoughts or the doubt. From love.

The obscene, slick sound of Natasha's mouth and the slight squeak of the bed, your moans, her heavy breathing— they all echo off the walls as you live your recurring dreams.

"You're close. Can feel you." Her nose hits your pelvic bone with every grind up into her tongue, and your toes curl at Natasha's occasional groan. Her pace is relentless on your folds, not stopping, not going any slower.

Your limbs begin to fail you, and the punishing rhythm she set breaks as you begin to mindlessly babble. At this point, you're riding her mouth, and Natasha doesn't seem to complain; quite the opposite.

"Ah.. God, it's— it's so good. So good, so.." You mewl, your body starting to slump slightly at her pace. Your thighs clench together around her head as you beg for release.

"Just look at the state of you, sweetie," she teases in a certain tone. That tone. "You wanna come on my mouth?"

You moan loudly at her words, legs trembling, and your grip on her hair getting tighter. You tug your head impossibly closer to you, trying to merge your bodies.

"Mhm," you cry. "Let me.. let me come." The spring in your stomach gets tighter and tighter, as your eyes roll back in never-ending arousal.

And then Natasha's tongue goes deeper than ever before. Hot-white floods your vision, your jaw going slack. A scream rips out of your throat as you basically choke the redhead with your thighs, cupping her head and grinding erratically. You squirt on her mouth, coating her lips and tongue with slick— which she takes with no problem.

She fucks you with her tongue through it, until you come down from the release. Fatigue strikes your body in the form of pants and trembles, chest heaving irregularly.

Natasha wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand as she rises from the floor to kiss you intensely, her mouth tasting like a hint of salt.

"Taste yourself on me," she coos. "That's all you, sweetheart." Her tone is noticeably softer as she pulls away, cupping your face.

"You did so good for me, hmm?" You nod obediently, thighs still trembling. Natasha frowns, looking down at your shaking figure. She sits down by you, the mattress sinking with your shared weight.

And then, arms wrap around you, lifting you up into her lap. Her face comes to press against your hair, and you feel all of her against your back. You're now skin to skin, sweat clinging together.

"You hurting anywhere?" She murmurs, muffled by you.

You shake your head. "Nope," you chirp. "I'm fine." You melt back into her torso, letting yourself go limp in her embrace.

Natasha sees the cross on the wall, and her face hardens. She intentionally shields your gaze from it— hiding your face in her chest. Her hand rests on your arm, stroking gentle circles on the smooth flesh.

The silence between you two is comfortable, welcoming. Not overbearing or awkward. The smell of sex and sweat floating around the room makes you cringe internally, wincing. Natasha presses a kiss to your temple now and then, humming against your skin.

Your mind begins to wander. Wander back to the divine force watching over you. But this time, the nausea doesn't reach your throat. And the voices don't linger. The gorgeous woman holding you is almost a shield against the inner turmoil within you.

It makes you realise something.

You couldn't care. You don't care anymore.

This is you. You in all your glory. You're not the mocking audience in your head, the conservative girl all those years ago, not the person you wished on every star to become. A relieved feeling washes over you as you relax more in Natasha's strong grip.

So they can all watch from wherever they are as this city girl finally finds herself. Whether it's from up above or down on Earth.

Let them watch.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ a/n: and we're done ugh but i wanna thank my lesbian friend for helping me with the internalised homophobia parts (she 110% won't ever see this but the thanks will be there anyway!!) also i am SO sorry for not posting in ages, life is kinda biting me in the ass unfortunately.. but trust more fics will be coming haha

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