Summary: Natasha teases you all day, leaving you a complete mess.
Here!
Best Friends (18+)
Older!Natasha (36) x G!P Shy!Reader (23)
Summary: A confession between best friends turn heated when they are alone in the tower.
Here!
Smooth Talker (18+)
Undercover Cop!Natasha x G!P Bartender!Reader
Summary: A flirty bartender hits on an undercover cop. Disappointment hits when the beautiful redhead leaves, but it disappears once she shows up at the end of your shift…
Here!
Coach's Rules (18+)
G!P Top!Natasha x Bottom!Brat!Wanda
Summary: Mrs. Maximoff and Coach Romanoff struggle to keep their hands off each other at work.
Here!
Just wanted a hoodie (18+)
G!P Natasha x Reader
Summary: Your goal was to borrow a hoodie, not find something so private. But little do you know, the owner watches you…
Here!
You already know (18+)
G!P Alpha!Natasha x Omega!Reader
Summary: Natasha doesn't think twice over it, little does she know that it's so much more than that
Here!
The baby that never cried (newly updated version)
Natasha x pregnant!reader
Summary: As you’re getting ready to welcome your first child into the world, something goes wrong...
Here!
Permanent
Natasha x Reader
Summary: you get a tattoo when your girlfriend told you not to
Here!
Perfection is with you
Natasha x Reader
Summary: you and Natasha start getting settled
Here!
Silence
Teacher!Wanda x Childrens Welfare!Natsha x Child!Reader
Summary: Ms. Maximoff, your teacher, notices something is wrong so her wife helps her find out what's going on with you
Here!
___________
Multi-oneshots:
Front pocket
G!P Alpha!Natasha x Stripper!Omega!Reader
Summary: Natasha finds her true Omega, claming her as her own.
pt. 1 (18+) , pt. 2 (18+)
Watch
Bottom!Natasha x G!P Top!Wanda (x Reader)
Summary: After walking in on your best friends, something in all of you change…
pt. 1 (18+) , pt. 2 (18+)
___________
Mini-series:
. Breathe series* . Phone Girl series* .
Breathe
Little Sister!Natasha x Older Sister!Reader
Summary: You surprise your baby sister for her birthday, revealing heartbreaking things about her, and your past.
Pt.1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4
Phone Girl
Struggling!Natasha x Crisis Line!Reader
Summary: Natasha is struggling mentally and finds comfort in a calm crisis line worker.
Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4 , Pt. 5
Saint of the Abyss
Nun!Natasha x Lilith!Reader
To be continued...
Sex is Art
Model!Natasha x Painter!Reader
To be continued...
___________
*1 Breathe series includes fluff and angst.
*2 Phone Girl series include fluff, angst and smut.
I really like your silence fic!! My favorite part was when little R freaked out in the car so she sat with Wanda in the front. I feel like this dynamic isn’t written as much as it used to be in the marvel fandom and it’s now mostly focused on romance between Wandanat and R. So I’m so happy to have found your fic!! 🥰
would you ever write this dynamic again?
Absolutely!
I'm glad you enjoy the fic, and I totally agree. I'm working on a miniseries that will be quite interesting... So stay tuned!
Summary: Natasha haven’t had nightmares in years, luckily her newly established girlfriend was there for this one
Warnings: nightmare, red room discussed briefly
W.C.: 1.4K
A.N.: We need more hurt/comfort with these two
Natasha Romanoff did not have nightmares.
At least, that was what everyone assumed.
The Avengers had seen her patched up after missions, half-conscious from blood loss, walking on injuries that should have put anyone else in a hospital bed.
They had seen her face impossible odds without flinching.
Nobody had ever seen her wake up screaming.
Not even Wanda.
Especially not Wanda.
Which was why, at 3:47 AM, Wanda nearly launched herself off the bed when she heard a sharp, strangled sound come from Natasha.
She had fallen asleep reading.
Natasha had insisted she take the bed.
Wanda had insisted they share it.
Natasha had turned pink, muttered something about “being perfectly capable of sleeping alone,” and somehow ended up sharing the bed anyway.
Now the room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the curtains.
Natasha was thrashing.
Not violently. Desperately.
