the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Everyone thinks that she is in control, I mean, she buys you everything, and you're constantly around her (as her personal assistant, of course), blushing when she looks at you and smiling when she grazes you with her fingers.
But as soon as you're behind closed doors, Wanda loses her composure, her strict, domineering expression fading as she begs you to turn off the vibrator gently buzzing against her swollen clit. You've been fiddling with the settings for about two hours now, and she almost slipped up in a meeting when you made the vibrations spike.
You simply tell her to be good and that you'll reward her when you get home, before smirking at her and exiting the office. You have your own work to attend to, after all.
The second you're home, Wanda is on her knees, not caring if her nice pencil skirt gets dirty, her eyes pleading with you as you nonchalantly make your way to the bedroom, simply ordering her to crawl after you.
short summary: You discover something you're not supposed to. A secret Natasha's managed to keep for centuries unfolds before you, and for the first time, she's hesitant on how to deal with it. (Part one of two).
words: 3.9k
!!! warnings !!! : *** vampire!Natasha Romanoff, blood, biting, slight vampire feeding, mentions of blood, killing, guns, age gap ***
-
'I'm a ghost and you know this. That's why we broke up in the first place.'
-
The heavy rain had finally ceased, but the ground was still slick with it.
All over the city, yellowed street lamps illuminated the way, giving light to benches, cobblestoned streets, and neglected city garbage cans. The mission had gone too well for your liking, but it wasn’t designed to be difficult.
Your comm crackled softly in your ear.
“North entrance secure,” Steve says, voice firm.
“Roof’s clear,” Clint added a moment later.
Every step you took was calculated, sending quiet ripples through puddles while doing your best to blend into the shadows. Your gun was drawn, but not tightly, just as an aid. The mission was assigned to start around sunset, and the four of you had been at it for a few hours now, slowly tracking through the city as you gathered information and took out those necessary. The team worked flawlessly, looking out for each other and communicating well.
The only downside had been the freezing rain, but it didn’t slow you down.
You pause a moment, stopping in your tracks to scan the alleyway you’d just discovered, eyes narrowed and processing. Two fingers reach the device in your ears.
“Perimeter’s empty on my side,” you said back. “South street secured.”
“Romanoff, you can engage.” Steve’s voice is low, and you hear the faint static from his end. Your shoulders ease the slightest bit, pressing up against a brick wall behind you. You’re still scanning the street obsessively, as if a threat would emerge from the shadows, but you’re not worried, storing your gun back on your belt holder.
“Natasha,” Steve says.
A pause. No reply.
“Romanoff, do you copy?”
You frown, pressing your fingers to your comms, wondering if you’d missed her response. A moment passes, and still no word from Natasha.
That wasn’t like her. It was an unspoken rule, and if you weren’t able to communicate a status report, then something had gone awry. With every mission, you found yourself listening for Natasha’s voice more than the others.
It always cuts through the comms differently. The raspiness of her voice, low, steady, always controlled. You didn’t realize you needed to hear it until it didn’t come.
You stand up straighter, peering further into the alley. The more it stretched, the darker it became, the light from the street barely reaching the far end. A thought appears, maybe she’d already entered the building and neutralized the threat, but without communicating, that was too dangerous. Something Natasha had always advised you never to do.
“Clint, anything?” You ask, worry begins to set within you. You’d had a gut feeling that things were going too well, but in your defense, you always felt that way. Things around here were never this easy.
“Nothing,” Clint replies. “I’m trying to spot her.”
You stepped forward, black boots treading softly through rainwater as you moved deeper into the alley.
“Natasha?” you tried again, voice lower this time.
Your comm gave a faint burst of static, but nothing else.
“Continue on as planned,” Steve replied. “Keep an eye out for Romanoff.”
“Copy that,” you and Clint say together.
You continue on, gliding through buildings and broken sidewalks, carefully watching your step. Rain begins to set in, though not as bad as earlier. It’s enough to settle in your hair again, sliding down your tech gear, creating little raindrops into the puddles that surround you. The city smells of Earth, a subtle fog beginning to creep up darkened streets.
Suddenly, a sharp smell travels up your nose, stopping you dead in your tracks.
Metal. And lots of it.
Then, a small noise. You draw your weapon, holding it tightly, no longer feeling the peace you’d felt moments ago. You were on edge immediately, turning your body left and beginning to walk down a small, rubbled street. The light began to dim the further you ventured, and you made sure to quiet your footsteps down to pure silence.
The sound reappears again, but this time, wetter. Sucking.
You don’t alert your team, still incredibly unaware of what was waiting for you around this corner. A noise from an unsuspecting source could’ve made an enemy run away or something worse. You hear Clint utter something about coordinates, but the noise appears again, louder, closer.
And it intrigues you more.
Your hands tighten around your gun, rounding a sharp corner, fingers almost eager to pull the trigger and put your mind at ease. The anticipation is killing you. The smell worsens if anything, and all you can depict in the dark are two figures, one hovered over the other.
Your chest tightens, trying not to release the gasp in you that builds. A dark, thick liquid was oozing from a figure, coating the wet ground, trickling into the puddles that surrounded the corner. Your eyes narrow- and you can see a tuft of red hair peeking from a tactical vest of the person in front of you.
You almost choke, the smell overwhelms you, burning your eyes.
“Natasha?”
Your stomach turns, and her name leaves before you can stop it from happening. Like you're trying to convince yourself the person hunched over the body can't be her.
For a moment your brain refused to understand what you were seeing. The noise was getting worse, Natasha’s body was twitching, the light from the lamps streets away were giving you little to work with.
Natasha doesn’t even acknowledge you. It looks like she almost presses into the body beneath her further, sucking, letting out a small groan as she continues.
She can smell you. Your scent was in every corner of this alleyway, and it had been with her for this entire mission. She'd heard every footstep you took, every inhale of your breath, every report over comms.
The overwhelming senses from you had Natasha desperate, and if she closed her eyes and thought hard enough, maybe the soldier she was feeding on had blood that tasted as good as she imagined yours.
Your hands are shaking, making the small gun tremble in the air, and you don’t know what to do. Natasha was a team member you’d trusted so deeply- you felt like nothing she could do would have you questioning her methods or her judgment.
The man's body is thrown down, making a loud noise against the pavement. Your eyes follow where his neck rolls, now slumped against his shoulder. You recognized his dark green gear from the soldiers that Steve had knocked out. Twenty minutes ago.
But what had you nearly taking a step back, the blood sliding from his neck, the open flesh that was once his throat, two holes directly in the centre.
The carotid artery. High-pressure blood flow.
You almost don’t see Natasha turn around, too engrossed in the horrifying sight before you. It normally wouldn’t have you like this, slight tears coating your eyes, your stomach reeling in disgust- but it was Nat, out of everyone. A thousand questions were burning through your mind, you didn’t even know where to start.
The look in her eyes had you thinking maybe she wouldn’t even let you.
Natasha inhaled sharply. Her gaze flicked briefly to your throat, not your eyes or weapon. A shooting pain of instinct travels through you. Run.
You didn’t even realize you’d taken a step back until your heel scraped against the wet pavement. It was no use. It felt like you’d only blinked, and one moment she was across the alley, the next, she had your back slammed against the brick wall.
Natasha had been close to you before, just not like this.
Your long sessions spent on training mats, cramped quinjet seats, quiet conversations after missions. The long pauses you took after them, debating reaching closer for her. Your one on one missions, when you weren’t being watched or recorded, you always caught her stare.
The impact stole the air from your lungs as her hand curled around the bottom of your neck, the other firmly planted on the brick next to your head. Trapping you there, ensuring you wouldn’t escape. You hadn’t even seen her do it, but your gun was now discarded to the ground, and your comms device had been ripped out of your ear, now dangling alongside your neck.
Hers had been taken out too.
You can do nothing but stare at her, the dizzying smell of blood was closer than ever, as it covered her entire lower face. Smothered all over her mouth. Dark and fresh, it was smeared across her chin, trickling down the sharp edge of her jaw, mixing with the rainwater that fell from her hair.
Natasha’s touch was almost colder than the rain that poured, sending chills down your spine. You’d felt her hands before, always cold, but never like this. Steady during training, when she'd pulled you out of a fight, gentle when she’d brushed a bruise along your cheek.
Her hand tightened around your neck. Her breathing was regulated, and her eyes looked almost black as they pierced yours. You squint ever so slightly, as if you’re trying to memorize everything you see.
It wasn’t the dark lighting.
Her eyes were black.
“You should've stayed at the perimeter,” she said quietly.
“I… I didn’t know- we’re all looking for you, Nat.” Your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would. “I’m- what,” you shake your head as much as you can, stumbling over words.
You glance to the man who lay not even three feet away, his neck drained of all color. “What is this? What did you do?”
Natasha feels the flow of your blood quicken. Your heartbeat pounds in her mind, and she has to control herself from not leaning further into you. She drifts slightly, her breath shuddering and hitting your neck. The small widening of your eyes pulls her back, regretting it.
Her lips part slightly, licking the slightest bit of blood from the corner of her mouth, and for the first time you see them.
And it hits you.
Fangs. Sharply peaking from her lips. Her jaw tightens and they retract, another thing you weren't meant to see.
Her fingers scrape against the brick beside your head.
The man had satisfied her enough for now, but your scent… it had her mind wondering a second longer than it should.
“You weren’t supposed to have seen that,” Natasha admits. Her eyes flicker over your face, and you watch as they turn back to green again. The green you’d grown so fond of. Natasha hears your heart slow down, almost as if you ease into the hand that presses into you.
“Are you okay?” You whisper, much to Natasha’s surprise, and she feels her expression soften.
Her thumb brushes over your skin, lightly over your pulse. She’s so close to something she’d wanted for so long, and it’s coursing through your veins, traveling to and from your heart, just skin deep beneath Natasha’s fingers.
Each beat thudded against her skin, and the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting it. You should’ve been panicking more than you were. Instead, she watches your eyes flicker down to her lips, still covered in thick blood, and she hears your heartbeat stutter.
Interesting.
Her eyebrows lower slightly. She hears the blood rise to your face, watching it materialize within your skin, and it’s like she can see everything you’re thinking. You’re shocked and in horror of the sight before you, but there's something else.
You liked it. Her close to you.
Rainwater slides down the brick wall against you, trickling to your hair, down your neck, and Natasha’s cold hand has you shivering again.
She studies you a moment more, weighing all of her options.
“Look at me,” Natasha says, voice gentle. “I’m going to make you forget this. I want you to walk back to the team and let them know the alley is clear.” She lifts your comms back into your ear, pressing it in slightly.
Your heart beats irregularly again. Your head shakes slightly, turning side to side. No.
Her grip on your neck loosens, the slightest bit. Her eyes are darkening again, the green expanding outwards, the white of her eyes disappears, as if she were preparing to wipe your memory clean.
Natasha leans closer before she stops herself. Her nose nearly brushes your face, and you feel yourself gasp slightly. Small black veins surged underneath her eyes, and you worried, thinking this was a part of the process.
“You don’t even know what I am,” she says quietly.
“I do now.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens at that, and she shakes her head. “You saw me feed. That’s different.” She could map your fear, your confusion, and the other emotion tangled beneath it.
“Then tell me.”
Your request comes out softly. You’re not demanding, just honest; you just want to know her, and you always have. Now it made sense why Natasha was always such a closed book, why it felt like she distanced herself from you at every chance she got.
Natasha feels her gaze continue drifting down to your neck, like she was being pulled into you against her will. Your scent was overwhelmingly sweet, and it terrified her how easily she wanted to give in to her urges. It had been so long since she’d had someone like this in her life, someone whose scent had her like this, the line of her restraint beginning to wear thin.
Every heartbeat beneath her thumb felt louder than the last.
She could feel it, you.
Warm, sweet, blood rushing just under your skin. It would take nothing, barely just a shift of her jaw to sink her teeth into you. Your blood, oozing against her. She could have it all, what she'd been resisting ever since your recruit.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” she murmured. She was half talking about your scent, but you couldn’t know that.
“I don’t want to forget this.”
Natasha’s lips tug into a bloody smile. “You might just be the only person who’s ever said that.” Her voice was quieter than before, but there was something else now. Something conflicted, something she was beginning to grow unsure of.
Your eyes flicked briefly to the blood still smeared across her mouth, and Natasha watched the moment your throat moved as you swallowed.
“I know what I want,” you say, firmly. You raise your chin slightly, challenging her. You had a say in this, too, when you’d only just been looking for her. You didn’t mean to stumble into something so… troubling. Natasha studies you, like she’s searching for a spark of doubt, but it never comes.
“You saw something you weren’t supposed to,” she said. “That means one of two things. I either make you forget, or you become a problem.”
“Are these your rules?”
“I don’t have a choice for any others.”
“Who else knows?”
“Fury.” Natasha scoffed, the sound almost bitter. Her eyes drifted away from yours for the first time since she’d pinned you there.
You wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. “Is that it?”
“That’s already one too many. I can’t have any more, I won’t.
The rain drags on, getting heavier as it begins to coat the alley around you, wetting the brick and misting your hair and face. The dark blood over Natasha’s mouth begins to thin with rain, sliding down her chin, bleeding into her neck. Slowly beginning to look more like the Natasha you’ve known.
Silence is thick between the two of you, and you feel yourself soften at her words. All of this hiding, keeping this secret from everyone on the team- those she considered family.
“Natasha,” you whisper. Gently, you reach forward with one of your hands. Two fingers meet near her mouth, helping the rain wash away her blood-stained skin. Her muscles tense at your touch, but her head tilts slightly into you.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.” She murmurs, her eyes flickering over your face.
“I think,” you pause, your finger traces over her jaw, slowly. “If you wanted me to forget, then you would’ve done it already.” She can feel every nerve in her face, every bit of heat from you, the blood in your hand that slides against her skin.
You were driving her crazy.
The rain continued to fall around you, soaking into the alley until the brick behind you felt slick and cold. Water ran down Natasha’s hair, dripping from the sharp line of her jaw, and your fingers followed the path without thinking.
And that was exactly the problem, you weren’t thinking.
Your warm fingers drag over her skin that had been cold for centuries, cupping her face now, smoothing over her pale skin.
“You shouldn’t touch me like that.”
Your finger lingered along her jaw for a moment longer before stopping just beneath her ear.
“Why?” you asked.
Her eyes darken, slamming her tongue to the roof of her mouth. The veins in her neck gradually become prominent, her shoulders tightening. Her gaze flicked down again, drawn helplessly to your throat. Your pulse was loud, echoing beneath your skin like it was calling to her.
“You’re testing my control,” she murmured.
You blinked slightly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
Her voice had dropped lower now, rougher.
“You’re standing this close,” she continued, “touching me, while your heart is racing like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and you’re nervous. Not because of the body bleeding into the ground, not because of what Natasha could do, but because you see her lean into you, the shell of her lips parting against yours. Your eyes close slowly, waiting for something that doesn’t come.
“I can hear everything. I’ve always been able to hear you.”
“Nat,” you whisper against her, almost desperate.
Her eyes moved down to your mouth.
“You really don’t know what you’re doing to me,” she said, her breath brushing against yours. Her thumb circles the skin against your neck softly. She smelt of blood and rain, matching your surrounding environment.
For a moment, neither of you moves; nothing but the noise of the Earth can be heard, but Natasha can see and feel everything you’re thinking, and she always could. She sees how much you want this. If only you knew how long she’d wanted it, too.
“You have to stop,” she whispers, but her movements are counteracting her words. Your fingers curl gently against the damp fabric at the back of her neck, brushing through her short strands of rain-soaked red hair.
The hand that had been stationed around your neck slid down your sternum, slowly to rest on your waist. Her entire demeanor had shifted, her pupils back to normal, the last of the soldier's blood washed away, lost to the darkness.
Her voice had lost all its certainty, and she looked just like you’d always known her. Your quiet moments together, sitting next to each other in the common room or staying up late talking in her bed. Her features darkened as she leaned closer to you, absorbed by the surrounding shadows.
“Then stop me.”
Your words hang in the air for a second before you’re pressed back up against the brick. Your shoulders hit the building, and you exhale sharply as Natasha’s lips press into yours. Her lips hit you messily, and you’re meeting her over and over again, tightening your hands in her hair, pulling her in closer.
Her skin was freezing against you, absorbing the radiating heat she was making you feel. Her hands are clinging to your waist, her lips coated in raindrops, sliding between yours. A faint taste of iron lingers, her tongue swiping against your mouth, and you part your lips against her, deepening the kiss.
Your breath mixes with hers, creating small clouds of steam as your heart races faster under her touch.
Natasha feels every single heartbeat.
Every course of blood in your arteries that carry it away, all for your veins just to bring it right back to your heart.
“We shouldn’t,” Natasha murmurs against you, pulling back the slightest bit. Your eyelids flutter open, and you can see her lips, parted slightly, raindrops beading over her mouth. Your eyes connect to hers, her pupils expanding the slightest bit.
Your fingers tighten in her hair, and whatever warning she meant to give you disappears when your lips meet hers again, but it comes back a moment later.
It’s too fast, too much for her senses. She was closer than she’d ever let herself be around you, and the smell of you is intoxicating. Natasha tries to slow it down, afraid of where her mind is beginning to wander.
For a brief moment, her lips soften against yours, the pressure easing as if she’s remembering herself again, remembering everything she could risk with you. A concern for your safety.
She remembers there’s still a mission at hand, and neither of you was responding to comms anymore. Her hands loosen at your waist, thumbs brushing faintly along your sides through the damp fabric of your gear.
But you lean forward again, every frantic beat vibrating through your ribs and into her palm. You wanted this, her, so desperately. You craved her body pressed into yours, her hands all over you.
Your lips catch hers before she can pull away, and the quiet sound that leaves her is almost a surprised breath. Your fingers slide from her hair to the side of her neck, brushing along the cool skin there, and Natasha shudders faintly at the contact. Her grip tightens again, dragging you flush against her as her mouth moves against yours with more urgency now.
Her movement has your throat eliciting the smallest noise, nearly a slight hum, but it’s enough.
Natasha feels every ounce of control in her snap.
She’s unable to stop herself when your lips part against hers, and Natasha follows the motion automatically, her fangs slipping out before she realizes it.
“Ah-” you wince, immediately feeling the sting from your lower lip. You falter against her, but Natasha stays, her hands tightening so much that they begin to shake, and it spreads to her arms and stomach when the first drop of your blood hits her tongue.
It’s euphoric, the way the smallest amount makes her feel, a gradual dizziness surfaces within her, lips still pressed to yours. It slides down her throat, sweet, warm, alive… everything the soldier from before lacked.
The effect is instant, and her eyes snap open. Her pupils blow wide, green swallowed almost entirely by black as hunger rushes through her like lightning.
Natasha jerks back suddenly like she’d been burned, and your breath catches as the distance between you reappears. She’d torn herself away as fast as she’d pinned you against the wall, like she had to do it without you watching.
Rain runs down your face, washing over the cut on your lip, but Natasha’s gaze is locked onto it with terrifying focus. All she can think about is the way you’d tasted, and how much better it could be taken from your neck.
The look of surprise on your face has her snapping out of that thought.
The smallest trickle of blood runs down your lower lip, swollen from both the bite and her kiss. Your chest heaves at the weight of her actions, your thumb reaching up to messily smudge the dark blood.
Natasha can’t look at you anymore.
“I won’t make you forget, just- stay away from me,” she says quietly. “Please.”
You can barely lift your hand to reach for her, and she’s gone.
-
a/n: all your guys's comments, likes, reblogs, inbox asks / messages mean everything to me, seriously! I am so greatful for all the love on these fics < 3
I was a little unsure to do a small series here, but I just kept writing for this fic and deemed it a little too long for it to just be one post. 😅 If need be, I can just add it all back together in the second part. : ) !! 💞 Part two on its way soon!
This visit was honestly so overdue. You had only known that it would need to happen for nearly two years. Then you were reminded yet again last week when Rogue had bared his teeth at someone who tried to corner Wanda at the farmer’s market.
When you first met the shepherd, you’d realized he’d had a traumatic past that you may never know the extent of. The most that you’d been able to gleam since meeting him included signs of physical trauma as well as less obvious forms of abuse. He was still so anxious when he was in an unfamiliar environment or with people he didn’t know. Honestly, unless he was with Wanda at the house, he was more anxious than not, and this was the reason why Rouge had begun to rely on his protective instincts more heavily in the past year or so.
Although he hadn’t attacked anyone unprovoked, there was one time that Wanda was out with him and she’d had him bite someone, he would rely on growls, snarls, or raised hackles to keep people he didn’t trust away.
This was something that everyone in the household was working on with him. They didn’t want to discourage these warnings by punishing him for them because then he’d only skip them and escalate to the next step. So instead of risking him just going on the offensive immediately, you and Wanda had focused on rewarding him for his calm behavior. You rewarded him when he was obedient in unfamiliar territory, and when he greeted people he didn’t know with no outward signs of aggression.
It had been about 2 weeks since his visit at your clinic where you’d sedated him and then had his teeth cleaned and x-rayed. Unsurprisingly, he had a fair number of worn teeth, but the most notable problem was his fractured upper left canine. You’d seen it when you first met him, and you’d planned to just remove it, but after talking to Wanda and getting her input, you’d decided to have a root canal done to preserve the tooth.
