She's... 'busy'?
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. (Fluff version)
(Angst) Part 4.
Masterlist.
Summary: Natasha has been coming home later and later... and this time, she came home with an unusual scent to her. Her collar marked with a red lipstick you know isn't yours.
TW: Cheating implied... (😬), drinking (a shot), mean Natasha (she's defensive in a toxic way), reader 'apologises', kinda just shuts down and answers Natasha the way she wanted to be answered, reader kinda breaks down?? angst, and uh, arguing, yeah...
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These past few months Natasha had been coming home late. Each time later than the last.
And each time you were met with the excuse, "I was working." Or "The team needed me for a meeting." Or "Mission debriefs ran late." Each excuse is related to work. Never sparing you a second glance as she would trudge upstairs to your shared bedroom.
Tonight was the last night. You were ready to put an end to it all. All the late nights, all the meaningless promises to change. It was going to end tonight.
You stood up from the couch as you heard the front door open. You walked over to find Natasha in a black suit, her wrinkled white shirt buttoned down as her tie hung loosely around her neck.
You crossed your arms over your chest as you took in the sight of her. She clearly drank. Clearly it wasn't 'just' a meeting for a mission brief.
The redhead took one look at you, with a huffed out sigh she spoke, "Listen, sweetheart. I'm not in the mood for another one of your... rants." She walked past you to the kitchen.
"We need to talk, Natasha," you trailed behind her. "It's serious," you urged on as you watched her open a bottle of vodka, pouring herself a shot.
"My ears are already ringing," she replied as she downed the shot. "You've been coming home late-" you start before you get interrupted. "I have a job to do."
You sigh, "Which excuse is it this time, Natasha? Meeting debrief? Maybe staying late to do mission reports?-"
"Watch your mouth," she harshly spoke.
You flinch as you hear her voice, "Where have you been, Natasha?" You urged on, nearly begging for her answer. "What, you need me to fucking spell it out for you?" She mocks, "Work. You know how it is. I had to do mission reports."
You eye her wrinkled clothes, "Is that all?"
You push, knowing she doesn't know about you popping into the compound. Tony mentioned a party that was happening tonight, saying that you should join Natasha, however, your girlfriend failed to mention the party. Failed to mention Tony's invite. And what she was actually doing tonight.
You left the compound with a shake of your head, wiping your tears away in the car as you adjusted your rear-view mirror. You knew this had to end. You couldn't continue in this cycle. You knew you deserved better. But you just couldn't... leave her.
Now you're standing in your kitchen in front of a partied-out Natasha, clothes wrinkled while she lied bluntly to your face so much as so without blinking.
"I'm worried, Natasha," you push on, "I've been worried." The russian groans, "Here you go again." She leans against the kitchen counter, her head leans back against the cabinet behind her. With her white shirt open, her collar adjusts slightly to the side.
And that's when you notice it.
A small, purple-bluish bruise on her neck. A hickie.
One you know for certain you never gave her.
Your jaw ticks as your eyes immediately gloss over. Natasha eyed you down, "You gonna cry now? Because I don't come home early?"
You shake your head, "No." She folds her arms over her chest, her silver necklace standing out against her sweaty skin. "Then what?" She spat out. "Nothing," you swallowed, "it's fine. I was... overreacting." You blinked away your tears as you glanced else where in the kitchen area.
The fluorescent light suddenly seems too bright. Too loud. You can almost hear a ringing in your ears.
"Aren't you always?" The redhead rolled her eyes with another scoff. "You're right. I'm over it," you shrug, playing it off. Natasha took in your change of demeanour, eyeing you up and down. The russian stalks towards you as you stood still against your own will.
You feel her hand cup your face as her thumb brushes over your cheekbone. Her face leaned in closer to yours, her lips grazing yours, "Good." With that simple word, she kissed you.
You didn't have time to process her kissing you as it was gone before you realised it had happened. Your mind is too focused on the strong perfume she never had on earlier. A perfume you know she wouldn't own.
She didn't say another word, rather give a small smile that felt like a mock, as she trudged upstairs to your shared bedroom.
You broke down right then and there. Bent over the kitchen Island, head in your hands as your shoulders shake as you sob. Silencing your tears as best you can.
You were done. Done feeling this way. Done feeling so... easily cast off to the side. As if you were the second option. Your thoughts were confirmed by the clear hickie on her neck, which explained her wrinkled clothing and her loose tie around her neck. Your nose is still stinging from the strong perfume from the kiss earlier.
You always gave her a second chance. Always have been so thoughtful. So supportive of her work. You never left her side. Not once.
But apparently, it already seems as if she's left you first.
Only bringing you along for pity. Perhaps for her own pleasure. Maybe both. As long as she had you, she knew you'd never leave. And as long as you were with her you knew you'd never leave, even if she was the first to leave. No matter how hard you fought for her to stay.
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Uh... yeah 🤷♀️