Like she was trying to run underwater.
“Nat.”
No response.
Her breathing was ragged.
“Baby.”
Wanda sat up immediately.
She could have used her magic.
She could have slipped into Natasha’s mind, untangled whatever terror lived there.
But Natasha’s mind was hers.
Always hers.
So Wanda just reached out and touched her shoulder.
“Natasha.”
The reaction was instant.
Natasha bolted upright with a gasp.
Her eyes were wide.
Wild.
Searching.
For one awful second she looked ready to fight something that wasn’t there.
Then she saw Wanda.
The panic didn’t disappear.
But it cracked.
“Hey,” Wanda said softly.
Natasha stared at her.
Her chest rose and fell too fast.
Wanda had seen her calm down from gunfights quicker than this.
“You’re okay.”
Natasha swallowed.
Her voice came out rough.
‘’Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I woke you up.”
Wanda almost laughed.
Instead she moved closer.
‘’Come here.”
Natasha froze.
Normally she would have deflected.
Made a joke.
Changed the subject.
Pretended everything was fine.
Instead something in her expression crumpled.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough for Wanda to see how exhausted she really was.
Natasha leaned forward.
And folded.
There was no elegance to it.
No careful preservation of dignity.
She simply pressed her forehead into Wanda’s shoulder and let herself be held.
Wanda wrapped both arms around her immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Natasha made a small sound.
A sound Wanda had never heard before.
Not crying.
Not quite.
Just tired.
So tired.
“It’s okay,” Wanda murmured.
Natasha’s hands gripped the back of her shirt.
“You don’t have to fix it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
A weak laugh escaped Natasha.
The tension eased a fraction.
They sat like that for a long time.
The apartment was silent.
The city outside slept.
Wanda felt Natasha’s heartbeat gradually slow beneath her cheek.
Eventually Natasha spoke.
“So that’s embarrassing.”
“No.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You had a nightmare.”
“I haven’t had one in forever.”
Wanda rubbed circles against her back.
“Then maybe it was overdue.”
“That’s not how nightmares work.”
“I don’t know. I’m not an expert.”
“You literally alter reality.”
“Different department.”
That got another laugh.
Small.
But real.
When Natasha finally pulled back, her eyes were tired but clearer.
“Are you hungry?” Wanda asked suddenly.
Natasha blinked.
“What?”
“I don’t know. This feels like a cereal situation.”
“A cereal situation?”
“Definitely.”
“You made that up.”
“Yes.”
Natasha considered it.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later they were sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor.
Because somehow neither of them had bothered with chairs.
A box of cereal sat between them.
Two oversized bowls balanced in their laps.
The microwave clock glowed 4:03 AM.
Wanda was still wearing one of Natasha’s hoodies.
The sleeves covered half her hands.
Natasha kept staring into her cereal.
Like she was deciding whether to speak.
Wanda waited.
Eventually Natasha said quietly,
“I dream about hallways.”
Wanda looked up.
Natasha’s eyes stayed on the bowl.
“The Red Room?”
A nod.
“The hallways are always empty.”
Her spoon traced a circle through the milk.
“And I know something terrible is about to happen.”
She laughed softly.
“Dream logic.”
Wanda stayed silent.
“The weird part is that nobody’s chasing me.”
Natasha’s voice grew distant.
“I’m usually the one looking.”
“For who?”
A long pause.
Natasha swallowed.
“The girls.”
Wanda’s chest tightened.
The girls.
The ones who never got out.
The ones Natasha could never stop thinking about.
“They never appear,” Natasha continued. “I just keep opening doors.”
One after another.
One after another.
One after another.
“And every room is empty.”
The kitchen felt smaller somehow.
More intimate.
Like the darkness outside the windows had wrapped around them.
Natasha stared into space.
“I think that’s the worst part.”
‘’What is?”
“The possibility that I forgot someone.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“Someone I should have saved.”
Wanda reached across the floor and took her hand.
Natasha squeezed it immediately.
Like she hadn’t realized how much she needed the contact.
“I know that’s irrational.”
“It’s understandable.”
“I remember faces.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I remember details nobody else would remember.”
Wanda listened.
“The way they braided their hair. Which ones hummed when they trained. Who hated winter.”