Wanda was surprisingly mulish when she stated that she wanted him to keep his teeth if at all possible. She didn’t care that it would cost thousands more. Since he was her dog first and foremost and you had no medical reason to discourage this decision you agreed.
Now you were sitting in a fancy dentistry clinic waiting for the team to be ready for Rogue. Wanda had wanted to come, almost insisted on it, but she was 7-months pregnant and very much not going to be allowed to help with anything that happened today. Recalling Rogue’s previous vet experience, you figured you’d need to be present until Rogue was sedated, and then be ready to pick him up as soon after he woke up as possible.
You knew one of the technicians who worked here, and she’d been able to explain the situation to the dentist. Since you were also a doctor, and everyone only wanted things to go smoothly, they let you stay and help hold Rogue while his catheter was placed and his sedatives were administered.
You watch as Rogue is carried out to treatment, and decide that you’ll just stay nearby until he’s done. The root canal will likely take a couple of hours at least, so you didn’t feel like sticking around. After making sure everything is in order, you head to your car to figure out where to go next.
First things first though, you need to call your wife.
You’re unsurprised when she answers before the second ring.
“How’d he do, detka?”
You smile despite your wife’s obvious worry before you get buckled and turn on the car. You figure you could go to the bookstore, or maybe kill time in the grocery store.
“He did great, Wands. He was nervous, of course, but he did well with greeting everyone even without treats.”
You’d been unable to reward him with his normal treats since needed to be fasted, but Rogue had received some pre-visit anxiety medication, and he’d done great. He was almost as calm as Boone was at the vet which is something you never thought you’d see.
You hear Wanda hum happily in acknowledgement before the sound of her shifting comes through the speakers as your phone connects to Bluetooth.
“That’s amazing news! You’re still okay hanging around there until he’s done?”
You had already agreed to do this since Wanda worried about her dog going under again for this procedure. Since the clinic was nearly an hour drive from home, you decided that it made the most sense to stay in the area. Even if it was your day off and you’d rather be home with your entire family, you didn’t mind doing this for your wife, and Rogue of course.
“Of course. I’ll bring him home as soon as they tell me he’s ready.”
This turned out to be closer to 4 hours later, but you didn’t mind since you’d almost finished reading your new book in that time. You’d also gone grocery shopping, and gotten both the dogs and humans treats to enjoy. You consider bringing one in for Rogue, but given that he’s likely going to still be sleepy, you decide it’ll be better to hold off.
You arrive to find that your dog is all finished, and in fact very sleepy. He barely lifts his head when you walk into the room where he’s waiting with a technician. You listen to the discharge instructions and recommendations before realizing that Rogue has fallen back asleep. You can’t help but smile fondly at the shepherd as you look back to the technician who seems equally amused.
“Thank you, Lexi. If he doesn’t stand up on his own, do you think you could help me to the car?”
Unsurprisingly, Rogue only makes it a couple of steps before he starts to fade again. You’re immediately regretting your decision to pick him up ASAP as you lift him up into your arms. You’d handed your keys to Lexi, and she opened the backdoor so you could try and put Rogue in the backseat. After a tiny head bump and a disgruntled groan from both of you, Rogue was situated and secured in the back seat and promptly back to napping.
You thanked Lexi before starting your car and dialing your wife. You’d told her you’d let her know when you’re headed back, and maybe hearing his favorite person’s voice would wake Rogue up more. Who knows.
“Hey Wanda guess who I have with me?”
Wanda’s gasp is adorable as she excitedly greets her dog who’s still more or less asleep in the backseat.
“Hi Rogue! I heard you did well. Good job, sleepy boy.”
Rogue shifts a little and his eyes open as he looks around, but when he doesn’t see the person to match the voice, his eyes fall closed. You reach back to scratch his ears before you get buckled and prepare for the drive home.
“He’s really sleepy still, Wands. He’ll likely just sleep the rest of the day once we’re back.”
Wanda doesn’t respond immediately and you assume she’s thinking about where she’ll camp out for the rest of the day so she can be with her dog. You’re a little surprised when she speaks up and her voice is riddled with anxiety.
“He’ll be okay though, right? Should I have let him stay there longer?”
You’re already shaking your head as you turn out of the parking lot and head for the interstate. You sneak a peek at Rogue in the rearview and he’s snoring away happily without a care in the world. You realize that he must be really out of it if he’s not even registering the smell of his new treats. They were from a bakery in town that specializes in dog treats. Needless to say, they’ve gotten a lot of business from you in the past, and today you left with almost a dozen treats for your trio of pets.
“Rogue’s great, just tired. So tired he doesn’t even smell his treats in the trunk, huh bud?”
You laugh before addressing the second part of your wife’s question with a bit more seriousness.
“He was going to sleep either way, Wands, so why not have it be at home where we can watch him?”
It was until times like this that you forget you and your wife share your locations. Although you wouldn’t have put it past her to be camped out by a window lying in wait, you figure that Wanda was relaxing downstairs and watching your progress on the app instead. She was more tired these days, and she had to be economic about how she spent her energy.
This is why when you pull into the garage only to already see your wife and dog standing there, you realize she must have been keeping a close eye on you. You smile as you cut the engine and step out with a sigh.
“Hey you two. Guess who’s still very groggy.”
Boone wags his tail as he follows Wanda down the stairs towards you. Your wife greets you with a kiss before she watches as you open the back door. She smiles widely when she sees that Rogue has turned toward the open door with a dazed expression.
“Oh my god, he’s so drugged.”
You can’t help but laugh as you nod in agreement at the look on the shepherd’s face. You unbuckle him before attaching his leash and trying to encourage him to step out of the car. You figure you’ll have to help, but you want to see if he’s willing to stand up on his own.
“Come on, Rogue. Let’s go. Your favorite mom is waiting.”
Neither of you miss how Rogue’s tail starts to wag as he stands up shakily and prepares to jump. Wanda holds out her hands but you’re the one who actually grabs Rogue and more of less lift him out onto the garage floor.
“Hi, sweet boy. Be careful.”
Once he’s out of the car, Rogue’s tail begins to wag faster and he tries to greet Wanda but he’s a little unsteady. He releases a whine as he rubs his face against Wanda’s outstretched hands. Boone is on his other side sniffing him thoroughly, and he jumps a bit in surprise when Rogue turns to sniff him back. The older shepherd stumbles slightly, falling into Boone before you held hold him steady. You look to your wife before kneeling beside Rogue with a sigh.
“Where do you want me to set him up?”
Once Wanda tells you where she’s made a little nest for him, you pick up the sleepy shepherd and head to the den. You smile at the sight that greets you. Wanda’s moved the coffee table from the middle of the room, and replaced it with a giant dog bed and a few toys and treats. This reminds you of the groceries you have in the car, and you carefully set Rogue down before heading back to your car. It didn’t fail to escape your notice that Boone hadn’t followed you inside.
“I’ll be right back, Wands. I need to save the groceries.”
Wanda only nods before she carefully lowers herself so she can sit beside her dog. She reaches out to pet him and smiles again when he opens his eyes and turns to her.
“Such a good boy. I heard you were so well-behaved. I’m so proud of you.”
By the time you unload the food and place it on the counter so Boone couldn’t get it, Wanda’s lying down beside her dog with a pillow under her head. You have one of the treats you’d bought in your hands, but seeing how tired Rogue is, you decide it should wait. Instead, you give it to Boone, and the shepherd runs off to enjoy his snack elsewhere.
“Can I see, bud?”
You realize you didn’t even bother to look at his tooth when Wanda carefully reaches out for his face. Rogue barely reacts as Wanda lifts his lip and looks at his $5000 canine. She frowns slightly as she lifts his opposite lip to look at the two of them at the same time with a pensive expression. Eventually she drops his lips and kisses his forehead with a sigh.
“I’m not sure why I thought it would look different.”
You hum in agreement before sitting down on Rogue’s other side with a sigh. You had explained to Wanda what the treatment entailed, after she’d looked it up on her own, and as discussed there was very little visually that was different about the tooth. If either of them bothered to lie down or raise Rogue’s head, you could see that the entrance to his pulp canal now looked white instead of red.
“It’s stronger, and less likely to cause him problems now. Especially if he keeps chewing the way he does.”
You grumble this last part as you think about the most recent incident where Rogue had tried to chew through the pantry. Wanda had been sleeping and the dog knew that his favorite treats were kept behind a locked door.
Wanda laughs at this before she lies back down to focus on her dog. He’s snoring again, but he looks peaceful, so she doesn’t want to disturb him too much. She settles for resting a hand on his shoulder before she turns to you with a grateful look.
“Thank you for taking care of him detka.”
You nod before you reach out to take her free hand and kiss the back of it. Pointedly avoiding the fingers that had just been in Rogue’s mouth. You offer her a smile as you lean back against the couch behind you. You should finish unloading the groceries, but for now you just want to spend some time with your family.
Summary: Natasha thinks you'd be a good K-9 dog the problem is they need to take you to the vet for a blood draw...
word count: 2.1K
Warnings: Past trauma, involuntary loss of autonomy, feral/animalistic POV, food insecurity, fear responses (growling/snapping), hurt/comfort, found family, consent-focused touch, slow burn healing, mentions of blood draw
You had picked up on the commands quickly. The redhead, Natasha, had been going through commands over the past week with you. You understood each of them perfectly. You weren't sure if it was the animal instinct or just you being weird, but listening to her commands made you happy, a flutter in your chest every time you got called “good girl” and a treat getting hoovered up.
“Did you even taste it, Shaggydog?” Wanda chuckled, a question that was asked often which you'd give a small ‘boof’ in response.
“She's really smart. I think she'll do great at the K-9 school.” Natasha spoke, your head tilting. You knew the words and you'd seen her uniform. Another bark coming out, a bit louder, more confident. “See Wands? Even she knows she'll be good at it.” Nat scritched the sides of your face a bit, making you melt.
“I just don't want her getting hurt Nat.” Wanda patted her thighs and you pawed over. Letting your head rest in her lap as she gives you scritches. “We still need to take her to the vet and get that DNA test for her. We dont know if she'll be able to do it.”
“Well even if she cant she'll still be here to protect you when you work from home.” Natasha sat next to Wanda, pulling her close and away from you as you decided to climb in their laps.
You'd grown close to the two women, hoping they'd see the real you somehow. You whine as you crawl across their laps making the two laugh as you look up at them.
“Such a scary guard dog we have here Nat.” Wanda says as she rubs your tummy, making your leg kick.
“She just has to look the part. We both know if anyone saw her they'd shit themselves.” Nat retorted, making Wanda snort.
“This is very true.”
⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°
The building smells wrong.
You know it before the engine even shuts off.
Antiseptic. Alcohol. Bleach soaked so deep into tile it has a permanent bite. Underneath it—fear. Old fear. Fresh fear. Cats sharp and electric. Dogs anxious and loud. A copper tang that never fully leaves.
And something older.
Something that smells like endings.
Your hackles lift before you can stop them.
“It’s okay,” Wanda murmurs softly as she opens the back door. “Just a check-up.”
Check-up.
Natasha circles the car automatically, scanning the lot before opening your door. Her hand lands at the back of your neck, firm and steady. Not restraining.
Grounding.
You step down.
The pavement is warm. Solid. Real.
The doors hiss open and the smell hits full force.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Too bright. Too white. The air is over-processed, sterile in a way that feels aggressive. Your claws click sharply against the floor.
Too loud.
A golden retriever sits across the room, tail thumping nervously. A terrier trembles in someone’s sweatered arms. A cat in a carrier hisses low and constant, eyes blown wide.
Their heartbeats layer in your ears.
You catalog without meaning to.
Front desk. Two staff. Back hallway. One visible exit. Windows sealed. No clean run path.
You sit. Perfect posture. Tail wrapped neatly around your paws. Ears forward but soft. Natasha notices the rigidity anyway. Her fingers brush the top of your head. “Good girl.”
It warms you instantly. That stupid, human part of you preens under it.
Wanda doesn’t take a chair. She kneels beside you, always lowering herself to your level. Her fingers sink into your fur and stroke down your neck in slow passes.
“You’re okay,” she whispers.
You wish that were true.
A door opens down the hall.
A sharp yelp.
Then,
Blood. Fresh. Hot. Metallic and alive. Your head snaps up before you can stop it. For a fraction of a second, the waiting room dissolves.
You are in the woods. Moonlight filters through pine branches. Snow crusts under your paws. You are tracking. You are starving. You are something large and silent and merciless. The memory fractures before it completes. Always does.
You swallow it down and press your body into Wanda’s knee instead.
Cherry blossom shampoo. Green tea. Laundry detergent. Home.
“Hey,” she murmurs, feeling the shift.
Natasha’s palm settles heavier at your shoulder now. Not forceful, just anchoring.
“Shaggydog?”
You stand quickly, a little too so,
The technician smiles. “Wow. She’s attentive.”
You lower your gaze deliberately. Soften your posture. Tail relaxed and you follow behind. The hallway smells stronger; alcohol wipes, latex, stress sweat, ozone from machines.
The exam room is smaller than you like, a cold metal table. You don’t hesitate climbing up when they guide you.
The vet is an older woman with sharp blue eyes. She doesn’t crouch first. She watches. You can feel her assessing you.
“Well,” she says mildly. “This is our mystery girl.”
Natasha’s shoulders tighten a fraction.
“She’s just here for the DNA panel,” Natasha says evenly.
“Of course.” The vet’s hands are practiced as she checks your ears, your teeth. She lingers at your gums slightly longer than necessary. Presses along your ribs. Your abdomen. You keep your breathing even.She frowns faintly.
“Excellent muscle tone,” she murmurs. “Low resting heart rate.”
Natasha smiles faintly. “We like to keep her active. Thinking of having her come work with me as a K-9.”
“Well judging by just the muscle tone and her listening skills I’d say she’d make an excellent candidate for the program. We’ll take a small blood sample and send that off.”
Your pulse spikes.
Blood.
No.
The tech wraps around you. Holding your head against her chest, she smells like medicine and you don’t like it. She holds your leg, rolling it outward slightly. The other tech holds near your paw, feeling for the vein before grabbing a bottle of alcohol and squeezing it on your leg.
Every fiber is too loud against your skin. The latex gloves squeak faintly. Your pulse pounds in your ears like a drumbeat.
What if it smells wrong?
What if it looks wrong?
What if…
The needle pierces. It barely hurts, but the second your blood hits air,
Everything in you surges.
It’s stronger than before. Not just scent. It smells… different. Thicker and wilder. Like the forest floor after rain. Like iron and sap and something feral beneath it. A low sound vibrates from your chest before you can stop it. It’s not loud, but it’s certainly not a dog’s growl.
The room stills.
The vet doesn’t flinch, but her eyes sharpen.
“Easy,” Natasha says quietly.
Wanda presses her forehead against your neck immediately. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” You lock onto her voice. Not the blood. Not the instinct screaming to bare teeth.
Her.
The vial fills.
The moment the needle slides free, you feel it, that familiar internal shift. Skin knitting. Cells tightening. You tense, terrified they’ll see it.
The tech hands the vial off and wraps a bandage around your forearm. The vial disappears through the swinging door, something inside you feels untethered. Like a thread cut.
⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°
Three days later, the call comes in. You know before Natasha answers. Her voice is neutral. Too neutral.
“Yes. This is her.” A pause. Her posture shifts. “I’m sorry…what?”
Wanda looks up immediately.
“Inconclusive how?” The word lands cold. “You ran it twice?” Natasha asks. Your ears flatten. “It separated?” She repeats slowly.
Wanda whispers, “Separated into what?”
Natasha listens, jaw tightening.
“Standard canine markers,” she says. “And then unstable sequencing?” Your stomach drops.
“They’ve never seen structural fluctuation mid-analysis?” Natasha asks.
Fluctuation. The person on the other end speaks longer this time.
Natasha’s eyes flick to you.
You freeze, look away like you’ve done something wrong.
“They’re recommending we bring her back,” she says finally. “For a monitored redraw.”
Wanda’s hand stills in your fur.
“Why monitored?” she asks sharply.
“They want to observe the sample immediately post-draw.” The room feels smaller.
Wanda stands. “That sounds excessive.”
“They said the first sample…” Natasha hesitates. “Didn’t behave predictably.”
You feel sick.
⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°
The second visit feels different before you even step inside.
Two staff members are already waiting near the front desk when the door opens. They don’t smile the way they did last time. There’s no clipboard shuffling, no light “Hi there!” Instead, they exchange a look and gesture you forward immediately.
No waiting room.
No small talk.
You’re taken straight down the hallway, past the other exam rooms, to one at the very end. The air smells sharper back here. Stronger disinfectant. Less traffic. More isolation.
The exam room is different.
The table isn’t the standard padded one from before. It’s stainless steel, heavier, bolted to the floor. There are restraint hooks at each corner. Not subtle. Not accidental.
Wanda notices immediately.
Her hand stills on your back. “Why is that there?” she asks, her voice polite but already edged.
“For safety,” the vet replies calmly, stepping in behind you.
Natasha’s tone drops half a degree, cool and controlled. “From what?”
The vet offers a small, practiced smile. “We just want to ensure everyone is protected.”
Protected.
From you.
Your chest tightens, a slow constriction beneath your ribs. You haven’t done anything. You haven’t even pulled against the leash.
Wanda steps closer to your side, her thigh brushing your shoulder. “She didn’t need restraints last time.”
“It’s protocol,” the vet says.
“It wasn’t protocol three days ago,” Wanda snaps, and there it is, the shift. Not fear. Anger.
The technician moves toward the tray with the needle, her posture cautious, weight balanced like she expects you to lunge.
You haven’t moved at all. You’re sitting exactly where they placed you. Tail still. Ears neutral. Perfect posture. Perfect dog, but inside, something is unraveling.
Your heart is beating too fast. Your senses are too sharp. The metal table smells like old adrenaline and restraint straps. Something about it presses against fractured pieces of memory you don’t want to touch.
You hear it before you mean to, the faintest whisper drifting in from the cracked hallway door.
“…elevated cellular regeneration…”
“…not normal clotting…”
“…should we notify…?”
Natasha hears it too.
You see it in the way her shoulders square, the way her spine goes straight and unyielding. Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her sharpens. Cold. Calculating.
“No,” she says suddenly.
Everyone looks at her.
“We’re not doing this,” she continues evenly. “You didn’t mention anything about abnormal findings that warranted escalation. You said contamination. Now we’re walking into a room set up like she’s a liability.”
The vet lifts her hands slightly in a placating gesture. “We’re simply being cautious.”
“With my dog,” Wanda says, her voice trembling now, not with uncertainty, but with fury. “You’re being cautious with my dog.”
You feel it as clearly as a scent in the air.
The shift.
Wanda steps fully between you and the table, one hand resting firmly on your back. A barrier. A line drawn.
“You’re not restraining her.”
The room goes very quiet.
The technician hesitates, needle hovering uncertainly over the tray. The air feels charged, like the seconds before a storm breaks.
Natasha steps forward as well, calm but immovable. “If there’s a medical concern, you can explain it. Clearly. But you don’t get to treat her like a specimen.”
Specimen. The word detonates in your skull. Specimen. Metal table. Bright lights. Hands that did not comfort. Voices that did not soothe. The smell of your own blood and something chemical beneath it.
You had remembered something: a fractured piece of you, of a voice, reminding you of how cautious you needed to be. To never be caught. To them…you will just be a specimen…something to study and use.
The memory fractures before it completes, splintering into white noise and instinct. Your breathing quickens despite yourself.
Wanda turns instantly at the change in you. She cups your face in both hands, pressing her forehead gently to yours.
“Nope,” she says softly, decisively. “We’re done.” She looks back at the vet, eyes bright and unwavering. “We rescind consent. You are not taking her blood.”
The technician freezes.
The vet tries once more, carefully measured. “We really do recommend-”
“No,” Natasha says.
Final. Absolute.
There’s no arguing with it.
They lift you down from the table, not because you resisted, but because they refuse to let you stay there another second. You go willingly, stepping into Wanda’s space, pressing against her leg.
You would follow them anywhere. Even if it means never knowing what your blood would have revealed. Even if it means living forever in that fragile space between secret and safety.
As they walk you out, Wanda’s hand never leaves your fur. When you get to the car she sits in the back with you. Arms wrapped around you.
“You’re not a science project,” she murmurs fiercely into your coat.
You press closer.
You don’t know if you’re more wolf than human. You don’t know what your blood does under a microscope. You don’t know what would happen if someone pushed hard enough for answers.
I don't know how many Hockey player x Figure Skater ships I see on tiktok after Olympics. I cannot NOT draw them as WandaNat ✋🏻 so here's Captain Nat!
I don't know how many Hockey player x Figure Skater ships I see on tiktok after Olympics. I cannot NOT draw them as WandaNat ✋🏻 so here's Captain Nat!
Summary: Pietro had died protecting Reader, and Reader devoted herself to helping her girlfriend Wanda through grief. But what happens when Wanda blames the reader for her brother’s death?
Word Count: 7,310
Warning: Angst, Grief, Sad, Reader’s pronouns are she/her.
Main Masterlist
---
---
Sokovia was never kind to its children.
It chewed them up early, stripped them of innocence, and taught them lessons no one so young should ever have to learn. Hunger before hope. Fear before trust. Survival before love.
Y/N learned that first.
She escaped the orphanage years before the Maximoff twins ever did—ran when the walls felt too small, when the caretakers’ eyes turned cold, when staying meant disappearing piece by piece. The streets became her home. Brutal, unforgiving… but honest. If you survived a night, it was because you earned it.
She learned which dumpsters were emptied last. Which shopkeepers looked away if you were fast enough. Which corners belonged to gangs and which were neutral ground. She learned to sleep lightly, one hand always near something sharp.
So when she saw two terrified kids running—one pulling the other by the wrist, breath ragged, eyes wild—she knew exactly who they were before they ever spoke.
Runaways.
Wanda clutched Pietro’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. Pietro stood half a step in front of her, chin lifted in defiance he didn’t quite feel yet.
Y/N stopped them before they could make a fatal mistake.
Not with force. With knowledge.
“Don’t go that way,” she said calmly, stepping out of the shadows. “That street eats kids like you.”
They froze.
Pietro bristled. Wanda shrank.
But they listened.
That was how it started.
Y/N taught them how to survive. How to disappear when soldiers came through. How to steal bread without getting caught. How to laugh quietly so it didn’t attract attention. She split food evenly—even when it meant she went hungry.
Pietro became her shadow. Fast, loud, impossible not to notice. He joked when things got bad, teased her relentlessly, and called her boss even though they both knew he’d run into danger first if it meant protecting his sister.
Wanda was different.
Wanda watched.
She noticed the way Y/N flinched at sudden noises. The scars she never explained. The way her voice softened only at night, when the city slept and the world felt a little less cruel.
They talked in whispers. About dreams they didn’t quite believe in. About how Wanda wanted a life where she didn’t have to be afraid anymore. About how Y/N pretended she didn’t want one too.
Love crept in quietly.
It showed itself in small things—Wanda reaching for Y/N’s hand in the dark. Y/N standing between Wanda and danger without thinking. The way Wanda reacted to Y/N’s presence, calmer, warmer.
They didn’t name it at first.
They didn’t need to.
By the time they did, it already owned them.
---
When HYDRA came, it came with promises.
Power. Revenge. Purpose.
Wanda and Pietro were angry. Sokovia had taken everything from them. They wanted to fight back. They wanted to matter.
Y/N didn’t trust HYDRA—not for a second.
But she trusted them.
So when the twins told her they were going to volunteer, Y/N went with them without hesitation. If they were walking into hell, she’d walk beside them. If something went wrong, she would be there.
The experiments were agony.
Pain tore through her veins, rewrote her body, carved power into places she didn’t know existed. She screamed until her throat bled. She broke and rebuilt herself over and over again.
But she survived.
They all did.
Survival became their pattern.
Where Wanda and Pietro went, Y/N followed—not out of blind loyalty, but because the three of them had learned long ago that separation meant death. HYDRA fell, and something darker rose in its place. Ultron spoke of evolution, of cleansing the world, of making suffering mean something.
The twins followed him.
And so did Y/N.
She watched Wanda’s grief twist into fury, watched Pietro’s jaw set with reckless determination. She didn’t argue. Didn’t question. If they were going to burn the world down, she would stand in the fire with them—just like she always had.
But Ultron wasn’t what he promised.
The moment Y/N realized it, the moment she saw the devastation left in his wake, she turned to Wanda first. Always Wanda. She pleaded quietly, desperately, reminding her of the people they used to be. The kids who had shared stolen bread and whispered dreams under broken roofs.
When the twins turned against Ultron and joined the Avengers, Y/N turned with them without hesitation.
She had no allegiance to banners or symbols.
Only to them.
---
The battle in Sokovia was chaos incarnate.
Metal screamed. The city cracked apart. Civilians ran, terror etched into every face. Y/N fought hard—harder than she ever had—power tearing from her in violent waves as she carved a path through Ultron’s forces.
She didn’t see the shot coming.
Didn’t hear it over the noise.
One moment she was moving forward, and the next Pietro slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. The impact sent them both crashing to the ground.
Then came the sound she would never forget.
The wet, final thud of bullets finding flesh.
“Pietro—?” she breathed.
He was already falling.
Y/N caught him, hands slick with blood before she even understood why. His eyes found hers immediately, bright even as life drained from them.
“Guess… guess this time,” he gasped, forcing a crooked smile, “I was fast enough.”
“No,” Y/N sobbed. “No, you’re not allowed—don’t you dare—”
He shook his head weakly, fingers tightening around her wrist with what little strength he had left.
“She needs you,” he whispered. “You’ve always… always been her anchor.”
Tears blurred her vision. “So are you.”
He smiled softly, gaze drifting past her for just a moment—toward where Wanda stood frozen in horror.
“Protect her,” he said. “Promise me.”
Y/N broke.
“I promise,” she choked. “I swear it. I won’t ever let her be alone.”
Pietro exhaled once.
And never inhaled again.
Y/N screamed.
---
Y/N felt when Wanda’s power exploded.
She vanished in a wave of grief and power, chasing Ultron with a fury that scorched the air itself. Y/N felt it immediately—the imbalance, the terror, the way Wanda’s magic spiraled out of control.
The city began to fall.
Sokovia lifted into the sky, only to be torn apart piece by piece. Fire rained down. Buildings collapsed. The ground split open like a wound.
Y/N fought her way through the inferno, heart pounding, lungs burning, eyes locked on one thing only.
Wanda.
She found her too late—standing alone, knees buckling, grief finally crashing down as the city exploded around her. Flames surged, debris raining from above, heat so intense it stole the breath from Y/N’s lungs.
“Wanda!” she screamed.
Wanda didn’t move.
She didn’t even look up.
Y/N didn’t think.
She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Wanda as the explosion hit, power ripping free from her in a desperate shield. Fire engulfed them. Pain screamed through her nerves. The world went white-hot and deafening.
Y/N held on.
Always.
When the flames finally died and the smoke cleared, Y/N was on her knees, arms still locked around Wanda’s trembling form. Her body ached, burned, screamed—but Wanda was alive.
That was all that mattered.
Wanda stared at her, eyes empty, haunted.
Y/N didn’t speak.
She just pulled her closer, pressing Wanda’s head against her chest, letting her cry if she needed to—letting her rage, her grief, her devastation exist without judgment.
Because even as the world collapsed around them—
Y/N was still there.
Always had been.
Always would be.
---
After Sokovia
They joined the Avengers like ghosts.
No celebration. No sense of victory. Just the weight of what had been lost clinging to them like ash. The compound was too clean, too bright—nothing like the broken streets that had shaped them. Nothing like home.
Wanda barely spoke.
At first, Y/N thought the silence was just grief settling in. Pietro had been everything—brother, protector, constant. Losing him had ripped something vital out of Wanda’s chest, and Y/N understood that kind of pain all too well.
But then Wanda learned the truth.
She learned that Pietro hadn’t died randomly.
That he had moved toward danger.
That the bullets meant for Y/N had found him instead.
And something inside Wanda snapped.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She turned her back.
From that moment on, it was as if Y/N ceased to exist.
Wanda stopped looking at her, stopped acknowledging her presence entirely. If Y/N spoke, Wanda walked away. If Y/N entered a room, Wanda left it. There were no arguments, no accusations—just a cold, absolute absence that hurt far worse than anger ever could.
Y/N realized then that Wanda wasn’t just grieving.
She was blaming her.
Every smile Pietro would never smile again.
Every joke he’d never make.
Every future stolen.
All of it, in Wanda’s mind, traced back to Y/N.
And Y/N took it.
She didn’t stop caring.
If anything, she cared more.
Every morning, Y/N made sure Wanda ate—even when Wanda wouldn’t accept food from her directly. She left plates on the counter. Set mugs of tea beside Wanda’s usual seat. If they went untouched, Y/N quietly replaced them later with something fresh.
She memorized Wanda’s routines, the way she always had. The hours Wanda trained until exhaustion claimed her. The nights she stayed awake, staring out at nothing.
Y/N cleaned Wanda’s space without being asked. Fixed small things. Folded clothes Wanda never wore anymore. She did it silently, carefully, never invading—just making sure Wanda didn’t have to carry more weight than she already did.
Sometimes Y/N would catch Wanda flinching when she realized who had done these things.
That hurt too.
But Y/N never stopped.
Because she knew grief didn’t make sense. Because anger needed somewhere to land. And because if Wanda needed to hate her to survive this loss, then Y/N would let her.
She owed Pietro that much.
She owed Wanda everything.
---
At night, Y/N sat alone on her bed, staring at the wall that separated their rooms. Sometimes she imagined knocking—imagined Wanda opening the door, red eyes brimming with words she’d been holding back.
She never did.
Instead, Y/N whispered apologies into the dark.
“I’m still here,” she murmured once, knowing Wanda couldn’t hear her. “I’ll always be here.”
She replayed Pietro’s final smile over and over, the way he’d looked peaceful. The way he’d chosen this without hesitation.
He had saved her.
And now the woman she loved couldn’t even look at her.
Still, Y/N stayed.
She showed up to missions. Stood close enough to protect Wanda without ever crossing the invisible line Wanda had drawn. She took hits meant for her. Covered her blind spots. Watched her back like it was instinct—because it was.
Even when Wanda wouldn’t acknowledge it.
Because love wasn’t loud.
Because devotion didn’t need to be seen to be real.
Because grief was a storm, and Y/N was willing to stand in the rain as long as Wanda didn’t have to stand alone.
Even if, to Wanda—
Y/N no longer existed.
---
The First Explosion
It happened late.
The compound was quiet in that way that only came after midnight—hallways dim, lights low, the world holding its breath. Y/N moved softly through the kitchen, habits carved deep into muscle memory. She didn’t need to think as she prepared a simple meal: soup, warm bread, tea brewed exactly the way Wanda liked it.
Wanda hadn’t eaten properly in two days.
Y/N placed the tray down carefully outside Wanda’s room, just like she always did. She hesitated for half a second—heart thudding—before turning to leave.
“Stop.”
The word cracked through the silence like a whip.
Y/N froze.
Slowly, she turned.
Wanda stood in the doorway, eyes glowing faintly red, hair loose and wild, grief carved sharply into every line of her face. Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white.
Y/N swallowed. “I— I just wanted to—”
“Why?” Wanda snapped, stepping forward. “Why do you keep doing this?”
Y/N’s breath caught. “Because you need to eat.”
“I don’t need you,” Wanda hissed.
The words stung, but Y/N didn’t flinch. She set the tray down on the counter instead, giving Wanda space, just like she always did.
“I know you’re hurting,” Y/N said softly. “I’m not trying to—”
“You don’t get to talk about my pain,” Wanda cut in, voice shaking now. “You don’t get to stand there and pretend you understand.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. “Wanda… I lost him too.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Wanda laughed—sharp, broken, almost unhinged. “No,” she said. “You didn’t lose him. I did.”
Her magic flickered, lights trembling in the ceiling.
“He chose you,” Wanda went on, each word like a blade. “He saw you in danger, and he ran. He always ran. And now he’s dead because of it.”
Y/N’s heart pounded violently. “He saved my life,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I would’ve traded places with him in a heartbeat.”
Wanda’s eyes snapped to hers.
“You should have.”
Silence slammed down between them.
Y/N stopped breathing.
Wanda stepped closer, tears streaming freely now, rage and grief bleeding together until there was no separating them anymore.
“It should’ve been you,” Wanda said, voice cracking but relentless. “You should’ve been the one lying there. Not him. Not my brother.”
The words hit harder than any blow Y/N had ever taken.
Her knees nearly buckled.
For a moment, she thought she might actually collapse—but she forced herself to stay upright, even as something inside her shattered completely.
“I know,” Y/N whispered.
That made Wanda falter.
“I know,” Y/N repeated, tears finally spilling over. “I think about it every day. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I breathe.”
Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched like she was holding herself together by sheer will.
“If my life is the price for Pietro’s,” she continued quietly, “I would’ve paid it without hesitation.”
Wanda stared at her, horror and pain flickering across her face—but it was too late to take the words back.
Y/N wiped her tears quickly, as if embarrassed by them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t bother you anymore tonight.”
She turned to leave.
“Y/N—” Wanda said suddenly, something breaking through her anger.
But Y/N didn’t stop.
She walked away slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might cause her to fall apart completely. The hallway stretched endlessly ahead of her, vision blurred, chest aching so badly it felt like she’d been shot all over again.
Behind her, Wanda sank to the floor.
The tray lay forgotten between them, soup growing cold.
And for the first time since Sokovia—
Y/N wondered if loving Wanda was going to destroy her.
---
But nothing changed.
Not after the words.
Not after the silence that followed.
If anything, it solidified.
Wanda continued to move through the compound like a shadow—training until her hands shook, skipping meals, sleeping in short, restless bursts when exhaustion finally forced her down. She refused help. Refused concern. Refused life itself in quiet, dangerous ways.
And Y/N continued anyway.
She still woke early to prepare food, even knowing Wanda wouldn’t take it from her hand. She left it nearby, close enough to be noticed, far enough not to provoke another outburst. Some days, the plates came back untouched. Other days, the food disappeared sometime after midnight, and Y/N let herself breathe just a little easier.
She kept track of Wanda’s vitals during training, stepped in without being asked when Wanda pushed herself too far. She silently adjusted schedules, flagged injuries, covered for Wanda when she skipped briefings.
She did it all without thanks.
Without acknowledgment.
Without being seen.
Because survival mattered more than pride.
Because love didn’t stop just because it hurt.
And still, Wanda never spoke to her.
Not even by accident.
She talked to Steve. To Natasha. To Bruce. Short answers, clipped words—but at least they existed. With Y/N, there was nothing. No eye contact. No recognition. As if Y/N were a ghost haunting the compound halls.
Sometimes Y/N wondered if that hurt more than the explosion.
At least anger meant Wanda felt something.
This was worse.
This was absence.
Still, Y/N stayed close. Always just within reach. Always watching.
Because Pietro had trusted her with Wanda’s life.
And Y/N would rather bleed quietly than fail him.
---
Then, one evening.
Y/N was passing through the common area when she heard Wanda’s voice.
Not sharp.
Not empty.
Soft.
She stopped without meaning to.
Wanda stood near the windows, city lights reflected faintly in the glass. Vision was beside her, posture careful, respectful. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t demanding. He was simply… there.
Talking.
And Wanda was listening.
More than that—she was responding.
Not much. Just a few words. A nod. A quiet sound of acknowledgment. But it was more than Y/N had received in weeks.
Something twisted painfully in Y/N’s chest.
Jealousy rose sharp and sudden, ugly in its honesty.
That was my place.
She had been the one to sit with Wanda in silence. The one to learn when to speak and when not to. The one to bring food, warmth, safety, comfort.
And now Vision stood there instead.
Y/N’s hands clenched at her sides.
She hated herself for it.
Because Wanda was finally talking to someone.
Because Wanda was finally letting someone in.
And Y/N loved her too much to take that away.
So she swallowed the jealousy down until it burned. Forced her expression neutral. Turned away before either of them noticed her standing there.
She told herself it didn’t matter.
That it wasn’t about her.
That Wanda healing—even with someone else—was still better than Wanda fading away.
Still…
That night, Y/N lay awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, Vision’s calm voice replaying in her mind. The image of Wanda looking almost… present again burned behind her eyes.
She pressed her forearm over her face, breathing through the ache.
It’s okay, she told herself. If this helps her survive.
Even if it meant losing the last piece of Wanda that still felt like hers.
And after that day Y/N saw Vision more often.
At first, it was just conversations Y/N happened to overhear—Vision’s calm, measured voice carrying softly through the compound, Wanda’s responses hesitant but real. He asked questions that didn’t demand answers. He listened without flinching. He didn’t look at her like she was broken or dangerous or fragile.
He looked at her like she was still here.
Y/N noticed everything.
She noticed how Wanda no longer trained alone every evening. How Vision often stood nearby, not interfering, simply observing—occasionally offering a quiet suggestion that Wanda surprisingly accepted. She noticed Wanda’s posture shift when he was around, shoulders relaxing just a fraction, magic less volatile at her fingertips.
Small changes. Easy to miss.
Impossible not to see if you loved her.
---
There were good improvements, like one night, Y/N placed a bowl of food on the counter as usual. Soup, still steaming. She stepped back, pretending to busy herself with something else, watching from the corner of her eye.
Wanda entered the kitchen.
So did Vision.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
Vision spoke softly, too low for Y/N to hear the words. Wanda hesitated, staring at the bowl like it might vanish if she looked away. Then—slowly—she sat down.
And ate.
Not much. Just a few spoonfuls. But she ate.
Y/N’s chest tightened painfully.
Relief and jealousy tangled together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
She should’ve been happy.
She was happy.
And it still hurt like hell.
---
But not everything was good.
Sometimes Y/N would pass the common room late, only to see Wanda and Vision sitting across from one another. Not touching. Just existing in the same space. Wanda would be holding a mug—one Y/N recognized immediately, chipped slightly on the rim. The one she always made sure was clean.
Vision listened as Wanda spoke in fragments—about Sokovia, about loss, about feeling hollow. Things she had once whispered only to Y/N in the dark.
Y/N never stayed long enough to hear more.
She didn’t want to know what parts of Wanda were being shared now.
She didn’t want to measure what had once been hers.
On missions, Vision positioned himself beside Wanda with quiet consistency. He calculated probabilities, shielded her when he could, adapted his movements to hers.
Y/N noticed Wanda letting him.
Trust, given slowly.
Y/N stayed close too—always watching, always ready—but Wanda no longer looked to her first. When things went wrong, Wanda’s gaze flicked instinctively to Vision now.
Each time it happened, something inside Y/N fractured a little more.
She told herself this was good.
That Wanda needed stability.
That Vision didn’t carry the weight of Pietro’s last breath.
Y/N did.
---
And the moment that broke her came unexpectedly.
Y/N walked into the training room just as Wanda laughed.
Actually laughed.
It was quiet. Brief. Almost shy.
Vision had said something—something gentle, something sincere—and Wanda’s lips curved upward before she could stop herself.
Y/N froze.
That smile had once been hers.
She remembered earning it on cold nights in Sokovia, remembered how rare it was, how Wanda only gave it when she felt safe.
Now Vision stood there, watching it like a gift.
Y/N turned away before either of them could see her face.
She walked until the air burned her lungs, until the ache in her chest became unbearable. She pressed her hand flat against the wall, grounding herself, breathing through the pain.
This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. Her healing.
Even if it meant being left behind.
But Y/N didn’t stop caring.
She still made food. Still checked injuries. Still stepped in when Wanda pushed herself too hard. Still took the dangerous positions on missions.
She just did it quieter now.
From further away.
Watching Wanda slowly come back to life—
while she herself faded into the background.
Because loving Wanda had never been about being chosen.
It had always been about staying.
Even when it hurt.
Even when she was no longer the one Wanda reached for.
---
A few months later since Y/N first saw Wanda and Vision interacting.
There was a mission.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Contain. Extract. Get out.
Y/N had run the probabilities in her head a dozen times before they even touched ground. Old instincts from Sokovia, sharpened by years of fighting. She positioned herself where she always did—close enough to Wanda to intercept anything that came her way.
Always.
The ambush came anyway.
Explosions rocked the structure, metal screaming as the floor buckled. Enemy fire lit the air in violent streaks. Y/N felt the shift immediately—the wrong angle, the wrong timing.
“Wanda!” she shouted, already moving.
Debris rained down. A section of the ceiling collapsed, splitting the team. Smoke filled the air, choking and thick.
Y/N reached for Wanda instinctively, hand outstretched, power flaring to pull her clear—
And Wanda didn’t take it.
For a fraction of a second, Y/N didn’t understand what she was seeing.
Wanda’s eyes flicked past her.
To Vision.
Vision was already there, phasing through falling rubble, calculations running faster than human thought. He extended his hand, calm and certain.
Wanda turned toward him.
She let Vision pull her to safety.
The moment lasted less than a heartbeat.
It felt like an eternity.
Y/N stopped short, her hand closing on empty air as the ground between them split apart. The shock hit her harder than the explosion. She barely had time to react before a blast threw her sideways, slamming her into concrete.
Pain flared white-hot.
“Y/N!” someone shouted—Nat, maybe—but the sound came from far away.
Y/N forced herself up, teeth clenched, ignoring the blood running down her temple. Her vision swam as she pushed back into the fight, body moving on instinct alone.
Across the battlefield, she saw Wanda.
Alive. Unhurt.
Standing beside Vision.
Relief flooded her first—strong enough to make her knees weak.
Then came the rest of it.
Wanda didn’t look back.
---
The mission ended successfully. It always did.
Back at the Quinjet, Y/N sat apart from the others, elbows braced on her knees, fingers laced tightly together. Her body ached, but she barely felt it.
Wanda stood across the cabin with Vision, listening as he quietly explained something—damage reports, tactical adjustments. She nodded, focused, engaged.
Y/N watched the way Wanda leaned in just slightly. How her shoulders angled toward him. How she didn’t once glance in Y/N’s direction.
The choice replayed in her mind, over and over.