Natasha blinked.
“And still I wake up wondering if somebody disappeared and I never noticed.”
The confession seemed to cost her something.
Like it had been trapped inside her for years.
Wanda brushed her thumb across Natasha’s knuckles.
“You’ve never told anyone that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
A humorless smile appeared.
“Because I’m Natasha Romanoff.”
“That’s a terrible reason.”
“I know.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Natasha surprised herself.
“I used to think if I stopped carrying all of it, I’d lose them.”
Wanda frowned slightly.
“The people you couldn’t save.”
Natasha nodded.
“So I kept everything.”
Every memory.
Every regret.
Every name.
Every possibility.
“As if forgetting for one second would mean they never existed.”
The words hung between them.
Raw.
Honest.
The kind of honesty that only arrived at four in the morning when the world was quiet enough to hear it.
Wanda set her bowl aside.
Then moved closer until their knees touched.
“You know what I think?”
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“I think you’ve been carrying entire cemeteries by yourself.”
Natasha’s expression softened.
“And?”
“And I think that’s too heavy for one person.”
Something flickered in Natasha’s eyes.
Relief.
Not because the burden disappeared.
Because someone had finally seen it.
For years she’d been surrounded by people who respected her strength.
Wanda respected it too.
But Wanda also saw the cost.
The exhaustion.
The loneliness hidden underneath.
Natasha leaned sideways until her head rested against Wanda’s shoulder.
Neither mentioned it.
Neither had to.
The cereal grew soggy.
The clock crept toward 4:30.
Natasha kept talking.
About memories.
About fears.
About things she’d buried so deeply she wasn’t sure she’d ever say them aloud.
Wanda listened to every word.
Never interrupting.
Never trying to solve anything.
Just listening.
When the sky finally began turning pale beyond the windows, Natasha’s voice had gone quiet.
“Thank you.”
Wanda kissed the top of her head.
“For what?”
Natasha thought about it.
For staying.
For listening.
For not looking at her differently.
For not trying to fix her.
For making the nightmare survivable.
“For the cereal,” she said.
Wanda snorted.
‘’You’re impossible.”
A faint smile appeared on Natasha’s face.
The first real smile of the night.
Then she tucked herself closer against Wanda’s side and closed her eyes.
Safe.
Warm.
Held.
And for the first time since the nightmare, Natasha felt something she almost never allowed herself to feel.
Summary: Sister Natasha, a young nun in a remote monastery, begins to sense something terrifying lurking in the abbey’s ancient halls.
Warnings: Religious horror, demonic themes, psychological tension, dead animals
W.C: 2.5K
A.N: The start of something incredible, let me tell you. The story is already written, and a new chapter will be posted every Friday at 18 (CEST) for the next few weeks.
-, Pt. 2 , ...
The bells woke the monastery at four.
Natasha had already risen before them.
She sat upright in darkness for several moments before the first toll sounded, the blanket folded neatly across her lap, listening to the silence breathe around her.
The dormitory smelled faintly of candle wax and old linen. Rain tapped softly against the high windows overhead, though the storm had weakened sometime during the night. Around her, the other sisters still slept beneath pale blankets, their breathing uneven and heavy with dreams.
Natasha envied them sometimes.
Not their faith.
Their ease.
The first bell rang.
Several sisters stirred immediately.
A groan sounded somewhere near the far wall.
“Oh, merciful Lord,” Sister Yelena muttered into her pillow, “if devotion requires consciousness before sunrise, I fear I shall never become holy.”
A few sleepy laughs spread through the room.
Natasha lowered her gaze to hide the smile threatening her mouth.
“You say this every morning,” Sister Marta whispered while tying back dark curls beneath her veil.
“And every morning I am correct.”
Yelena finally sat upright, glaring at the bell tower as if personally betrayed by it.
“You’re awake already?” she asked Natasha incredulously. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“A while.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“She doesn’t sleep,” Sister Marta said solemnly. “I’m convinced she simply powers down for an hour and waits for dawn.”
Natasha stood, smoothing her robes calmly. “Maybe God favours discipline.”
“Or maybe,” Yelena leaned in dramatically, “God fears you.”