Not because it had been wrong.
Because it had been clear.
Vision was safe.
Vision didn’t carry blood and guilt and loss.
Vision hadn’t been the reason Pietro ran toward bullets.
Y/N closed her eyes briefly, swallowing hard.
She had always been Wanda’s shield.
Now someone else was.
---
Later That Night
Y/N stood alone in the training room, staring at her reflection in the mirrored wall. A bruise bloomed dark along her jaw. Her hands trembled faintly—not from pain, but from exhaustion.
She pressed her palms flat against the glass.
“I get it,” she whispered to no one.
She really did.
Wanda choosing Vision wasn’t a rejection born of hate. It was survival. Vision didn’t remind her of death every time she looked at him.
Y/N did.
Still… understanding didn’t make it hurt less.
She straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Tomorrow, she would still make food. Still watch Wanda’s back. Still stay close enough to protect her if needed.
But something fundamental had shifted.
For the first time since Sokovia, Y/N realized—
She was no longer the one Wanda trusted in the moments that mattered most.
And that knowledge settled heavy in her chest, quiet and irreversible.
But Y/N needed to check. To check if they were really over.
So, she waits until it’s quiet. She always does.
The compound has settled into its late-night hush, lights dimmed, footsteps rare. Wanda is in the common area alone, standing by the window, arms folded tightly around herself like she’s holding something in place.
Y/N hesitates at the doorway.
This isn’t impulsive. She’s thought about this for days. Rehearsed the words in her head, stripped them down until there’s nothing accusatory left. Nothing that asks for more than Wanda can give.
She steps in slowly, deliberately making her presence known.
“Wanda,” she says softly.
Wanda stiffens but doesn’t turn.
Y/N swallows. “I just— I wanted to check on you.”
Silence.
“I’m not here to argue,” Y/N adds quickly. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… I miss you.”
That does it.
Wanda turns on her so fast Y/N barely has time to brace herself.
“Miss me?” Wanda snaps, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to say that.”
Y/N’s heart drops, but she holds her ground. “I know you’re hurting. I know I’m part of that. But I can’t keep pretending you don’t exist, and I can’t keep letting you hurt yourself without—”
“Without what?” Wanda cuts in sharply. “Playing the hero again? Deciding what’s best for me?”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Y/N says, voice shaking now despite her effort. “I just want to help. I want to be here for you. I love you.”
Wanda laughs—short, bitter, empty.
“Love?” she repeats. “You think this is love?”
Her magic crackles faintly, red light flickering like a warning.
“Pietro loved me,” Wanda says, stepping closer. “And he died for it. He died because he was too busy saving you.”
Y/N flinches, like she’s been struck.
“I never asked him to,” she whispers. “I would’ve died for him. For you. You know that.”
“That’s the problem,” Wanda spits. “You’re always so willing to die. You’re always standing in front of bullets, acting like it makes you noble. And it’s so annoying!”
Her voice rises, sharp and cutting.
“I didn’t choose you on that mission,” Wanda says coldly. “Did you notice? I chose Vision. Because he doesn’t make me feel like everything I touch ends up dead.”
The words land hard.
Y/N’s chest tightens painfully. “So that’s what this is?” she asks quietly. “I remind you too much of him?”
“You remind me of everything,” Wanda snaps. “Of Sokovia. Of the streets. Of the moment I watched my brother die in someone else’s arms.”
She gestures violently between them.
“I can’t even look at you without seeing him bleeding.”
Her voice cracks—but she keeps going, because stopping would mean falling apart.
“So stop pretending you’re helping,” Wanda says cruelly. “Stop hovering. Stop acting like you’re still my girlfriend when I can barely stand to be in the same room as you.”
Each word is a knife.
Y/N feels herself breaking, but she doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t defend herself. She just nods slowly, like she’s accepting a verdict she’s known was coming.
“I never meant to replace him,” Y/N says hoarsely. “I never meant to survive when he didn’t.”
Wanda scoffs. “And yet you did.”
That one finally does it.
Y/N’s eyes fill, but she blinks the tears back, jaw tightening as she forces herself to breathe.
“I’m sorry for loving you,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry for staying when you didn’t want me to. I just… I thought if I tried hard enough, you’d remember I’m not your enemy.”
Wanda looks away, chest heaving.
“I need you to leave me alone,” she says. “Please. Just— stop.”
The word please is the cruelest part.
Y/N nods once.
“Okay,” she whispers.
She turns and walks away, footsteps steady even as her heart splinters apart in her chest. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t trust herself to.
Behind her, Wanda sinks down against the window, hands shaking violently.
Because the truth—the one she can’t say out loud—is worse than anything she threw at Y/N:
That she’s terrified if she lets Y/N stay…
she’ll lose her too.
---
Y/N doesn’t cry right away.
She walks back to her room on autopilot, closes the door gently behind her, and leans her forehead against the cool metal. Her hands are shaking—not violently, just enough to betray how close she is to falling apart.
Stop hovering. Stop acting like you’re still my girlfriend.
The words echo, relentless.
She slides down until she’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. Only then does the ache finally crack open, spreading through her ribs like something alive.
She loves Wanda.
That hasn’t changed. It won’t. Not after Sokovia, not after HYDRA, not after Pietro, not even after this. Love like that doesn’t disappear—it just learns how to hurt quietly.
Y/N presses her palm flat over her sternum, breathing through the tightness.
You’re always so willing to die.
Wanda’s voice overlaps with another memory—one older, sharper.
It should’ve been you.
Y/N closes her eyes.
“I know,” she whispers again, just like she did that night.
---
Y/N doesn’t sleep.
Instead, she stares at the ceiling as Wanda’s words replay over and over, each one cutting deeper not because they’re cruel—but because they’re honest.
You keep acting like a hero.
Y/N exhales slowly.
Maybe Wanda is right.
Maybe that’s all Y/N knows how to be.
She turns onto her side, eyes landing on the small, worn photo she keeps tucked in the drawer beside her bed. Sokovia. The three of them. Pietro grinning like the world never scared him. Wanda leaning into Y/N’s shoulder, eyes soft.
Family.
Her throat tightens.
“I wish I could bring him back?” she murmurs into the dark.
The thought comes quietly. Almost treacherous.
What if there is actually a way?
And for the rest of the night, Y/N think about that.
By morning, Y/N throws herself into research with the same intensity she once brought to battle. Old HYDRA files. Redacted S.H.I.E.L.D. archives. Ancient texts on energy manipulation, resurrection myths, probability anomalies.
She reads about time fractures. About soul anchors. About miracles disguised as disasters.
About things the Avengers don’t talk about.
She avoids Wanda completely—not out of anger, but respect. Wanda asked for distance, and Y/N will give it to her. She still makes sure food appears. Still flags concerns discreetly. Still watches from afar.
But now there’s something burning beneath the devotion.
Purpose.
---
Late One Night
Y/N sits alone in the archives, eyes bloodshot, fingers hovering over a half-corrupted file. It mentions something—an unexplained energy surge, a phenomenon no one could replicate.
Her pulse quickens.
“There has to be a way,” she whispers.
Not because she wants redemption.
But because she loves Wanda enough to believe that her pain doesn’t have to be permanent.
If bringing Pietro back means risking herself—
means crossing lines she shouldn’t—
means becoming the hero Wanda accused her of being—
Then so be it.
Y/N straightens slowly, resolve settling deep in her bones.
“I won’t let you lose him forever,” she says softly, as if Wanda can hear her. “Even if you never forgive me.”
Because this time, she won’t be standing in front of a bullet.
She’ll be standing in front of the impossible.
As Y/N continue to research, she learned about sorcerers and witches.
Not the half-truths buried in HYDRA files or the sanitized explanations S.H.I.E.L.D. preferred—but the old knowledge. The kind that didn’t pretend the universe was kind or fair. The kind that acknowledged death as a boundary… and still whispered about ways to reach across it.
Her first stop was Kamar-Taj.
---
Kamar-Taj
The place was nothing like she expected.
No cold laboratories. No humming machines. Just ancient stone, incense in the air, and people who moved like they belonged to a different rhythm of the world entirely. Y/N felt it immediately—the way reality itself seemed thinner there, like it could be folded if one knew how.
They knew why she had come before she ever spoke it.
The sorcerer who met her—calm, eyes sharp with centuries of restraint—listened without interruption as Y/N explained. She didn’t dramatize it. She didn’t beg. She simply laid the truth bare.
Pietro Maximoff is dead.
My partner is breaking.
There has to be a way.
The answer came gently.
“No,” the sorcerer said.
Y/N’s jaw tightened. “You don’t even know what I’m asking yet.”
“I know exactly what you’re asking,” he replied. “And it is not permitted.”
He explained patiently, thoroughly, as if speaking to someone who deserved understanding—not judgment.
Death was not a door to be reopened. It was a fixed point, a necessary constant. To pull someone back was to unbalance the scales, to invite consequences that rippled outward in ways no one could predict.
“You think you would be saving one life,” he said quietly. “But you would be endangering many.”
Y/N listened. Truly listened.
She asked questions. Hard ones. About time. About souls. About sacrifice. About whether the universe cared about fairness at all.
And when she finally asked, “Could it be done?” the sorcerer didn’t lie to her.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But it should not be.”
That was all she needed.
She bowed respectfully when she left. Thanked them for their honesty.
And walked away knowing she would not stop.
---
Witches
Witches were different.
There were no temples. No signs. No easy paths.
They didn’t want to be found.
Y/N learned quickly that witches existed in whispers and warnings. In villages where people avoided certain forests. In old women who watched her too closely. In symbols scratched into doorframes that made her skin prickle when she passed.
She followed rumors across continents.
A healer who could speak to the dead—but only in dreams.
A coven that disappeared after challenging death itself.
A woman in the mountains who bent probability like it was thread.
Most leads were dead ends.
Some were traps.
Once, she found a circle of bones and candles in the ruins of a burned house, magic so old it still clung to the air. Another time, she tracked a coven for weeks only to realize they had sensed her approach and vanished entirely.
Still, she kept going.
Sleep became optional. Food an afterthought. Her world narrowed until there was only the search and the memory of Pietro’s smile—and Wanda’s broken eyes.
Each failure hardened her resolve rather than weakening it.
If sorcerers said no because of rules, then witches—who lived outside those rules—would know something else. Something forbidden. Something dangerous.
And Y/N was no stranger to danger.
Late one night, alone in a rented room that smelled of dust and old wood, Y/N stared at a wall covered in notes, maps, symbols, and half-translated texts.
“This isn’t about being a hero,” she murmured to herself.
It was about love.
About refusing to accept that grief was the only ending left.
She pressed her fingers against a symbol she didn’t fully understand yet—one associated with rebirth myths and blood cost.
“I’ll find you,” she whispered—to the witches, to the knowledge, to the impossible answer itself.
No matter how far she had to go.
No matter what it took.
Because if there was even the smallest chance—
Y/N would take it.
---
Wanda’s POV
While Y/N was gone Wanda noticed.
She told herself she didn’t.
At first, it was small—Y/N stepping out for a few hours, returning late, moving through the compound with the same careful quiet she always had. No explanations offered. No goodbyes given. Wanda pretended not to see it.
It’s for the best, she told herself.
Y/N had finally stopped hovering. Stopped watching her like she might shatter. Wanda should have felt relieved.
She almost did.
But soon hours became a day.
Y/N would be gone when Wanda woke up, and still gone when night settled in. No note. No message. Just an absence that sat oddly in Wanda’s chest.
Wanda ignored that too.
People left all the time. Missions. Personal business. The Avengers weren’t a family—they were a team. She reminded herself of that when the quiet felt too loud.
This is what you asked for.
But by the time it stretched to three days, denial started to crack.
Wanda found herself noticing things she hadn’t meant to. The way food no longer appeared near her room. The way no one silently adjusted her training schedule when she pushed too hard. The way missions felt… wrong. Exposed.
Unprotected.
She brushed it off angrily.
You don’t need her.
She had Vision now. A friend to rely on. She had structure. She had control.
But control slipped in strange ways.
Her magic flared more often. Sleep came harder. Nightmares came easier. She woke up once with her heart racing, Pietro’s name on her lips—and for a brief, disorienting moment, she expected Y/N to be there, grounding her, steady hands and a familiar voice pulling her back.
The space beside her was empty.
Wanda turned away sharply, jaw tight.
Good.
---
On the third night that Y/N didn’t come back, Wanda lingered in the common area longer than necessary.
Vision noticed, of course. He always did.
“You seem unsettled,” he said gently.
“I’m fine,” Wanda replied too quickly.
She stared out the window, city lights blurring together. Somewhere out there, Y/N was doing something—something Wanda didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to imagine.
She’s gone because you told her to be.
The thought came unbidden.
Wanda pushed it down hard.
It’s better this way.
Because if Y/N stayed, Wanda would keep hurting her. Because if she let Y/N close again, the fear would return—the terror of watching the person she loved die because of her.
Still…
When Wanda finally went to her room that night, she stood in the doorway longer than usual, listening to the silence.
No footsteps in the hall.
No familiar presence nearby.
No quiet assurance that someone was watching over her.
Wanda lay down and stared at the ceiling, red energy flickering faintly at her fingertips.
“I told you to leave me alone…” she whispered into the dark.
And for the first time since Sokovia—
she wasn’t sure if she had meant forever.
---
Y/N’s POV
It took Y/N a long time to find witches.
Not because they didn’t exist—but because they didn’t want to be found.
The ones she did find were nothing like the stories. No dramatic circles of fire, no theatrical warnings. Just women and men who carried old magic.
She told them the truth.
Every time.
About Pietro. About Wanda. About grief that refused to soften. About love that didn’t know how to stop.
The answers were always the same.
Some were gentle.
“You shouldn’t,” one witch said softly, offering Y/N tea she never touched. “Death leaves wounds for a reason.”
Another sighed, tired and sad. “If you pull on that thread, it will unravel more than you can see.”
A few were kinder still. They didn’t condemn her. They saw the ache in her eyes and pointed her onward.
“There is someone who would know,” one murmured, tracing a symbol Y/N had never seen before. “But knowing is not the same as being allowed.”
Every path circled back to the same truth.
It is not allowed.
Not by nature.
Not by magic.
Not by whatever balance held the universe together.
And yet—every time someone said it, Y/N noticed something important.
No one said it was impossible.
---
Y/N followed the last lead reluctantly.
There were no maps for this one. No coordinates. Just a feeling—a pull that led her to a place where the world felt thin and quiet, like it was holding its breath.
An abandoned stretch of land, gray and still. No wind. No birds. No sound at all.
Y/N stepped forward carefully.
“Hello?” she called, voice sounding wrong in the emptiness.
Someone laughed.
Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Just… knowingly.
“You’ve been very persistent.”
Y/N turned.
The woman stood a few steps away, as if she’d always been there. Dark hair, calm eyes, a presence that pressed against Y/N’s senses in a way no magic ever had. Not power—inevitability.
“Who are you?” Y/N asked, heart pounding.
The woman smiled faintly.
“Some call me many things,” she said. “But you may call me Rio.”
Y/N’s skin prickled. Every instinct screamed at once.
“You’re a witch,” Y/N said slowly.
Rio tilted her head. “I represent witches. Sorcerers. Humans. Gods.”
She stepped closer. “I represent what comes for all of you.”
Understanding crashed into Y/N like cold water.
“…Death,” Y/N whispered.
Rio’s smile didn’t change. “Yes.”
Y/N didn’t run.
She should have—but she didn’t. She squared her shoulders instead, hands trembling only slightly.
“I’m not here to cheat you,” Y/N said. “I’m not asking to escape you.”
Rio studied her with unsettling intensity.
“No,” she agreed. “You’re here to challenge me.”
Y/N swallowed. “I want to bring someone back.”
Rio laughed softly, the sound echoing in a way that didn’t belong to the world.
“They all do.”
“Pietro Maximoff,” Y/N said. “He died saving me.”
Rio’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but recognition.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “Yes. The fast one.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You already know what everyone else told me,” Y/N continued. “That it’s not allowed. That it breaks the rules. I’ve heard it.”
“Then why are you here?” Rio asked.
Y/N’s voice broke for the first time since this journey began.
“Because the woman I love is dying slowly,” she whispered. “And I can’t stand by and watch it happen.”
Rio regarded her for a long moment.
Then she said something no one else had.
“Death is not cruel,” Rio said. “But it is precise.”
She stepped closer, until Y/N could feel the cold certainty radiating from her.
“You may not take what belongs to me,” Rio continued. “But there are… exceptions.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“Exceptions?” she repeated.
Rio smiled—not kindly this time.
“Every resurrection has a cost,” she said. “And the universe always collects.”
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
“Name it.”
Rio’s eyes flicked—not to Y/N’s body, but somewhere deeper.
“Careful,” Death murmured. “You might already be paying it.”
The air shifted.
And for the first time since this began, Y/N realized—
You walked away from the empire you helped build, burned by power, broken by the man who used you, and determined to never be vulnerable again. Now you're applying for a quiet, forgettable job beneath a woman who doesn’t forget anyone.
Wanda Maximoff isn’t supposed to interview junior hires. She’s not supposed to care. But the moment she sees you, brilliant, guarded, dangerous in your silence, she can’t look away.
4523 Words
Written January 1-6th 2024
-----------------------------------
The elevator hummed like a held breath.
Fifty floors above Manhattan, the air tasted different. Polished, cold. Even before the doors opened, you could feel the gravity shift, pressure, presence, prestige. The kind of atmosphere built not by glass and steel, but by power. Unspoken, unyielding.
You smoothed your coat down your arms as you stepped out.
Reception was minimal, brutalist. Slate gray floors, soft recessed lighting, and one long pane of smoked glass stretched behind a carved obsidian desk. The receptionist, barely twenty three, perfectly symmetrical, blank eyed, looked up, blinked once, and smiled like she’d been programmed for it.
“Name?”
Your voice was calm, low.
“Y/n Y/l/n”
There was a flicker. Recognition. But she masked it quickly, typing something into her touchscreen before nodding toward the double doors ahead.
“She’s expecting you.”
No one asked for ID. No one offered coffee. It wasn’t that kind of place.
You walked, slow and measured, toward the office of Wanda Maximoff.
The corridors were silent.
Not empty, just hushed. Reverent. You could hear your own footsteps on the marble. Hear the faint tick of a mechanical clock embedded in the wall. The tension of this building wasn’t carved from chaos. It was colder than that. It was control. Perfect, surgical control.
And it should have unnerved you.
But it didn’t.
Not after what you’d walked away from.
The last time you’d been in an office like this, you’d been someone else, top of your class, youngest ever executive hire at a billion dollar conglomerate, media darling with a face for boardrooms and a mind that could take apart company structure like a machine. Then came him. The deal, the scandal, the betrayal.
Now?
Now, you were applying for a mid-tier project management role beneath someone who didn’t even usually conduct interviews.
But she was.
For you.
You paused at the door, black wood, untouched by fingerprints. You inhaled once, then lifted your hand and knocked.
There was a pause. Then… “Come in.”
Her voice was velvet over a blade.
You stepped inside. And there she was.
Wanda Maximoff sat behind a curved desk of black marble, high-backed in a leather chair that swallowed her frame but couldn’t dull the precision in her posture. Her head was bowed slightly, reading something in her hands, papers, not a screen. Her hair was loose today, auburn waves cascading over her shoulders, catching the light like dark wine.
She didn’t look up.
You stepped further in, and the door clicked shut behind you. Soft, final.
Still, she didn’t look up.
So you stood there. Poised. Still. Letting the silence stretch just long enough to make a lesser woman uncomfortable.
Eventually, she spoke.
“You’re early.”
Her voice was sharper now. Cool, unreadable.
“So are you,” you said softly.
That made her glance up.
And the air shifted.
For a second, it was nothing, just a glance. But then her eyes stilled on your face, and the moment stretched, pulled tight, caught on something invisible.
She was looking at you, not at your clothes or the paper in your hand, but you. Eyes like garnet glass swept over your features, sharp and still. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was analytical. Dissecting. Like you were a puzzle she didn’t remember buying, but now couldn’t stop trying to solve.
You let the corner of your mouth twitch upward.
Wanda blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, set the papers down.
“I expected someone older.”
You stepped forward, unhurried. “You’re not the first.”
She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. You sat without being told.
Her fingers tapped once against the marble. Then stilled. She studied you, her chin resting lightly on one hand, elbow bent, fingers brushing the edge of her bottom lip. A motion that felt absent-minded, but wasn’t. Nothing about her was.
“I’ve read your file.”
“I’m sure.”
“Impressive, overqualified, highly competent. Left your last role under… delicate circumstances.”
“I prefer the term ‘necessary.’”
Her mouth twitched, an almost smile.
The silence fell again. But this time, it felt heavier. Charged.
Wanda tilted her head, just a fraction, eyes narrowing as she took you in again. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t look away, until you chose to.
And when you did, you felt her watching the side of your face like a brand.
“I don’t usually conduct interviews myself,” she said.
You turned back. “I know.”
She raised one brow. “So you expected someone else?”
“I didn’t expect to be called in at all.”
She smirked, barely. “Then why apply?”
You let the pause hang. Let her feel the weight of it.
And then, “Because I wanted to be seen.”
Wanda didn’t answer. But her gaze darkened slightly.
“I had the impression,” she said slowly, “that you were trying not to be seen.”
Another flick of tension. Another hairline crack.
You leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting toward the skyline behind her.
“It’s hard to disappear when you’re already a headline.”
Wanda’s lips parted like she might say something. Then she didn’t.
Instead, she shifted. Crossed one leg over the other beneath the desk. Her heels made no sound on the floor, but you felt the movement anyway. Like the room had adjusted its center of gravity.
“People talk,” she murmured.
You looked back at her. “They do.”
“I heard you turned down three interviews in the last six months.”
“I did.”
“But not this one.”
Your lips curled slightly. “I suppose I wanted to see if the rumors about you were true.”
That did it.
Her fingers stopped at her lip. Her gaze sharpened, no longer casual. No longer neutral.
Wanda leaned forward, just enough.
“And what have you concluded?”
Your voice was barely above a whisper. “That I don’t think I’m the only one in this room who’s running from something.”
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then, slowly, Wanda smiled.
It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t warm.
It was interested.
She stood.
You remained seated.
Wanda stepped around the desk, heels soundless, red slacks cut like liquid along her hips, a silk blouse cinched by a gold chain at her throat. She didn’t come close. Not quite. Just far enough for your lungs to catch the scent of whatever perfume she wore, clean, dark, with some hint of vanillia and rose.
She perched lightly on the edge of her desk. Her arms crossed, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She studied you like a chessboard.
“I don’t need someone like you,” she said finally.
You tilted your head. “No?”
“I need someone loyal. Quiet. Predictable. Not someone with a scandal and a PR trail.”
Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. “Then why didn’t you end this already?”
Silence.
Then, in a voice low and deliberate:
“I don’t usually make decisions based on curiosity.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Then make an exception.”
Wanda’s eyes flared, just barely. Like a match caught too fast.
And for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. It wasn’t attraction in the way most people understand it. It was something older, darker, more elemental.
Recognition.
She saw it. You felt it.
And neither of you looked away.
The silence stretched.
Wanda rose, slow and deliberate, returning to her desk like nothing had happened. Like the room hadn’t tilted in the last five minutes. Like she wasn’t breathing slightly deeper now, and you hadn’t seen the faint twitch of her fingers as she passed by.
She sat.
Lifted the manila folder in front of her like she hadn’t read it a hundred times already.
You watched her do it. The performance of it.
As if your entire digital footprint wasn’t already mapped, dissected, and memorized. As if she hadn’t hovered over your headshot, that neatly cropped photo from your last year in the industry, dark eyes, pressed lips, an expression that said come closer if you dare.
She opened it with a practiced flick.
“Let’s begin,” she said, like the last ten minutes had been a weather report instead of a storm.
You smiled. But said nothing.
She flipped a page. Made a sound that could have been interest, or disdain.
“You graduated summa cum laude. Ivy League. Fast-tracked your MBA while launching your first startup out of a shared office in SoHo.”
“Correct.”
“You sold it for double the valuation and walked into a director level position at Argent Corp before you were thirty.”
“Also correct.”
“Three promotions in under two years.”
You nodded once.
She looked up. “Why the step down now?”
There it was. The easy pitch.
You folded your hands in your lap, legs crossed. “I told you. Peace.”
“Peace is for the dead,” she said coolly, flipping another page. “You built empires. Now you want to coordinate spreadsheets and wrangle interns?”
Your smile didn’t move.
“I don’t expect you to believe me. You’re not the trusting type.”
That slowed her.
Wanda’s eyes flicked up again, sharp as a knife dragged across glass.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
The moment hung between you like wire pulled taut.
“I’m not looking for pity work,” you said after a beat. “And I’m not running from ambition. Just the kind that eats people alive.”
“Interesting,” Wanda murmured, tapping the folder once with a polished nail. “Is that how you’d describe your former employer?”
And there it was.
Your mouth didn’t twitch. Your eyes didn’t move.
But the temperature in the room dropped by a degree.
Wanda noticed. She watched you like a scientist watches a cage: for the first twitch of the animal before the lunge.
You gave her nothing.
She leaned forward. “I noticed you didn’t include a letter of reference.”
You nodded once. “Correct.”
“Or an explanation for why you left.”
“I wasn’t asked.”
Her fingers toyed with the edge of a page, turning it slowly, as though she wasn’t already working from memory.
“You do understand,” she said, “what people assume.”
“I do.”
“And you’re comfortable with those assumptions.”
“No,” you said simply. “But I’m not obligated to correct them.”
That made her pause.
She tilted her head slightly, and again, those fingers grazed the corner of her mouth. Like she was trying to stop herself from smiling. Or biting back something sharper.
“I like honesty,” she said, voice deceptively soft.
You met her gaze. “Do you?”
Wanda let the silence return, curling around the space like smoke.
When she spoke again, her voice was low. Careful.
“You were in a relationship with Michael Levan of AsteraTech for two years. He was your boss. Your lover. Then came the merger scandal. Insider leaks. PR damage control. You disappeared from the press for seven months.”
Each word was precise. Controlled. Lethal.
You sat perfectly still.
She was watching for a flinch. A tremble. Anything.
But your voice was like stone in silk.
“Yes,” you said. “And none of that is illegal. Or new.”
Wanda’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m not interested in legality.”
“No,” you said, “you’re interested in liability.”
She said nothing.
You leaned forward slightly, voice calm.
“Would you like the real story? Or the version you can deny hearing later?”
Wanda’s pupils dilated, just a flicker. But enough.
“I’ll decide after I hear it.”
You smiled, not sweetly. “He made promises. Took credit. Kept me close while I fed him strategy and solved the problems he couldn’t. And then, when the scandal broke, he bled me out to keep himself clean.”
“And you let him?”
“I survived him.”
Her lips parted slightly. That smile again. That dangerous, interested tilt of her head.
“You don’t strike me as the victim type.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
You looked her straight in the eye.
“Rebuilding.”
Silence again. Heavy, like velvet soaked in rain.
Wanda shifted her position, just slightly. Her crossed legs uncrossed. Her shoulders straightened. She was recalibrating.
And it was the most beautiful thing you’d seen all day.
Because beneath all her elegance, all her surgical self-control, Wanda Maximoff was not just a CEO. She was predatory. Brilliant. Dangerous.
And now, she knew that you were, too.
“Let me be clear,” she said at last. “I don’t hire ghosts. I don’t take in strays. And I don’t give second chances.”
You tilted your head.
“I didn’t ask for one.”
She stared.
You stared back.
It was nothing. And it was everything.
The kind of moment that rewrites the air in a room.
She closed the folder. But didn’t look away.
When she finally spoke, it was quieter.
“You know what I think?”
“Always.”
She ignored that.
“I think you walked in here expecting to prove something.”
“I did.”
“And what was that?”
“That I still can.”
Her lips parted slightly. Not to respond. To feel it.
Wanda leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving you.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
For real this time. Not cruel. Not calculated.
But interested. Deeply, thoroughly interested.
And that was more dangerous than anything else in the room.
Wanda didn’t look away. Not when the silence stretched.
Not when your shoulders shifted slightly, like you were settling into something you hadn’t planned on revealing.
Not when your fingers finally loosened in your lap. She was watching you too closely now. Not like a CEO evaluating talent.
Like a woman standing too close to a flame.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said quietly.
You blinked once. “I did.”
“No,” Wanda replied. “You gave me the strong version. The edited one.”
Her voice lowered.
“I want the truth.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
For a moment, you considered lying.
It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. Safer.
But something about the way she was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes intent, fingers hovering near her mouth like she was holding herself back, made it feel impossible.
So you told her.
“I thought,” you said softly, “that someone had finally chosen me.”
Wanda didn’t move.
“I thought he loved me.”
Your gaze drifted toward the floor, just slightly.
“He listened. He stayed late with me. Asked my opinion. Told me I was brilliant. Told me he’d never met anyone like me.”
You swallowed.
“I didn’t realize he was just… empty. And I was convenient.”
Her jaw clenched.
You noticed.
“So when things got hard—when the company started bleeding, when the pressure mounted—he came to me. Not as a partner. As a release.”
Wanda’s fingers brushed her lip.
Once. Slow.
“He took everything I gave him,” you continued. “Ideas. Time. Loyalty. My body. My faith in him.”
Your voice didn’t break. That was worse.
“And when the board started asking questions,” you said, “he handed them my name like a shield.”
Silence. Heavy.
Wanda’s eyes had darkened. Not with pity. With fury.
“I signed things I shouldn’t have,” you admitted. “Trusted things I shouldn’t have. Because I believed him.”
Her hand tightened into a fist on the desk.
“But I never stole,” you said quietly. “I never lied. I never sabotaged anyone.”
You lifted your gaze.
“I just loved the wrong person.”
Wanda inhaled slowly through her nose.
Then again. Her jaw flexed.
She dragged her thumb across her lower lip, pressing hard enough to blanch the skin. When she spoke, her voice was dangerously controlled.
“He used you.”
“Yes.”
“He destroyed your reputation.”
“Almost.”
“And you’re standing here,” she said, rising slowly from her chair, “asking me for a junior position.”
Her heels clicked once. Then stopped.
She was closer now. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
“I’m asking you for a chance to work,” you replied. “Not to be saved.”
Wanda stopped in front of you. Too close.
You could see the flecks of gold in her eyes now. The tension in her throat when she swallowed. The way her shoulders were held too tight, like she was restraining something volatile.
“Do you know,” she said quietly, “what I do to men who exploit people under me?”
You didn’t look away.
“I imagine it’s unpleasant.”
Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.
She studied your face like she was memorizing it. Every line. Every shadow. Every fracture you’d just revealed.
“You trusted him,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“And he broke that.”
“Yes.”
She reached out. Stopped. Her hand hovered near your wrist for half a second.
Then fell back to her side. That hesitation spoke louder than anything.
“I don’t tolerate weakness,” Wanda said.
“I know.”
“But I respect resilience.”
Your breath caught, just slightly.
She noticed. Her eyes flicked down. Then back up.
“You didn’t come here to beg,” she continued. “You came here to rebuild yourself.”
You nodded once.
“And you’re willing to start small to do it.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze softened. Not gently. Dangerously.
“Someone like you,” she said, “should never have been made to feel disposable.”
The words were low. Intimate. They landed somewhere deep. You felt them. So did she. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The office felt smaller now. Warmer. Charged. The city beyond the glass blurred into nothing.
Wanda finally stepped back. But her eyes never left yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly.
“And yet,” you replied, “here I am.”
Her lips parted. She laughed once under her breath.
“You’re going to ruin my schedule,” she murmured.
You smiled faintly.
“Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve ruined.”
Her gaze lingered. Slow. Hungry. Calculating.
And something else.
Protective.
Wanda gave you the job.
She slid the offer across the desk at the end of that long, charged hour, and you’d taken it with a steady hand and a quiet “thank you,” never once asking why the title had been elevated by two levels, or why the salary was, unmistakably, higher than what anyone else in that tier would ever see.
You didn’t question it. You just showed up the following Monday in black slacks, soft linen, and silence.
You kept your head down. You worked. And you were exceptional.
Not just “competent.” Not just “sharp.” You were brilliant.
Fluent in complexity, subtle in your leadership, capable of reorganizing internal systems in two days without stepping on egos. You navigated corporate red tape like it was second language. You wrote proposals that needed no editing. You anticipated crises before they were born.
People started whispering again.
This time, it wasn’t scandal. It was reverence.
Who is she?
Wanda didn’t touch you.
Not once. Not even when she passed behind your desk, not even when she handed you documents that could have been emailed. She never stood too close. Never let her fingers brush your wrist again.
But she watched you.
Constantly.
She learned the shape of your handwriting. The way your fingers hovered over your lips when you were deep in thought. The way you never flinched when a senior executive raised their voice, but did flinch, slightly, when she praised you too openly.
She noticed the way you wouldn’t meet her eyes when she lingered too long. The way you froze, almost imperceptibly, when her voice softened near you.
She saw your fear. And it killed her. Because it wasn’t fear of her position.
It was fear of needing her. Fear of trusting again.
Fear of the very thing building between you.
The paycheck came two weeks in.
You found it by accident, sitting at your desk, reviewing the month-end cost projections, when a cross-reference caught your eye.
It wasn’t an error.
It was your own name. Highlighted. Flagged as “non-standard compensation.”
Wanda had doubled your pay. No one had mentioned it. There was no memo. No HR bump. No raise announced.
Just a quiet override. From her.
You stared at the line item for a long time.
Then slowly turned your head.
Through the glass wall, you saw her in her office, head tilted, lips parted slightly, one finger tapping the corner of her mouth, watching you like you were a threat and a promise all at once.
By week three, the tension was unbearable.
You’d become her second shadow.
She called you in to consult on things far above your pay grade. Strategic meetings. Global calls. Pitches to investors that had nothing to do with your department.
She listened when you spoke.
Not like others did. Not just to respond.
She listened like your words meant something. Like they mattered.
And yet, when the meeting ended, she would brush past you with that same practiced calm. No words. No looks. Just breath between two bodies and the echo of everything unspoken.
One night, late, you returned a file to her office.
She was sitting on the couch in the corner, something soft and velvet gray, the lights turned low, her heels discarded on the rug beside her.
Her blouse was undone at the collar. Her jacket draped over the back of the sofa. A half-empty glass of wine sat beside her tablet.
You stood in the doorway, unsure.
She didn’t look up. She just said “Close the door.”
You did. She didn’t ask why you were there. Didn’t ask what you needed.
She just looked at you, eyes slow, tired, raw.
“I gave you too much,” she murmured. “Didn’t I?”
You blinked. “What?”
“The salary.”
You stared. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Her lips curved faintly. But her eyes said something else.
Something breaking.
“Do you hate me for it?” she asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then why won’t you let me be kind to you?” That landed like a blow.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Because how could you explain that kindness from someone like her, someone in power, someone watching you, was more dangerous than cruelty?
How could you explain that the last time someone looked at you like that, it had ended with you bleeding reputation and trust from every open seam?
She stood. Slowly.
Her bare feet padded across the rug as she stepped closer.
Not too close. Just far enough to feel the heat.
“I’m not him.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you flinch when I ask you to stay late?”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
Her voice was soft now. Breaking down, not building up.
“I can see it in your hands. In the way your shoulders go rigid. Like you’re bracing for me to touch you. Or use you.”
You dropped your gaze. Her voice cracked, just slightly.
“I’m not trying to own you.”
You didn’t respond. She stepped closer.
You looked up. And for the first time, really saw her. Not the CEO. Not the predator.
Just the woman underneath. Tired. Tempted. Terrified that she’d already crossed the line.
Her eyes were red, not from her powers. From restraint.
From how badly she wanted to keep you close… and not ruin it.
You swallowed.
“You look at me,” you whispered, “like I’m the most important thing you’ve ever seen.”
Wanda said nothing.
“You don’t even realize you do it.”
Her voice was barely there.
“I do.”
You hesitated.
Then.. “That’s what scares me.”
The air between you felt like glass, like if you breathed too hard, it would crack and pull you both under.
She looked at you like she wanted to reach out.
Not to take. To hold. But she didn’t. She just stood there, inches away, breathing the same air, her hand slowly curling at her side.
“Then tell me how to make it safe,” she said.
The words shook something in you.
Because she meant it.
Powerful. Composed. Feared.
And asking you how not to break this. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
She stepped back. Just slightly. A breath of space.
And said, “I’ll wait.” Then turned away.
Three nights later It started in silence.
It was late again, past ten. The office lights were dimmed, the city below bleeding neon and gold across the windows. You were still at your desk, half-reading a proposal, half-pacing your own thoughts.
She didn’t call. She didn’t text.
She just appeared, leaning in your office doorway like a sentence left unfinished.
Wanda.
Hair slightly undone. Lips parted like she’d already spoken your name in her head five times.
You looked up. And something in you snapped.
Because it was the same look again, the one she always gave you when she forgot to pretend. The one that said I want you, but I’ll wait. The one that never pushed.
But tonight… You couldn’t take it anymore. Neither could she.
You rose from your chair slowly. Walked toward her.
She didn’t move. Her throat flexed once.
You stopped just in front of her, lose enough that your breath touched hers.
And then, finally, you sai “I’m not scared of you.”
Wanda’s eyes darkened. “You were.”
“I was scared of needing you.”
She said nothing. Just stared. But her hands twitched. Her jaw clenched. Her restraint wavered, and that’s when you leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was starvation.
Mouths clashing, teeth grazing, lips dragging open like a dam breaking. You pushed her back into the wall, and she moaned into your mouth, low, wrecked, like she’d been holding it in for weeks.
Her hands cupped your face, your jaw, your throat, desperate to feel you, all of you, like touch would prove this wasn’t a dream.
You kissed her harder. Tugged her blouse free of her skirt. Pushed it open and bit her bottom lip when she groaned at the cold air hitting her skin.
“Fuck,” she breathed, voice breaking, fingers gripping your hips. “I—”
“You waited long enough,” you murmured against her neck.
And she broke.
She spun you around and pinned you to your desk.
Not with magic, with want.
Her hands yanked your shirt open, buttons flying, her mouth dragging down your collarbone with heat and hunger. When she bit your shoulder, you gasped, arch-backed, and she grinned against your skin.
“You taste better than I dreamed.”
“You dreamed about this?”
Wanda looked up. Eyes blown wide. Voice like smoke.
“Every fucking night.”
You pulled her back into you, your hands sliding under her blouse, cupping her breasts, thumbs circling over her nipples until she whimpered. It was too much, too fast, but you didn’t care. You needed to feel her fall apart.
She let you. But not for long.
Wanda dropped to her knees in front of you, dragged your slacks down with sharp fingers, and pressed her mouth between your thighs like she owned you.
You cried out, hand flying to her hair as her tongue traced a devastating, slow circle.
“Wanda—!”
“I’m not him,” she growled against you. “I’ll never be him. Say it.”
You gasped, hips grinding helplessly. “You’re not him—fuck—you’re better—you’re—”
She moaned at that. And devoured you. Tongue and lips and heat, wet and filthy and perfect, hands digging into your thighs as she pulled you deeper against her mouth. You came with a gasp, sharp and aching, her name on your lips like a prayer.
She didn’t stop.Not until you were shaking. Not until you tugged her up by the collar and kissed her like your life depended on it
You didn’t make it home. You didn’t make it to the couch. You ended up in her office chair, legs spread over her lap, blouse torn, her fingers inside you, her mouth on your throat, telling you how beautiful you looked when you broke for her.
And you told her You trust her. You need her. That she’s nothing like him. And she believed you.
Because she’d waited. And now you were hers.
Neither of you spoke for a long time once you both came back down to your senses
You didn’t need to. You just… breathed.
In the silence, she traced small circles into your hips with her thumbs.
And you let her. For the first time. “You okay?” she asked softly, eventually.
You nodded, cheek pressed to her shoulder.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” you whispered.
Her arms tightened around you slightly, and you felt her exhale, like she’d been holding something even through the kiss, the crash, the come.
“Good,” she murmured.
You sat like that for minutes. Maybe longer.
The world outside the glass walls kept spinning. But in here, time slowed.
She pulled back, just enough to see you. Her eyes were unreadable, but her hands didn’t stop moving.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
You hesitated. But you told her.
“That I want to believe this is real.” Her jaw tightened again.
“I don’t lie to people I want.”
You looked up.
“Do you want me?”
Wanda leaned forward, forehead resting against yours.
“Very much.”
You closed your eyes.
Because that, more than anything else, broke you open.
She didn’t say love. She didn’t need to.
Wanting you was worse. More dangerous. Because Wanda didn’t want anyone. She devoured. She used. She conquered.
But you? She waited. She earned.
You ran your hands up her arms, soft and slow.
“Do you regret it?” you asked, quieter now.
Her hands stilled.
“Do you?”
“No.”
She tilted your chin up. Then kissed you, slowly, reverently, like she was relearning your mouth now that it was hers.
When she pulled away, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’d burn this company down before I let anyone use you again.”
You stared at her.
Something flickered behind your ribs, recognition, safety, heat.
And you believed her.
You didn’t go home that night. She took you upstairs to the penthouse suite no one else was allowed to access.
She gave you a clean shirt, helped wash your back in the shower, made you tea like she wasn’t one of the most powerful women in the country.
You fell asleep curled in her sheets, her arms around your waist, her breath warm at your neck.
And for the first time in a long time… You didn’t dream of him. You didn’t flinch.
You just slept.
And when you woke, Wanda was watching you, her eyes soft, her hand on your thigh like she’d never let go again.
A downpour pushed you into Natasha Romanoff’s orbit. Lightning lit her face. Candlelight showed you her hunger. Weeks later, when she brings you home after another rain-soft night, the pressure that’s been building since that storm snaps, and she finally shows you everything she’s been fighting not to take.
Written March 20-24th 2024
9359 Words
-------------------------------------------------------------
The cafe smells like espresso and cinnamon and something sweet baking in the oven.
Warm, safe,crowded.
You pause just inside the doorway, blinking rain out of your eyes, scanning for an empty table.
There aren’t any.
Every seat is taken. Students hunched over laptops. A couple arguing in hushed voices. A woman with a golden retriever tucked under her chair. The storm has driven half the city inside.