More laughter.
Warmth flickered briefly through Natasha’s chest.
Small moments like this existed carefully within the monastery—quiet pockets of humanity hidden beneath ritual and restraint. Most outsiders imagined convent life as endless silence and prayer, but silence became unbearable without companionship to soften it.
Even Natasha understood that.
Sometimes.
The sisters dressed together beneath dim lantern light, exchanging murmured complaints about chores, weather, and aching knees from prayer.
Marta nearly walked into a bedpost while half asleep.
Sister Yelena snorted loudly enough to earn a warning glance from Sister Agnes.
Natasha watched all of it quietly while fastening the sleeves at her wrists.
She noticed things.
Always had.
The way Sister Marta rubbed at her shoulder when storms approached because old injuries ached in the cold.
The way Sister Yelena spoke more loudly whenever she felt uncertain.
The exhaustion beneath Sister Agnes’s eyes that prayer no longer seemed to fix.
Patterns comforted Natasha.
People became easier to understand when observed carefully enough.
“Sister Natasha.”
She glanced up.
Yelena tossed her an apple stolen from yesterday’s supper.
“You forgot breakfast again yesterday.”
“I was working.”
“You are always working.”
Natasha caught the apple easily. “Thank you.”
“See?” Marta whispered dramatically to Yelena. “Emotion. Gratitude. She does feel things.”
Natasha rolled her eyes faintly, which only encouraged them further.
By the time they entered the chapel together, dawn had barely begun staining the mountains beyond the stained glass windows.
Candles flickered across ancient stone.
The abbey was old enough that no one remembered who had first built it. Some parts dated back centuries further than recorded history, buried beneath newer walls and renovations like bones beneath skin.
Natasha loved those older places most.
The forgotten halls.
The sealed doors.
The silence hidden beneath the monastery’s daily rhythm.
Morning prayer began.
The sisters bowed their heads.
Natasha recited every verse perfectly from memory.
But midway through the litany, she became aware of something strange.
Not a sound.
A feeling.
As though someone stood directly behind her.
Watching.
Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“…deliver us from evil…”
The sensation deepened.
Cold prickled slowly across the back of her neck.
Natasha resisted the urge to turn around immediately. Instead, she listened first.
No footsteps.
No breathing.
Nothing except prayer echoing softly through the chapel.
Still—
Someone was there.
She looked.
The back of the chapel remained empty.
Only darkness gathered between the pillars.
Natasha frowned slightly before forcing herself to face forward again.
Fatigue, perhaps.
The storm had disrupted everyone’s sleep.
Yet even after prayer ended, unease lingered beneath her ribs.
As the sisters rose from the pews, Yelena bumped lightly into Natasha’s shoulder.
“You look haunted.”
“I’m fine.”
“That answer usually means the opposite.”
Natasha almost responded but stopped.
One of the candles near the altar had gone out.
Thin smoke curled upward into still air.
Mother Superior noticed it too.
Her expression tightened briefly before she crossed herself.
“Storm pressure,” Sister Agnes murmured.
No one argued.
But Natasha continued staring at the extinguished candle long after the others had moved on.
The monastery settled into routine as morning passed.
Laundry.
Scripture study.
Kitchen work.
Natasha spent most of the afternoon repairing damaged texts in the library alongside Marta, whose true calling in life seemed to be complaining softly while doing meticulous work anyway.
“This ink is older than civilization,” Marta muttered, squinting at faded lettering. “If I inhale enough dust today, tell them I died beautifully.”
“You say that every week.”
“And one week I shall be right.”
Natasha smiled faintly without looking up from her work.
Rain hammered against the tall windows harder now.
The storm had returned by midday with unnatural force. Wind bent the trees beyond the cliffs violently enough that several younger sisters began whispering about divine warnings again.
The abbey disliked storms.
It became restless during them.
Doors creaked without wind.
Floors groaned at strange hours.
The older sisters crossed themselves more often.
By evening, even Mother Superior seemed unsettled.
“The western halls are to remain locked tonight,” she instructed during supper. “No one is to wander after prayer.”
Yelena leaned toward Natasha immediately.
“The western halls,” she whispered ominously. “Where ghosts and ancient sins reside.”