Another crash of thunder rattles the windows.
You step forward and collide directly into someone solid. You gasp. A hand catches your elbow before you can fully lose balance.
Firm. Steady. Controlled. You look up. Green eyes. Sharp, assessing, startlingly calm.
Her hair is red, not bright, but deep, rich copper that catches the warm overhead lights. She doesn’t look soaked like you. She looks like she anticipated the rain, like she’s the kind of person who checks the weather three days ahead and plans accordingly.
Her grip loosens the second she confirms you’re stable.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “I swear I wasn’t trying to tackle you.”
Her mouth curves slightly at one corner. It’s subtle. Controlled.
“I’ve handled worse.”
There’s something in the way she says it, light, but weighted.
You laugh, assuming she’s joking.
“Good. I’d hate for my clumsiness to be the most dangerous thing you experience today.”
Her eyes flick over you then. Quick. Efficient. Like she’s cataloging.
You suddenly become aware that you’re dripping on the floor.
“Oh my god—sorry—” You step aside, looking around helplessly for napkins.
“It’s fine,” she says.
Her voice is low. Smooth. Calm in a way that feels deliberate.
You finally glance past her and realize something: she doesn’t have a table either.
She’s standing near the counter, coffee already in hand, scanning the room the same way you did.
Another thunderclap. The lights flicker. The entire cafe collectively groans.
You wince. “Please don’t let the power go out. I just need one dry place in this universe.”
Her gaze shifts toward the ceiling when the lights flicker again.
She doesn’t look worried. She looks alert.
You hesitate, then gesture vaguely toward the seating area. “Um. Do you want to maybe share a table? I mean, if we can find someone willing to sacrifice a chair?”
There’s the faintest pause. She studies you again, as if trying to determine motive.
You blink at her.
“You’re not serial killer vibes, I promise.”
Her brow lifts slightly.
“And what are serial killer vibes?”
You grin. “You know. Twitchy. Too much smiling. Unnecessary eye contact.”
You realize, mid-sentence, that she’s making very steady eye contact.
You freeze. She doesn’t smile wider.
“If that’s the metric,” she says evenly, “I should be concerned about you.”
You snort. Okay. She’s funny. Dry. You like that.
The lights flicker again and this time they go out completely.
A few people yelp. The espresso machine dies mid hiss.
Everything falls into an eerie dimness, only gray stormlight filtering in through the windows.For a moment, the cafe is quiet except for rain hammering against glass.
Emergency lights click on near the back hallway, casting faint amber glows.
“Well,” you murmur, “that’s dramatic.”
Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly. Not tense. Ready.
You don’t notice the way she automatically steps so her back is near a wall. You don’t notice how she scans exits first, people second.
You’re too busy wringing water from your sleeve.
“I guess we’re stuck,” you say. “Unless you’re planning on sprinting back out into that.”
You glance toward the window just in time to see wind whip rain sideways.
She follows your gaze. “No,” she says quietly. “I’m not in a hurry.”
You nod, oddly relieved.
A barista announces they’ll wait out the storm and serve whatever they can manually. A few candles are brought out. People settle.
You spot a small two top near the window, recently vacated.
You look back at her. “Truce?” you offer lightly. “Shared table until the apocalypse passes?”
A beat. Then she inclines her head once.
“Nat.”
You smile. “Nat,” you repeat. “I’m y/n”
You tell her your name. She says it once, softly, like she’s testing the sound. You don’t know why that makes your stomach flip.
You sit across from each other by the window.
Rain streaks down the glass in uneven rivers. Thunder rolls lower now, less sharp but more constant. The cafe hums with murmured conversations and the scrape of chairs.
A candle sits between you, flame trembling slightly in the draft.
You cradle the mug the barista hands you, something warm and sweet, and sigh as heat seeps into your fingers.
“Best decision I’ve made all day,” you murmur.
Natasha, Nat, watches you over the rim of her cup.
“You’ve had a bad day?”
You shrug. “Not catastrophic. Just… one of those days that feels like it’s slightly out to get you.”
She tilts her head almost imperceptibly. “Explain.”
You smile faintly. “Well. I oversleep. Miss the bus. Spill coffee on my shirt at work. My boss decides today is the perfect day to micromanage everything. I drop my phone in a puddle. And then the sky opens like it personally hates me.”
You gesture vaguely toward the storm. She listens without interrupting. Actually listens. Not the polite nodding kind. Focused. Present.
You laugh softly. “Sorry. That sounded way more dramatic out loud.”
“It’s not dramatic,” she says. “It’s cumulative.”
You blink at her. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Exactly.”
Something about the way she understands that so quickly settles something in your chest. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Doesn’t say “it’ll get better.” Doesn’t dismiss it.
Just acknowledges.
The candlelight catches the planes of her face. There’s a small scar near her jaw you wouldn’t notice in bright light.
You tilt your head slightly.
“You always this observant?” she asks quietly.
You blink. “Me?”
She nods once. You hesitate.
“I don’t know. I guess I like details.”
“Details are important,” she says. There’s weight in it again.
You smile. “You say that like you’ve built a career on it.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Something like that.”
You assume corporate. Maybe law enforcement. Maybe something vague and intense.
You don’t pry. Thunder booms again, closer this time. The lights flicker weakly but stay out.
The cafe dims further as clouds thicken. You lean back in your chair, watching the rain.
“I kind of love storms,” you admit.
She studies you. “Most people don’t.”
“I know. But it forces everyone to slow down. You can’t rush a storm. You just… wait.”
She’s quiet at that. Her gaze drifts to the window, watching water distort the city beyond it.
“I don’t like waiting,” she says softly.
You glance back at her. “Control thing?”
Her eyes flick to yours. “Maybe.”
You grin faintly. “I hate not being in control too. But storms don’t care.”
“No,” she agrees. “They don’t.”
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The cafe has settled into an odd intimacy, strangers sharing candlelight, voices lowered instinctively.
You notice the way she sits. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed but poised. Feet planted firmly.
Ready.
“You’re very calm,” you say without thinking.
She lifts her gaze. “I don’t panic easily.”
“That’s a good trait.”
“It can be.”
You tilt your head. “Is it not always?”
Her eyes linger on you a second too long. “It depends on the situation.”
You don’t know why, but a chill runs up your spine that has nothing to do with the rain. Then someone drops a tray near the counter and you both glance over.
She reacts faster than you. Always faster.
When you look back at her, she’s composed again. “You come here often?” you ask.
“Yes.” There’s a beat. “You?”
“Too often,” you admit. “It’s close to work. And they spell my name right.”
“That’s important.”
“Very.”
She takes another sip of her coffee. You study her hands. Steady. Strong. There’s something precise about the way she moves. You catch yourself staring.
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You just… you seem like you’re somewhere else.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “Somewhere else?”
“Yeah. Like you’re sitting here but also running calculations in your head.”
She goes still. You laugh awkwardly. “That sounded creepy. I swear I’m not profiling you.”
Her gaze softens by a fraction. “What makes you think I’m calculating anything?”
You shrug. “You keep glancing at the door. And the windows. And that guy by the counter.”
Her eyes narrow just slightly. “You’re very observant.”
You grin. “Told you. Details.”
She considers you. “And what do the details tell you?”
You pretend to think deeply.
“Hmm. You don’t like having your back exposed. You don’t fidget. You watch reflections. So either you’re incredibly anxious… or incredibly prepared.”
A beat. “Which do you prefer?” she asks.
You meet her eyes. “Prepared.”
Something unreadable passes through her expression. Thunder shakes the windows hard enough that a few people gasp.
The wind howls. The door rattles. The emergency lights flicker and die.
The entire cafe plunges into near blackness. A few screams. A baby crying somewhere near the back.
You inhale sharply. For a split second, you feel it, disorientation. Vulnerability.
And then her hand covers yours. Firm. Grounding.
“You’re okay,” she says quietly. Her voice cuts through the noise like a steady line.
Your pulse steadies almost instantly. You didn’t even realize she’d reached across the table. Her thumb presses lightly against your knuckles, anchoring.
You swallow. “Backup plan?” you whisper.
“Yes.” You don’t ask what it is. Strangely, you trust that she has one.
Gradually, phone flashlights flick on around the cafe. Soft glows illuminate faces. The storm outside intensifies, lightning flashing white through the windows.
Your heart is still racing slightly. Her hand hasn’t moved. You look down at where your fingers rest beneath hers.
She notices you looking. Her hand withdraws immediately. Professional. Controlled. You miss the contact instantly.
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “It helped.”
She studies your face as if verifying that.
“You don’t scare easily,” she observes.
You shrug. “I mean, I do. Just not… at weather.”
“That’s good.” You tilt your head. “Are you scared of storms?”
“No.” The answer is immediate. Then quieter, “I’m cautious.”
You nod slowly. “Fair.”
The cafe owner announces they’re officially closing until power returns. But no one can leave yet, the wind is too strong.
So everyone waits. More candles are distributed. Someone starts playing soft acoustic music from their phone speaker.
The atmosphere shifts from tense to strangely intimate. You lean your chin into your palm.
“So, Nat,” you say lightly. “What do you do when you’re not analyzing cafe layouts?”
Her eyes flicker with amusement. “Travel,” she says.
“Oh? For work?”
“Yes.”
“Exciting?”
“Sometimes.”
You grin. “That’s suspiciously vague.”
She doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. Instead, you say, “I work in publishing. It’s significantly less mysterious.”
She hums softly. “Books are powerful.”
You blink. “Okay, that sounded dramatic.”
“They shape how people think,” she says simply.
You stare at her. “Are you secretly a philosopher?”
“No.” But there’s something almost fond in her tone.
The candle between you flickers wildly as another gust slams the building. Instinctively, you lean forward, shielding the flame with your hand.
She mirrors the motion without thinking.
Your hands almost touch again.
You freeze. So does she. The candlelight casts shadows along her cheekbones. Her eyes look darker in this light. Closer. Everything feels closer.
Outside, lightning splits the sky. Inside, the world has narrowed to the small circle of warm light between you. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.
You blink. “We met thirty minutes ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you had expectations?”
“I always do.”
You smile faintly. “What were they?”
“That you’d be nervous.”
“About?”
She gestures vaguely to herself. You laugh softly.
“Should I be?”
“Most people are.”
You study her face. You see strength there. Confidence. Something sharp and honed. But you also see exhaustion. Subtle. Carefully hidden.
“I’m not,” you say honestly.
“Why not?”
You consider that. “Because you don’t feel dangerous.”
It’s a bold statement. You don’t know why you say it. Her gaze sharpens. “And if I was?”
You shrug gently. “I don’t think you’d hurt me.”
Silence stretches. Thunder rolls lower now, further away. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“That’s a risky assumption,” she says softly.
“Maybe.” You hold her gaze. “But I don’t think you’d sit here talking about storms if you were.”
For a long moment, she just looks at you. Like she’s trying to understand something she doesn’t quite recognize.
Finally, “I don’t sit with people,” she admits.
You smile faintly. “I’m honored.” A small exhale leaves her. Almost a laugh.
The storm begins to shift. The thunder spaces out. The rain lessens from violent sheets to steady downpour.
The cafe murmurs with cautious relief. You glance at the window. “I think it’s calming down.”
“Yes,” she agrees. Neither of you move.
You realize something slowly. When the storm ends… this does too.
The thought lands heavier than you expect. You clear your throat.
“So,” you say lightly, “if the world wasn’t ending via weather, what would you be doing right now?”
She considers that. “Training.”
You blink. “For?”
“A marathon.”
You grin. “Liar.”
Her brow arches. “You don’t have marathon energy.”
“And what energy do I have?”
“More like… tactical yoga instructor.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s specific.”
“I stand by it.” The rain softens further. Someone cheers quietly near the door as wind dies down. You feel time slipping. You don’t want it to. You don’t know why that feels important.
“You said you don’t like waiting,” you say softly. “But you stayed.”
Her gaze shifts to you.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question hangs between you. Simple. Loaded. She studies your face carefully, as if deciding how much to give.
“The storm,” she says finally.
You tilt your head. “That’s not the full answer.”
A long pause. “No,” she agrees.
Your heart beats louder in your ears. “You don’t have to tell me,” you add quickly.
She watches you a moment longer. “I stayed,” she says slowly, “because you didn’t look at me like you expected something.”
You blink. “What would I expect?”
“An explanation. A story. A reason to be impressed.”
You frown faintly. “I just wanted coffee.”
That earns you the smallest, realest smile yet. And suddenly, you understand. Whoever she is outside this cafe, people expect things from her.
You don’t. The lights flicker back on. A collective sigh fills the room. Applause breaks out. The espresso machine hums to life.
Reality floods back in harsh fluorescent brightness. You squint slightly. She straightens in her chair. The spell shifts.
You hate it.
“Well,” you say softly. “I guess the apocalypse is postponed.”
“Yes.”
People begin gathering belongings. You hesitate. This is the part where strangers part ways.
You don’t want that. You don’t know why. But you don’t. You stand slowly. She does too. The rain outside is now a gentle drizzle. The sky still gray but clearing.
You sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what?”
“For making the dark less… dark.”
Her eyes soften. “You did that.”
You smile faintly. There’s a pause. A crossroads. You could let this end here.
A storm. A stranger. A moment.
Instead, “Would you,” you begin, then almost back out. “Would you want to do this again? Preferably without catastrophic weather?”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. Assessing. Considering risk. Considering you.
“Yes,” she says.
Your breath catches slightly.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Relief spreads warm through your chest. You fumble slightly for your phone. “Can I—?”
She’s already pulling hers out. Efficient. You exchange numbers. Her contact simply reads: Nat. No last name. You don’t question it.
“Text me,” she says.
“I will.”
Another pause. Closer now. You realize how tall she is when you’re both standing.
The air between you feels charged in a different way now.Not storm charged. Something quieter. More personal.
“You’re still calculating,” you tease softly.
“Always.”
You step slightly closer. “Am I passing?”
Her eyes drop briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
“Yes.”
Your pulse stutters. The door opens. Cool, rain washe air filters in. People begin stepping out cautiously. She looks toward the exit automatically. Then back at you.
“I’ll walk you,” she says.
You blink. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
Your heart does something complicated. “Okay,” you say softly.
You step out together. The city smells clean. Washed. Refreshed. Puddles reflect dim streetlights. You walk side by side, close but not touching. She matches your pace effortlessly.
You steal glances at her. She notices every time.
“So,” you say lightly. “Do storms usually improve your day?”
She thinks about that. “No.”
You smile. “Me neither.” A comfortable silence settles.
Not empty. Full.
When you reach your building, you stop under the awning. Rain drips gently from the edge.
You turn toward her. “Thank you. Again.”
“You’re welcome.”
You hesitate. You don’t want it to end like a business transaction. Impulsively, you step forward and wrap your arms around her.
Just a quick hug. Warm. Sincere. She goes still in surprise.
Then her arms come around you. Firm. Protective. For a second, she holds you like she’s memorizing the shape of you.
Then she steps back. Composed again. But her eyes are softer than before.
“Text me,” she repeats quietly.
“I will.”
You step backward toward your door. She doesn’t move until you’re safely inside. You glance back through the glass. She’s still there.
Watching. Then she turns and disappears into the damp night.
Inside your apartment, you lean back against the door, heart racing.
You don’t know who she is. You don’t know what she does. You only know that for one storm lashed hour, the world narrowed to candlelight and green eyes and steady hands in the dark.
And you want to sit across from her again.
Outside, the last rumble of thunder fades into silence. Somewhere down the block, Natasha Romanoff allows herself a small, private smile.
She doesn’t like waiting. But this, this might be worth it.
Weeks pass the way storms do, quietly at first, then all at once.
It starts with coffee again. You text her the morning after the storm.
You: So. Preferably no thunder this time?
She responds three minutes later.
Nat: No promises.
You smile at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.
The cafe becomes yours in a way that feels unspoken.
Same table by the window. Same soft hum of conversation. No power outages this time, just late afternoon sunlight spilling gold across wooden floors.
Natasha is already there when you arrive. She always is. You pretend not to notice.
She’s dressed simply, dark jeans, fitted jacket, heels that look expensive but practical. Her posture is relaxed but deliberate, back to the wall, eyes tracking the room before settling on you.
There’s that almost imperceptible shift in her expression when she sees you.
Like something inside her loosens.
“You’re early,” you say as you slide into the seat across from her.
“I’m punctual.”
“You’re fifteen minutes early.”
She takes a sip of her coffee. “Prepared.”
You grin. “There it is again.”
“What?”
“That word.”
She studies you. “You notice patterns.”
“Publishing,” you remind her lightly. “I live in subtext.”
Her lips twitch. The flirting is softer now. Less cautious. It slips into the spaces between sentences. You lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Be honest. Did you scope out the exits before I got here?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
You laugh. “I feel very safe right now.”
“Good.”
It’s the way she says it.
Not teasing. Certain.
The cafe dates turn into dinner almost accidentally. You’re standing outside after one of those long coffee afternoons when you say, “I’m starving.”
She glances at you. “There’s a place two blocks down.”
“You’ve memorized nearby restaurants too?”
“Yes.”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “You’re either incredibly thorough… or secretly planning a coup.”
She hums thoughtfully. “You’ll never know.”
You step closer without thinking, shoulder brushing hers as you fall into step beside her. She doesn’t move away.
The restaurant is small. Dim. Candlelit again, though intentionally this time. The space between you feels different in this kind of lighting, less accidental, more aware.
You catch her looking at you when you’re laughing.
Not glancing. Looking. It does something steady and warm in your chest.
“You do that,” you say lightly.
“Do what?”
“Study me like I’m a puzzle.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Maybe you are.”
You tilt your head. “And?”
“And I like puzzles.”
The air shifts. You swallow.
It becomes a rhythm. Coffee. Dinner. Walks in the park when the weather cooperates.
Natasha walks half a step behind you at first.
You notice. Eventually, you slow just slightly until she’s beside you instead. She doesn’t comment. But she stays there.
The park smells like grass and sun warmed pavement. Kids run past. Dogs bark. The world feels painfully normal.
You like watching her in normal settings. She doesn’t. She scans the tree line sometimes. Watches people too long. Tracks movement instinctively. But then you say something ridiculous, and she forgets to be on guard for a few seconds.
Those seconds feel important.
“Do you ever relax?” you ask one evening as you sit on a park bench, your shoulders brushing.
“I am relaxed.”
“You just assessed that jogger’s stride.”
“He’s favoring his left knee.”
You stare at her. “How do you even notice that?”
She shrugs lightly. “Habit.”
You rest your chin in your palm. “You’re fascinating.”
Her eyes flick to yours.
“Dangerous word.”
“Fascinating?”
“Yes.”
You smile softly. “Good.”
You don’t ask what she does. You want to.
Curiosity burns at the edges of your restraint. She travels often. Disappears for days sometimes with short texts.
Work trip. Back Thursday. Be safe.
You don’t pry.
Instead, you ask how the flight was. If she slept. If she ate.
She answers vaguely but consistently. And she always calls. The late night phone calls start casually.
One night you text her at 11:42 PM.
Can’t sleep. Storm’s back. Your phone rings thirty seconds later.
Her voice in the dark is different.
Lower. Less guarded.
“Still like storms?” she asks.
You roll onto your side, staring at the faint city light bleeding through your curtains.
“Only when I’m not alone.”
There’s a pause.
“I’m here.”
You smile softly. You talk about nothing and everything.
Your neighbor’s terrible music taste. A book you’re editing. The way she once got stuck in an airport for twelve hours and learned three card tricks out of boredom.
“Show me,” you demand.
“Over the phone?”
“Yes.”
She laughs quietly. It’s rare. You cling to it. The flirting slides in slowly.
“You miss me?” you ask one night, teasing.
A beat. “Yes.”
Your breath catches. “You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.”
“I don’t lie unless necessary.”
“That’s comforting. I think.”
“What about you?” she asks.
“Do I miss you?”
“Yes.”
You smile into the darkness.
“Terribly.”
Silence. But not empty. Charged.
The first time she comes over, it’s unplanned.
She texts: Landed early.
You reply: I have leftover pasta and bad wine.
She’s at your door twenty minutes later. You open it barefoot, hair slightly messy, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. She freezes for half a second.
You notice. You lean against the doorframe. “You going to come in or just evaluate my security system?”
Her eyes flick briefly to the lock.
“Already evaluated.”
“Of course you did.”
She steps inside. Your apartment is small. Warm. Books stacked on the coffee table. A blanket tossed over the couch.
She moves through the space quietly, absorbing details.
“You don’t have many sharp corners,” she observes.
You blink. “That’s… an odd compliment.”
“It reduces accidents.”
You laugh.
“Nat, who hurt you with furniture?”
A faint smirk. Dinner turns into sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out.
Your knees brush. Neither of you move away.
The wine makes you softer. Braver.
“You’re hard to read sometimes,” you admit quietly.
“I don’t mean to be.”
“I know.”
You turn your head to look at her.
“I don’t need to know everything,” you add. “About your job. Or where you go.”
She watches you carefully.
“Why not?”
“Because you always come back.”
Something in her expression shifts. Subtle. Vulnerable.
“That’s not guaranteed,” she says softly.
“It is for me,” you reply.
You don’t know why you’re so sure. But you are.
The flirting escalates in small, deliberate ways. Her hand at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded sidewalk. Your fingers brushing hers accidentally and lingering a second too long. The way she looks at your mouth mid sentence and doesn’t immediately look away anymore.
One evening in the park, you’re sitting close enough that your thighs press together.
“You’re distracting,” she says suddenly.
You grin. “How?”
“You talk with your hands.”
“That’s distracting?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She turns her head slowly. “Because I watch them.”
Your pulse jumps. “Oh.”
Silence stretches. Her hand moves slightly. Close. Not touching.
You make the decision. You lace your fingers with hers.
Her breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. Her grip tightens. Warm. Strong. Steady.
You smile softly, staring ahead at the skyline.
She watches you instead.
The first almost kiss happens on your couch. Late. Past midnight. You’re both laughing about something stupid, some childhood story she shared in fragments.
“You were competitive?” you tease.
“I still am.”
“Prove it.”
Her eyebrow arches.
“How?”
You lean closer without fully realizing.
“Bet you can’t go a full minute without staring at my lips.”
Her gaze drops instantly. You inhale sharply.
“That was immediate,” you whisper.
“You said prove it.”
Her voice is quieter now. Closer. The air thickens.
You’re aware of everything, her knee against yours, her hand resting near your thigh, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with your detergent.
“Nat,” you murmur.
“Yes.”
But neither of you moves that last inch. The tension hums.
Then her phone buzzes. The sound slices through the moment. She pulls back slightly, eyes hardening in a way you haven’t seen directed at you before. She checks the screen.
Something unreadable passes over her face.
“I have to take this,” she says.
You nod, trying not to show the flicker of disappointment.
She steps into your kitchen. Her voice drops into something colder. Sharper. Professional.
You can’t hear the words. Only tone. When she comes back, she looks composed again.
“I have to leave,” she says.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
You stand slowly.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
It’s automatic. Too automatic. You don’t challenge it. You step closer instead.
“Be safe,” you say quietly.
Her hand comes up to your cheek. It’s the first time she’s touched your face. Her thumb brushes lightly under your eye.
“I will.”
Her forehead almost touches yours. Almost. Then she steps back. She leaves like she always does, controlled, precise.
You stand in the quiet after, heart racing, lips tingling with something that didn’t quite happen.
Later that night, your phone buzzes.
Nat: I’m sorry.
You type back immediately.
For what?
Three dots.
Disappear. Reappear.
Nat: For leaving like that.
You stare at the screen.
You always come back, you type.
A long pause.
Then I will.
You smile softly in the dark.
Weeks ago, she was a stranger in candlelight.
Now she’s late night laughter and steady hands and almost kisses interrupted by secrets you don’t ask about.
You don’t know what she does. You don’t know why her voice changes on certain calls. But you know the way she looks at you like you’re something fragile she doesn’t want to break.
And the way she always, always comes back to the cafe. To you. And somewhere between rainstorms and park benches and midnight confessions, you realize. You’re already falling. You just don’t know how far she’s willing to fall with you.
This night settles softer than usual.
No rain. No thunder. Just the low hum of the city outside your apartment window and the faint glow of streetlights striping your ceiling.
You’re on your back in bed, phone pressed to your ear, blanket twisted around your legs. The call has already lasted… you check the time.
Two hours. Neither of you has noticed.
Natasha’s voice is quieter at night. Not tired, quieter in the way people sound when they stop performing the version of themselves the world expects.
“You’re still awake,” she murmurs.
“You called me,” you reply, smiling into the darkness.
“You answered immediately.”
“You wanted me to.”
A soft exhale crosses the line. Not quite a laugh.
“You always know.”
Your stomach tightens faintly at the tone. There’s something different tonight, less guarded edges, more intention in the spaces between words.
You roll onto your side, tucking the phone closer. “Where are you?” you ask.
A brief pause.
“My apartment.”
You’ve never been there. You picture it anyway, clean lines, minimal clutter, everything placed deliberately. You imagine dim lighting, maybe a single lamp on, her leaning against a counter while she talks.
“What time did you get back?” you ask.
“Late.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
A beat. “…Not much.”
You smile softly. “I knew it.”
Silence stretches, but it isn’t empty. You can hear faint movement on her end, fabric shifting, maybe her pacing.
“You worry about me,” she says quietly.
“You give me reasons to.” Another pause. “You don’t even know what I do.”
You trace a line along your blanket absentmindedly.
“I know you disappear sometimes,” you say. “And you come back quieter than before.”
Her breathing shifts slightly through the phone.
“And that doesn’t scare you?”
You think about it honestly.
“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”
“Why?”
Because it’s you, you almost say. Instead “Because you’ve never given me a reason to doubt you.”
The line goes very still. When she speaks again, her voice is lower.
“You trust me.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yes.”
A long silence follows, heavier than the others, charged in a way you can’t quite name.
Then, “What are you wearing?” she asks.
Your breath catches. The question is casual in wording. Not casual in tone. You shift under the blanket, suddenly aware of everything, the quiet room, your heartbeat, the way her voice sits directly against your ear.
“…Why?” you manage.
A faint hum of amusement. “Answer.”
Your pulse picks up. “Just a t-shirt,” you say slowly. “And shorts.”
You can practically hear the way her focus sharpens.
“Color?”
You swallow.
“Gray.”
“Soft?”
“Yes.”
Another silence, but warmer now, heavier. You stare at the ceiling.
“What about you?” you ask, softer.
Fabric rustles faintly on her end.
“Tank top,” she says. “Sweats.”
Your mind supplies the image instantly, the defined lines of her arms you’ve noticed a hundred times, the relaxed posture she only allows when she feels safe.
Your stomach flips.
“You’re quiet,” she observes.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
You hesitate. Then lean into it. “You.”
A slow inhale travels through the speaker. “You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
Her voice drops another degree. “What exactly are you thinking?”
Your heart pounds. The air in your room feels warmer. You roll onto your back again, pressing your free hand over your eyes.
“That you do this on purpose.”
“Do what?”
“Lower your voice like that,” you murmur. “Ask questions you know will get reactions.”
You hear a faint shift, maybe she’s sitting down now.
“And it works?”
“Yes.”
A soft, almost pleased hum.
You exhale shakily. “You’re bold tonight.”
“I’m comfortable tonight.”
The words settle deep.
“With me?” you ask.
“Yes.”
Your chest tightens. You whisper before you can stop yourself, “Good.”
The quiet stretches. Not awkward, magnetic. You can almost feel her attention through the phone, focused and deliberate like it always is when she looks at you in person.
“You remember the couch,” she says suddenly.
Your stomach drops. “…Yeah.”
“The bet.” Heat crawls up your neck.
“You cheated,” you say weakly.
“I was interrupted.”
Your fingers curl in the blanket. “What would’ve happened?” you ask.
You don’t know why you ask. Maybe you do. Her answer comes slower this time.
“I would have kissed you.”
Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller.
“You sound very certain,” you whisper.
“I am.”
Your heartbeat is loud in your ears now. You force a shaky laugh. “You say that like you’ve already decided.”
“I have.”
The confidence in it makes your stomach tighten. You shift onto your side, instinctively curling closer around the phone.
“Nat…”
“Yes.”
You hesitate, then: “Why haven’t you?”
A long pause. When she speaks, her voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Because if I start,” she says, “I won’t want to stop.”
Your breath leaves you slowly.The words settle heavy and warm under your ribs. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, failing.
“You’re dangerous,” you murmur.
“You said I wasn’t.”
“Not like that.”
Silence again.
Then, quieter, “Say my name.”
You blink. “I just did.”
“No,” she says gently. “The way you do when you forget to think first.”
Your pulse spikes. You stare into the dark, nerves sparking along your skin.
“…Natasha.”
The effect is immediate, her inhale sharp, controlled but affected.
You didn’t imagine it.
“Again,” she murmurs.
Your voice drops without meaning to.
“Natasha.”
A faint exhale. You’re gripping the blanket now.
“You like hearing it?” you ask softly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Because you don’t say it like anyone else.”
Your throat feels dry.
“You’re unfair tonight.”
“You’re still here.”
You smile faintly, heart racing. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The admission sits between you. Warm. Intentional. You close your eyes, letting the quiet hum of the call wrap around you both, two separate spaces somehow feeling shared.
Eventually her voice softens again. “You should sleep.”
“You first.”
A faint chuckle.
“Stay on the line,” you murmur.
“I will.”
Neither of you hangs up.
Your breathing gradually slows, but the warmth remains, lingering under your skin long after words stop.
And somewhere in the quiet, with her presence steady in your ear, you realize the line between almost and inevitable is getting thinner every night.
The next night is warm. Streetlights glow amber. A breeze lifts the hair at your temple. Natasha stands close, closer than usual, one hand tucked in her pocket, the other hanging loose at her side, relaxed in a way that only happens when she’s with you.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say, soft, sincere.
“You thanked me last time.”
“I’m allowed to be grateful twice.”
She huffs a small laugh, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
That look. It steals air from your lungs.
Her voice lowers. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re deciding something dangerous.”
Your breath catches. “Maybe I am.”
The shift is immediate, her posture stills, focus narrowing on you with absolute attention. Not analytical. Not tactical.
Wanting.
She takes one step closer. You don’t move back.
“You’re sure?” she asks quietly, like she’s giving you a final exit, her words steady but her breath just a little uneven.
You nod.
“Natasha…”
Her name leaves your mouth softer than you mean it to, and that’s what breaks her restraint.
She cups your face with both hands and kisses you. Deep, immediate, consuming.
Heat floods your chest so fast your knees almost go weak. She presses into you gently but firmly, mouth warm, controlled and starving at once. Her thumb strokes along your jaw as if memorizing it, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment longer than she’ll ever admit.
You gasp softly against her lips, and that’s all it takes.
Her arm slides around your waist, grip strong, lifting you off the ground as though you weigh nothing. You instinctively wrap your legs around her hips, arms around her shoulders as the kiss grows hotter, deeper, more urgent.
You can feel her breathing change against your mouth, quicker, rougher, her control slipping at the edges.
“Nat—” you whisper into the kiss, breathless.
She groans softly, barely audible, but enough to make your stomach tighten.
Your back meets your apartment door, she’s carried you there without breaking the kiss. Her mouth moves against yours with a hunger held back for too many nights of almosts and interrupted moments.
“Open the door,” she murmurs against your lips.
You fumble for the knob without looking, impossible with the way she’s kissing you, with her hands holding you securely against her body.
You manage to turn it. The door swings inward.
Natasha nudges it shut with her foot, slow and deliberate, never letting you down, her lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then your throat, soft, warm, leaving sparks in every place she touches.
Your breath stutters.
Her voice is low, almost a whisper at your ear.
“Tell me to stop,” she says, but there is no distance in her tone now, no doubt, only the ghost of restraint and the burn of everything she’s wanted.
You tighten your grip around her.
“Don’t stop.”
Her answering exhale is a shiver against your skin, a release, a surrender.
She carries you further inside, your legs still around her waist, your hands in her hair, her mouth finding yours again with a heat that leaves your thoughts sliding apart.
Everything else, the city, the night, the weeks of tension, dissolves until there’s only the sound of her breath and your heartbeat and the soft thud of the door clicking shut behind you.
And then the world falls away. The moment deepens. And nothing between you is “almost” anymore.
Natasha carries you deeper into the room, your legs anchored around her waist, her hands gripping you with a certainty that makes your pulse thrum. She kisses you like she’s been waiting weeks, no, months, for permission.
Her mouth is warm, confident, coaxing yours open until the kiss turns slow and hungry all at once. Your fingers slide into her hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from her throat, quiet, but undeniably wanting.
She presses you gently against the wall, bodies aligned from chest to hip. The hard line of her torso meets the soft curve of yours, heat building where your bodies touch. Her hands travel, one spreading along your lower back, the other climbing to the back of your thighs, holding you steady as she deepens the kiss.
Her lips move to your jaw, then under your ear, kissing there with enough softness to make your breath catch, enough intent to make your knees tremble even though they aren’t holding you up.
You turn your head slightly, giving her more space, more access. She takes it, her mouth tracing down your neck, open mouthed kisses slow and deliberate, each one leaving a heat that spreads across your skin.
“Natasha…” you whisper, fingers curling hard into her shoulders.
She breathes against your throat, voice low, husky now. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
Her hands slide under the edge of your shirt, cool fingertips against the warm skin of your waist, skimming upward, exploring, learning you. Her touch is reverent and hungry all at once, palms warm as they travel the curve of your sides, memorizing the shape of you.
Your shirt lifts slightly as she moves, exposing more skin to the air, to her mouth when she returns to kiss along your collarbone. She follows the line with slow, lingering attention, her breath brushing your skin, making you shiver.
You tug lightly at her hair again and she lifts her head, kissing you deeply, a kiss that drags a soft sound from your chest you didn’t know you were capable of making. She swallows it with a low hum of approval, her thumb stroking your waist in a steady rhythm meant to ground you, even as she pulls you deeper into the moment.
When she finally lowers you from her arms, your legs feel unsteady, but her hands remain on your hips, grounding, steady. She steps forward, guiding you gently back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of your couch.
You sink onto it. She follows. Kneeling between your legs.
Her hands slide up your thighs slowly, fingers tracing along their curve through fabric, thumbs brushing inward with teasing intention that steals your breath. She watches your reaction closely, pupils dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling just a little faster.
You reach for her face, guiding her back up toward you, and she meets your mouth again, this kiss deeper, slower, more consuming than any before. Her hands slide beneath your shirt again, higher this time, her palms spreading over your ribs, her thumbs brushing the underside of your bra in a way that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch.
You arch slightly into her touch.
She notices.
Her lips leave yours for your throat once more, kissing down its length with open mouthed heat, her teeth grazing lightly along sensitive skin before she soothes the spot with her tongue.
Your fingers tremble where they grip her shoulders.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs against your skin, her breath warm, controlled, barely.
You shake your head, voice soft and breathless. “Don’t stop.”
She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for weeks, and her hands slide up your sides again, slower, deliberate, shaping you, appreciating you, her touch both tender and hungry.
Your shirt lifts higher. Her mouth follows.
Trailing along your sternum. Your ribs. The edge of soft fabric.
Her lips find a spot just beneath your bra, warm skin she kisses once, twice, lingering, and your hips lift instinctively in response, a soft sound catching in your throat.
She smiles against your skin. A low, pleased sound.
Her hands smooth along your waist again, her thumbs tracing soft circles, her body pressing between your legs in a way that sends heat pooling in your core.
She lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, flushed, breathing deeper now.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispers.
Not demanding. Inviting.
Your pulse hammers, your body already leaning toward her, your hands sliding to the back of her neck as you pull her closer again.
“I want you,” you breathe.
Her lips crash softly but decisively against yours, a kiss that steals thought, steals breath, steals everything except the heat spiraling low in your stomach and the way her body fits against yours like she’s meant to be there.
Her hands move again, slow, warm, exploring, and you melt into her touch, her mouth, the moment you both stopped pretending you weren’t falling into.
She leans back just enough to pull your shirt over your head. The movement is slow, almost reverent, her eyes never leaving yours as your shirt drops somewhere beside the couch.
Her gaze trails down your body, lingering like a touch.
You’ve never been looked at like that, like she’s memorizing every inch of you, like she’s been starved for this exact moment.
Her fingers slide along your waist again, softer now, tracing the shape of you, her thumbs brushing the dip just above your hips.
“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
You pull her closer by the front of her shirt, your legs tightening around her hips as you kiss her again, this time with all the heat she’s coaxing out of you. Natasha answers instantly, shifting her weight so she fits between your thighs more solidly, her body pressing flush against yours.
The sensation steals your breath.
Her hands explore without hesitation now, up your sides, across your back, fingers spreading wide as if to feel as much of you as she can. When her palms slide higher, brushing the edge of your bra again, you gasp into her mouth.
She shivers. Actually shivers. Her forehead presses to yours, her breathing unsteady.
“If you keep making sounds like that…” she whispers, her voice breaking just a little, “…I won’t be able to take this slow.”
Your entire body tightens in response.
You drag your lips along her jaw, kissing down the column of her throat, feeling the muscles tense under your mouth. She tilts her head slightly, giving you access, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your back to hold you closer.
Her breathing stutters when you kiss just below her ear.
You whisper, “Maybe I don’t want slow.”
Her fingers tighten on your skin, her breath catching hard.
“Careful,” she murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been holding myself back for weeks.”
You kiss her again, slow but deep, guiding her down until she’s hovering over you, her body pressed along yours from knees to chest. Her shirt drags upward with the movement, exposing warm, taut skin beneath.
Your hands slide up under her shirt, fingertips skating over toned muscle, feeling the way she trembles, barely, but enough.
Her voice breaks on a whisper. “Don’t stop.”
You lift her shirt slowly, feeling each inch of her as it rises. She lets you. When the fabric pools on the floor, there’s nothing between you but heat and breath and weeks of building tension snapping loose all at once.
Natasha kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. Her thigh shifts between yours.
Your back arches. Her mouth finds your shoulder, then your chest, her kisses scattering heat across your skin as her hands roam everywhere, your waist, the curve of your hip, the small of your back, touches turning more urgent each second.
You pull her closer, your bodies fitting together like they’ve done this a hundred times in dreams you never admitted having.
Her lips hover at your ear. Her breath warm. Her voice low. Her hands sliding boldly along your sides.
“Tell me,” she whispers, “if you want more.”
Your answer is immediate, breathless, honest, wanting.
“Yes. More.”
Her exhale is shaky, almost a groan. And the last bit of restraint she’s been holding onto breaks.
You don’t even get a full breath before she forces you back into the cushions, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Her weight follows immediately, warm and solid, her thigh sliding between yours and spreading your legs apart with slow, deliberate pressure.
The contact makes your stomach drop.
Your mouth opens against hers and she takes advantage instantly, the kiss turns messy, hungry, almost impatient. Whatever restraint she had is gone now; she kisses like she’s been holding it in for too long.
For a brief second her fingers thread with yours, squeezing, then she pins your wrists above your head.
Your chest rises under her, trapped between her body and the couch as her mouth drags down your throat in hot, open mouthed kisses that leave heat blooming everywhere she touches.
“You feel that?” she murmurs agains your skin, breath uneven. “What you do to me?”
Her thigh presses up again, slower, harder.
A broken sound escapes you before you can swallow it back.
Natasha lets out a low, satisfied exhale, almost a chuckle.
Her hand slides down your side, no hesitation now, fingers curling around your waist and pulling you tighter into her. You feel the tension in her body, the way she holds you like she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she loosens her grip even a little.
When she kisses you again it’s rougher, teeth catching your lip before she soothes it with her tongue, stealing the breath right out of you.
Your legs tighten around her instinctively.
She groans, deep, unguarded, the sound vibrating through you.
Her hips move in response, slow and heavy, dragging friction through you that makes your back arch before you can stop it. She pulls back just enough to watch your reaction.
Her pupils are blown wide.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re already shaking.”
Her hands slide down and lift you into her lap in one smooth motion, forcing you to straddle her thighs. The new angle pulls a startled sound from your throat.
Her grip on your hips tightens instantly.
“Y/n,” she mutters, but she’s the one guiding you down, setting the pace, slow, rolling, deliberate. “You won’t last if you keep doing that.”
Your hands clutch her shoulders, forehead falling against hers as your breathing tangles together.
“Look at me,” she says softly.
You do, and her composure cracks.
She pulls you down harder against her, guiding your movement with unmistakable intent, each motion pulling another unsteady breath from you.
“That’s it,” she whispers, almost approving. “Don’t hold back now.”
Her mouth moves restlessly along your jaw and throat, like she can’t decide where she wants you most. Her voice drops lower, rough with want.
“I’ve imagined this,” she admits quietly. “You like this… don’t you? Being handled.”
Your fingers dig into her.
She exhales sharply and presses her forehead to yours.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’m not stopping.”
She breaks the kiss, both of you gasping for air. She looks down at your heaving chest, her hands still on your hips. She bites her lip, looking back up at you with those intense dark eyes. "God, you're responsive..."
Natasha tightens her grip on your hips, pulling you even closer, causing you to let out a small whimper. "And those sounds you make... fuck."
She leans in again, kissing along your jaw and neck.
Natasha nips at your pulse point, making you gasp and tilt your head to the side, giving her more room. She takes advantage, kissing and sucking along your neck, her hands sliding up from your hips to your ribcage. She pauses there, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts.
"You're so sensitive," she murmurs against your skin, her voice sending shivers down your spine. "I wonder how you'd react to my mouth here..." Her thumbs slowly circle upwards, barely grazing the undersides of your breasts.
You arch into her touch instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. She groans softly in response, the sound vibrating against your neck.
Your hands slide up her back, gripping her shoulders as she explores your sensitive skin. She pulls back to look at you, her pupils huge and dark with arousal.
She breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck and chest. "I need you," she pants against your skin, her fingers trembling as they unhook your bra.
"Then take what you want," you breathe out, your voice shaking with need. Your hands move to her face, thumbs gently tracing her high cheekbones.