“Or storage.”
“That is far less interesting.”
“The answer is usually the less interesting option.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “One day your practicality will ruin my appreciation for drama.”
Natasha took another bite of bread.
But quietly she thought about the feeling from the chapel again.
Watching.
Waiting.
When evening prayer ended, Mother Superior stopped Natasha near the chapel doors.
“The keys,” she said softly, holding up the pair between them gracefully.
“You trust me too much.”
Natasha accepted them.
“I trust your discipline.”
Not the same thing.
The western corridor lay beneath the oldest section of the monastery.
Few sisters liked going there after dark.
Natasha had never minded it before.
Lantern in hand, she descended the narrow stone staircase alone while thunder rolled somewhere beyond the mountains.
The air grew colder underground.
Older.
The corridor stretched ahead beneath low arches blackened by time.
Ancient paintings lined the walls, saints fading slowly into shadow until their faces became impossible to distinguish from the dark surrounding them.
Natasha locked the first door carefully.
Then the second.
Rain battered the monastery above her.
Another step.
Another lock.
Then—
silence.
Complete silence.
Natasha stopped instantly.
The storm had vanished.
No thunder.
No rain.
No lantern crackling in her hand.
Nothing.
A sharp chill slid slowly down her spine.
Her breathing sounded suddenly too loud.
The corridor behind her remained empty.
But every instinct inside her screamed that she was no longer alone.
Natasha’s grip tightened around the lantern.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
Then the lantern dimmed.
Not flickered.
Dimmed.
As though darkness itself pressed against the flame.
Fear struck hard and immediately this time.
Real fear.
The kind that hollowed the stomach.
Natasha stepped backward instinctively.
Something moved at the far end of the corridor.
Not fully visible.
A shape.
Too large.
For one impossible second, she thought she saw the outline of horns emerging from the dark.
Then the shadow moved again—
closer.
Natasha’s breath caught sharply.
Every survival instinct she possessed surged violently to life.
Run.
The thought hit with terrifying clarity.
Run now.
And for the first time in years—
Natasha panicked.
She turned immediately, lantern shaking in her grip as she hurried back down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed too loudly against stone, breath quickening despite every attempt to steady it.
Behind her—
nothing.
No footsteps.
No pursuit.
That somehow frightened her more.
The staircase appeared ahead.
Natasha climbed it quickly, nearly missing a step before forcing herself to slow down. By the time she reached the upper halls again, her pulse hammered painfully against her throat.
Warm candlelight greeted her.
Voices.
Safety.
Several sisters still lingered near the kitchens preparing tea before bed.
Sister Yelena looked up first.
“There you are,” she said. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.”
A lie.
Marta frowned immediately. “Sister.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Too sharp.
The room fell quiet.
Natasha lowered her eyes a moment later, regaining control.
That frightened them more than if she had screamed.
“I’ll bring you tea,” Marta said softly.
Natasha nodded absently.
But even surrounded by candlelight and familiar voices, she could still feel it.
Watching.
Patient.
-///-
Natasha said nothing that night.
And not during breakfast the next day, nor morning prayers.
Not while Sister Marta complained bitterly over burned porridge or while Yelena attempted to steal dried figs from the kitchens and nearly got caught by Sister Agnes in the process.
Natasha moved through the day exactly as she always did.
Measured.
Calm.
Controlled.
Only the slightest shadows beneath her eyes suggested otherwise.
Several times, she caught herself listening too carefully whenever corridors fell quiet.
Once, while shelving texts in the library, she turned abruptly after sensing movement behind her, only to find empty space.
The feeling remained.
Not constant.
Intermittent.
Awareness without presence.
As though something had noticed her specifically.
And was waiting.
By evening, the storm returned again.
Harder this time.
Rain struck the monastery windows violently enough to rattle the glass. Wind moaned through ancient stone like something grieving beneath the mountain.
The sisters crossed themselves more often.
Even supper felt subdued.
“The livestock outside the eastern village were found dead this morning,” Sister Agnes murmured quietly near the end of the meal.
Yelena frowned. “From the storm?”
“No marks on them.”
Marta immediately muttered a prayer beneath her breath.
Mother Superior silenced further discussion with a single glance.