"Please, Natasha... I've wanted this for so long." Your hips roll against hers instinctively, seeking more friction. "Don't hold back with me." You pull her back to your mouth, kissing her desperately, like you're both drowning and each other are the only air left.
Natasha kisses you back with equal desperation, her hands trembling as they push your bra aside. She breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses down your chest, her tongue swirling around one hardened peak before taking it into her mouth.
You gasp and arch into her touch, your fingers tangling in her red hair.
"I’m in love you," she whispers against your skin between kisses. "I love you so much." Her hands shake as she pushes your pants down.
"I love you too," you whisper back, your voice breaking with emotion as you lift your hips to help her remove your pants.
You're completely exposed now, trembling and open before her.
"I love you more than anything... Please, Natasha..." You reach for her, pulling her back up to kiss you fiercely. "Make love to me... " Your legs wrap around her waist instinctively, pulling her close.
She kisses you back with so much love and passion that it brings tears to your eyes. She slowly pushes you back onto the couch, breaking the kiss only to trail her lips down your neck and chest.
"I'll make love to you " she whispers huskily. "Slowly and thoroughly, so you'll feel how much I love you." She spreads your legs gently and settles between them, looking up at you with so much tenderness. "I want you to feel every single touch..."
Your trembling hands move to her belt, fumbling with the buckle. She helps you, kicking her jeans off while simultaneously unhooking her own bra. She hovers over you, bare and real and breathtaking.
"God, you're beautiful," you breathe, your eyes trailing over her curves in the dim light.
She smiles softly, lowering herself back down to meet your body with hers. "So are you."
Her lips find yours again as she settles between your thighs, skin against skin. The contact makes you both gasp.
Natasha's body is warm and soft where it meets yours, her skin sliding against yours in the most perfect way.
She kisses you deeply, her tongue tasting every part of your mouth like she's memorizing you. Her breasts press against yours, nipples hard and sensitive, making you both whimper into the kiss.
She grinds her hips slowly, letting you feel how ready she is. "I want to take my time..." she whispers against your lips. "But I don't know if I can."
You pull her into another deep, desperate kiss, your legs wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. Your hands roam over her body, touching and memorizing every curve and plane.
"Don't hold back," you pant against her mouth. "I need you... Now." Your hips lift to meet hers instinctively. "Please, Natasha..." Your fingers dig into her back as you break the kiss to trail kisses down her neck and collarbone.
Natasha's breath hitches at your words and actions, her hips moving in response. She's so wet that you can feel it against your own heat, making you both gasp and moan.
"Fuck," she whispers, burying her face in your neck. "You're gonna make me lose control." She kisses your neck roughly, biting gently before soothing the sting with her tongue.
You tilt your head to give her more access, your hands sliding down to grip her ass and pull her closer.
"Then lose control," you whisper back, arching into her. "I want all of it... I want you wild and needy..."
Your words seem to break the last of her non existing restraint. She kisses you messily, hips moving with more purpose now.
"You have no idea what you do to me..." she pants against your mouth. "I've wanted you like this for so long..."
She slides down your body, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along the way. Her hands grip your inner thighs, spreading them wider as she settles between your legs. She looks up at you one last time, dark green eyes full of worship and desire, before she lowers her mouth to kiss your hipbone, then your inner thigh, then finally her tongue is sliding through your folds.
"Oh god—" You cry out, fingers immediately tangling in her hair.
She groans against you, the vibration sending shocks through your entire body.
Natasha's tongue works magic, licking and sucking at your most sensitive spots. She hooks her arms under your thighs, pulling your legs over her shoulders to get deeper access. Her mouth is relentless, kissing, licking, sucking, driving you wild with pleasure.
"Shh..." She whispers against you when you moan too loudly, "...let me worship you." Her fingers join her tongue, pushing inside you slowly.
Your back arches off the couch at the invasion, a loud cry ripping from your throat. "Natasha!"
Your hands pull at her hair, hips bucking against her face. She groans in response, the sound vibrating through you as she starts to move her fingers in and out, curling them just right to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision white.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god..." You chant, head rolling back as pleasure builds quickly.
Natasha keeps the perfect rhythm, her tongue flicking against your clit while her fingers move inside you. She feels you getting closer and closer, your legs shaking over her shoulders.
Without warning, she closes her mouth over your clit and sucks hard, her fingers curling even deeper.
"Fuck!" You scream, entire body convulsing as an intense orgasm rips through you. "Natasha, fuck, yes!" Your hands pull at her hair, holding her mouth against you as you ride out the waves of pleasure.
Natasha doesn't let up, keeping her mouth and fingers moving until she's wrung every last drop of pleasure from you.
When you finally collapse back against the couch, chest heaving, she lifts her head, her face shiny and wet from your release.
"Look at me," she commands softly.
You open your eyes, finding hers intense and dark.
"I want you to see what you do to me." She slowly pulls her fingers out of you and brings them to her mouth, sucking them clean with a satisfied groan.
You don’t wait to recover, you push her back gently, making her lie down on the couch. You straddle her hips, your hands sliding up her body to cup her breasts. She watches you with heavy lidded eyes, already breathless from pleasing you.
You lean down and capture one nipple in your mouth, sucking hard while your hand squeezes the other breast.
"Fuck..." She gasps, arching into your touch. "Baby..." Her hands grip your hair tightly. "I need..." She trails off as you kiss down her stomach.
You push her thighs apart gently, settling between them. Looking up at her, you see her biting her lip, green eyes dark with anticipation. You kiss her inner thigh first, then the other, teasing her.
When you finally lick a stripe up her wetness, she moans loudly, fingers immediately tangling in your hair.
"Yes," she whispers, lifting her hips off the couch. "Please, baby..." Your tongue pushes inside her, and she cries out your name, her thighs trembling around your head.
You work her with your tongue and fingers, learning what she likes best. You find that she loves it when you suck on her clit while curling your fingers inside her, hitting that perfectly sensitive spot.
She spreads her legs wider, giving you full access. Her wetness coats your face as you eat her out hungrily, determined to make her come undone like she did for you.
"Deeper... Right there..." She pants, grinding against your mouth. "God, you're good with that tongue..."
You suck harder on her clit, your fingers moving faster, curling perfectly. Natasha's hands tighten in your hair, pulling you deeper.
Her hips buck against your mouth frantically.
"I'm close," she gasps. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't—" She cuts off with a sharp cry as her orgasm hits, her thighs clamping around your head, body shaking as she comes hard against your mouth. You keep licking through it until she's gently pushing you away.
You finally ease off only when she's gently pushing at your shoulders, spent and breathless.
When you lift your head, you see her completely wrecked, chest heaving, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. She looks absolutely blissed out.
"Baby..." She whispers, reaching for you.
You crawl up her body, settling against her chest. Her arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you close, hearts pounding against each other. She kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, gentle now, tender.
You nuzzle into her touch, smiling softly. You're more than okay, you're happy, sated, and completely in love.
You turn your head to press a soft kiss to her jaw, then burrow into the crook of her neck.
"Mmm," you hum contentedly, wrapping your arm around her waist to pull her even closer. "I love you." You breathe out softly, placing a gentle kiss on her pulse point. "So much."
Natasha melts at your soft touches and gentle words. She turns her face to press a tender kiss to your forehead, holding you close like she's afraid you might disappear.
"I love you more," she whispers back, voice thick with emotion.
Her hand slides up your side possessively, fingers splaying out on your stomach. "So much more." She shifts closer, until there's no space between you, legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, hearts beating as one. She presses another soft kiss to your hair.
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Stay with me,” she murmurs. “Just like this.”
Smut: lots of kisses, soft touches, cunnilingus, almost overstim, mind fog, talking through it, praise
They don’t tell anyone where they’re going.
Natasha just tosses you your keys that morning and says, “Drive.”
No explanation.
You glance at her over the hood of the car. “Is this a kidnapping?”
“Relax,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat like she owns the city. “It’s a date.”
You raise a brow. “You planning to survive this one?”
She smirks without looking at you. “I always do.”
"Right."
--
Hotel One - Late Morning
It’s obnoxiously expensive.
Marble floors. Gold accents. A breakfast spread that looks like it was plated by someone with a degree.
You’re halfway through your coffee when you realize she’s watching you over the rim of her glass.
“Something on my face?” you ask.
“Confidence,” she says lightly. “It’s loud.”
You grin. “You liked it last night.”
Her foot nudges yours under the table.
Not accidental.
Not shy.
A warning.
You glance down.
She presses harder.
There it is.
Brat.
“You’re bold this morning,” you murmur.
She leans back in her chair like she didn’t just initiate contact. “I’m rested.”
You almost laugh.
She is absolutely testing you.
You let your foot slide higher along her ankle. Slow. Deliberate.
She doesn’t flinch.
But her fingers tighten slightly around her glass.
Score: even, but not for long.
--
Hotel Two - Early Afternoon
This one is all glass windows and too much sunlight.
You book a room just because.
No luggage. No plan. Just the key card and a look exchanged in the elevator.
Inside, she kicks off her shoes and drops onto the bed like she’s exhausted.
You hover near the window.
“You tired already, Red?”
She doesn’t answer. Just opens one eye.
“Come here.”
It’s not teasing. It’s not sharp.
It’s soft.
That’s worse.
You cross the room slowly, like you’re approaching something fragile. She shifts to make space without looking at you.
You lie down beside her.
There’s a beat where neither of you move.
Then she rolls onto her side and fits against you like she’s done it a hundred times.
Instinctive.
Her hand slides under your shirt, resting flat against your stomach.
No teasing.
No challenge.
Just warmth.
You smooth your fingers through her hair.
She exhales.
And for fifteen quiet minutes, you don’t talk.
This is the most dangerous part of the day.
Because this isn’t about winning.
When she pulls back first, she masks it fast.
“Don’t get used to that,” she says.
You smirk. “Used to you cuddling?”
“I was conserving energy.”
“For what?”
Her eyes flick up to yours.
Oh.
--
Hotel Three - Early Evening
Rooftop pool. Music low. City glowing.
Natasha in black. Of course she is.
You’re mid-sentence when she steps closer, fingers hooking lightly into your belt loop like she’s just steadying herself.
She leans in.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“Pretty hard not to.”
She hums softly. “Careful.”
You tilt your head. “That a threat?”
She drags her thumb slowly along the inside of your wrist and lets go.
“I learned a few things last night,” she says casually.
“Oh?”
She looks at you through her lashes. Not shy. Not submissive. Just deliberate.
“You like when I pretend I don’t want you.”
You stare at her.
She smiles like she hit something.
Brat.
You step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her chin up slightly.
“And you,” you murmur, “like being handled.”
Her lips part.
But she doesn’t deny it.
Instead she whispers, “Make me.”
Then walks away.
You stand there for a second, stunned and impressed.
She is absolutely gaining confidence.
Good.
--
Midnight Diner
It’s neon and sticky and completely unglamorous.
She steals your fries.
You steal her milkshake.
She’s laughing at something dumb you said, and you realize you’ve never seen her this loose.
Her hand slides across the table.
She laces your fingers together.
Just like that.
No comment.
You look down at your joined hands.
“Public display?” you tease.
She shrugs, sipping her drink with the other hand. “You’ll survive.”
You squeeze her fingers once. "Of course, I will. Don't think I can say the same for you, though."
She squeezes back.
There’s grease on her lip. You wipe it away without thinking.
She freezes slightly.
Not because she doesn’t like it.
Because she does.
“Careful,” she says softly.
“Why?”
Her eyes darken just a touch.
“You’re making me comfortable.”
That’s the most vulnerable thing she’s said all day.
You lean in slightly across the table.
“You already are.”
She doesn’t joke this time.
--
Hotel Four - Nearly Dawn
The hallway is quiet.
Key card. Click.
The door shuts behind you.
For a second, you just stand there.
City lights bleeding through the curtains.
She steps closer first this time.
Not rushed.
Not shy.
Her fingers slide into your shirt collar, tugging you down just enough to brush her mouth against yours.
Slow.
Measured.
You kiss her back gently.
She hums.
Pulls away a fraction.
“Don’t think you’re in charge just because I say yes,” she whispers.
You smile faintly. “You like saying yes.”
Her nails drag lightly down your chest.
“And you,” she says, eyes steady, “like earning it.”
There’s that spark again.
You back her toward the bed this time.
Not aggressive.
Intentional.
She lets you.
But right before the back of her knees hit the mattress, she hooks her foot around yours and flips the momentum just enough that you’re the one sitting first.
She climbs into your lap slowly.
Hands on your shoulders.
Breath warm against your mouth.
“Still think I’m the easy one?” she murmurs.
You grip her hips.
“No,” you admit quietly. “I know you're the easy one.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters whatever like she thought you wouldn't hear her.
Her mouth finds yours again.
Slower.
Deeper.
Her fingers slide into your hair.
Your hands settle at her waist.
The kiss grows heavier.
Her breath hitches softly when you tighten your grip.
She pulls back just enough to whisper—
“You gonna fuck me, or what?”
Pulls away a fraction.
Her breath fans warm against your lips, eyes half-lidded and searching yours in the dim light. You cup her cheek, thumb tracing the soft curve of her jaw, and draw her back in. This kiss deepens slowly, tongues brushing tentative at first, then sliding together in a lazy rhythm that makes your pulse thrum low in your belly.
Natasha's hands find your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to graze the bare skin there. Her touch is light, exploratory, sending little shivers up your spine. You break the kiss just enough to murmur against her mouth, "I've got you. Just let go."
She nods, a small, trusting movement, and you guide her backward toward the bed. Your lips meet again, softer this time, peppering kisses along her jawline as you ease her down onto the mattress. She sinks into the pillows, pulling you with her, legs parting slightly to let you settle between them.
You trail kisses down her neck, sucking gently at the pulse point that flutters under your mouth. Natasha arches a little, her breath hitching, fingers threading into your hair. "Feels good," she whispers, voice already thickening.
"Yeah?" you reply, nipping lightly before soothing with your tongue. Your hands roam her sides, pushing her shirt up to expose her scar and the smooth plane of her stomach. You kiss there too, open-mouthed and warm, feeling her muscles tense and release under your lips.
She tugs at your shirt in response, and you help her pull it off, then do the same for hers. Skin meets skin as you lean down again, capturing her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. Tongues tangle, breaths mingle, and you press your body against hers, the heat building steadily.
Your fingers work at the button of her pants, sliding them down along with her underwear. She lifts her hips to assist, and soon she's bare beneath you, thighs parting wider. You pause to look at her, drinking in the flush on her chest, the way her pussy glistens already, lips swollen with arousal.
"You're so beautiful like this," you say softly, kissing her collarbone. "Open for me."
Natasha's eyes flutter shut as you kiss lower, across her breasts, taking one nipple into your mouth and sucking gently. She moans, a quiet sound that vibrates through you, her hand tightening in your hair. You lavish attention on her chest, licking and kissing until she's squirming, then continue downward, pressing soft kisses along her hip, inner thigh.
When your mouth finally reaches her core, you start slow—lips brushing her folds, tongue flicking lightly over her clit. She gasps, hips bucking up instinctively. "Easy," you soothe, one hand on her thigh to hold her steady. "I've got you. Just breathe and feel it."
You lick her again, broader this time, tasting her wetness as you circle her clit with the flat of your tongue. Natasha whimpers, legs trembling. You slide a finger along her slit, gathering her slick before pushing inside, curling it just right to stroke that sensitive spot.
"That's it," you murmur against her pussy, voice muffled but encouraging. "Let it build. You're doing so well, Red."
She nods, though her eyes are glazing over, mind starting to fog with the rising pleasure. You add a second finger, pumping slowly while your mouth works her clit—sucking softly, then flicking with your tongue. Kisses pepper her inner thighs between licks, keeping the touches tender, unhurried.
Natasha's breaths come in short pants now, her free hand clutching the sheets. "More," she pleads faintly, and you oblige, increasing the pressure just a touch, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue lapping steadily.
The tension coils in her body, thighs quivering around your head. You pull back briefly to kiss her mound, then dive in again, sucking her clit into your mouth while your fingers crook inside her. "Come for me, Natasha," you whisper, lips vibrating against her. "Let it wash over you. I'm right here."
She cries out, back arching as the orgasm hits, pussy clenching around your fingers. You don't stop, easing her through it with gentle licks, drawing out the waves until she's trembling on the edge of too much.
"Shh, almost there," you say, slowing your movements but not ceasing entirely. Your tongue traces lazy circles now, fingers still buried deep, feeling her pulse around them. Her mind fogs further, thoughts scattering into haze as another peak builds, sharper, overwhelming.
Natasha's moans turn to whimpers, body oversensitive yet chasing the release. "Can't—too much," she gasps, but her hips rock against your mouth.
"You can," you encourage softly, kissing her clit before licking again. "One more. For me. Feel how good it is—let it take you."
She shatters a second time, harder, cum coating your fingers as her pussy spasms. You lap at her gently, prolonging the bliss until she's boneless, mind utterly lost in the fog of pleasure, breaths ragged and eyes distant.
Finally, you withdraw, crawling up to kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on your tongue. She clings to you, soft and spent, as you hold her close in the quiet aftermath.
You don’t rush her.
That’s the first thing.
Natasha is still half-floating when you settle beside her, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and her uneven breathing. Her lashes flutter like she’s trying to come back to earth slowly, cautiously.
You brush a strand of hair off her forehead.
“Hey,” you murmur gently.
Her eyes open a little more. They’re glassy. Unfocused.
“…Hi,” she breathes.
You smile softly.
“Still with me?”
She swallows, then nods once. “Yeah. Just—” She exhales shakily. “That was…”
“Intense?” you offer.
A faint huff escapes her. “My first...sex...like that.”
You lean in and press a slow kiss to her temple. “I may be quite the persistent shit most of the time, but I can be soft. You're safe with me.”
That’s when she fully melts.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just the subtle shift — her shoulders dropping, her fingers curling into your shirt like she needs something solid to anchor to.
You slide an arm around her waist and pull her against you carefully, letting her rest her head on your chest. Her skin is still warm, still sensitive. You keep your touch slow, soothing — fingertips tracing lazy patterns along her spine.
She shivers once.
“Cold?” you ask immediately.
She shakes her head. “No. Just… here.”
You adjust anyway, pulling the blanket up over her bare shoulders. She makes a small, content sound that she’ll absolutely pretend you imagined later.
For a while, you just hold her.
No teasing.
No cat-and-mouse.
Just steady breathing and the rhythm of your heartbeat under her ear.
Her fingers drag lightly across your ribs.
“You’re very smug,” she mutters, voice soft and sleepy.
You glance down at her. “I know.”
“Hm,” she presses her cheek harder against you. “I can feel it.”
You laugh quietly. “You did very well.”
She goes still.
Then her nails dig lightly into your side.
“Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start talking like that again.”
You grin into her hair. “Like what?”
“Like I’m…” She trails off, searching for the word.
“Like you let go?” you finish gently.
Silence.
She doesn’t deny it.
Her hand slides higher, resting flat over your heart now.
“You kept your promise,” she says after a moment.
Your brow softens. “Which one?”
“That you had me.”
It’s quiet. Barely above a whisper.
You tip her chin up so she has to look at you.
“I meant it.”
She studies your face like she’s checking for cracks, for manipulation, for a trap.
There isn’t one.
That seems to settle something in her.
Her thumb drifts along your collarbone lazily. “You talk a lot,” she murmurs.
“Says you.”
“…Shush.”
There’s that brat edge again — softer now, dulled by satisfaction and trust.
You press a kiss to her forehead.
“Drink some water,” you say gently.
She groans dramatically. “Don’t ruin this moment.”
“I’m not ruining it. I’m being responsible.”
“You’re...whatever, man.”
“Drink some water.”
She rolls her eyes but lets you shift long enough to grab the glass from the nightstand. You hold it to her lips instead of handing it over.
She narrows her eyes at you.
“You’re not feeding me.”
“Open.”
A beat.
She absolutely considers arguing.
Then she sighs and takes a sip.
You try not to look too pleased.
When she finishes, you set the glass down and slide back under the blanket with her.
This time, she doesn’t wait.
She climbs onto you fully, resting between your legs, chin tucked over your sternum like that’s where she belongs. Her skin is warm and bare against yours, but there’s nothing frantic about it now.
Just closeness.
Her fingers draw lazy shapes against your stomach.
“You’re not allowed to tell anyone,” she mumbles.
“About?”
She tilts her head up slightly. “That I sound like that.”
You grin. “Like what?”
Her glare is weak but present. “You know.”
You lean down and kiss the corner of her mouth.
“Relax, Red. That’s just for me.”
Her cheeks tint faintly.
She hides it by tucking her face back against your chest.
Minutes pass.
The city outside hums faintly.
Her breathing evens out again.
Right when you think she might actually drift off, she speaks.
“Next time,” she murmurs sleepily, “I’m not asking.”
Your fingers pause in her hair.
“Oh?”
She shifts slightly, brushing her mouth over your skin lazily.
“You think you’re the only one who can make someone lose their mind?”
There it is.
Not dominance.
Not control.
Just quiet confidence.
You smile into the dark.
“I look forward to it.”
She hums, satisfied with that answer.
And this time when she falls asleep, she doesn’t pretend it was an accident.
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
vaporwave
areudirty
andulkaphoto