But unease spread anyway.
Natasha kept her eyes lowered toward her untouched bread.
No marks.
The words settled unpleasantly in her chest.
That night, the western halls remained locked.
Mother Superior assigned Sister Beatrice to check the lower storage rooms before compline.
Beatrice was older than most of the sisters, practical and sharp-tongued enough that even Yelena feared her disapproval slightly.
If anyone could walk those corridors without trembling, it would be her.
Natasha watched Beatrice take the lantern and keys without complaint.
Something cold tightened slowly beneath her ribs.
“Mother,” Natasha said carefully, “perhaps I should go instead.”
Mother Superior looked surprised. “Why?”
Natasha hesitated too long.
“Because I know the corridors better.”
Beatrice snorted softly. “And I know how to lock a door without getting lost in thought.”
A few sisters smiled faintly.
Natasha did not.
Mother Superior shook her head once. “It will not take long.”
Beatrice disappeared down the staircase alone.
The monastery settled into evening prayer.
Rain battered the chapel roof overhead.
Minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
Natasha became increasingly aware of every sound around her.
Candles flickering.
Pages turning.
Yelena whispering softly beside Marta.
Her pulse began climbing slowly.
Mother Superior noticed first.
“Sister Natasha?”
Before she could answer—
a scream tore violently through the monastery.
Every sister froze.
The sound came from below.
Another scream followed immediately.
Frantic.
Broken.
Several younger sisters gasped in terror.
Mother Superior stood instantly. “Stay here.”
But Natasha was already moving.
She reached the staircase first, lantern clutched tightly in one hand as she descended into darkness two steps at a time.
“Sister Beatrice!”
No answer.
Only ragged sobbing echoed faintly through the corridor below.
Natasha rounded the corner sharply and nearly collided with Sister Beatrice stumbling toward her.
The older woman looked unrecognizable.
Her face had gone completely bloodless. Tears streaked wildly down her cheeks beneath a look of absolute animal terror.
The lantern had vanished.
“Sister—”
“Don’t let it touch me,” Beatice choked out immediately.
Natasha grabbed her shoulders before she collapsed outright.
“What happened?”
Beatrice’s hands shook violently against Natasha’s sleeves.
“There’s something down there.”
The words came out barely coherent.
“In the dark—I saw—I saw—”
Her breathing hitched painfully.
Natasha felt her own pulse spike hard beneath her skin.
“What did you see?” she asked quietly.
Beatrice stared directly into her eyes.
And whispered:
“Horns.”
The corridor suddenly felt much colder.
Behind them, Mother Superior and several sisters reached the staircase landing.
Beatrice broke immediately upon seeing them.
“It looked at me,” she cried. “God forgive me, it looked right at me—”
Mother Superior crossed herself sharply. “Bring her upstairs. Now.”
The sisters hurried Beatrice away carefully while she continued sobbing prayers under her breath.
Natasha remained still in the corridor.
Watching the darkness beyond the lantern light.
Watching it watch her back.
Because now she knew.
She had not imagined it.
-///-
Fear spread quickly through the monastery after that.
No one slept properly.
Natasha noticed something important.
No one asked exactly what Beatrice had seen.
They were afraid to know.
The younger sisters whispered prayers long after. Several demanded the western halls be sealed entirely. Some suggesting they moved further from the halls. Sister Agnes insisted they request a priest from the nearest village by morning.
Mother Superior agreed and gathered the sisters after supper.
“Until Father Victor arrives,” she said calmly, “the lower halls will remain under supervision. No one is to go there alone.”
Silence followed.
Then Natasha spoke.
“I’ll go.”
Several heads turned immediately.
Mother Superior frowned. ‘’Sister—’’
“I know the corridors best.”
“That is not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
The question came too quickly.
Too directly.
Mother Superior studied her carefully.
Natasha kept her expression neutral despite feeling every eye in the room settle onto her.
Finally, Mother Superior sighed quietly.
“You will not go alone.”
“I don’t need—”
“You will go with Sister Agnes.”
Argument rose instinctively inside Natasha before she forced it down.
“…Yes, Mother.”
Sister Agnes looked far from pleased.
The following night, they descended together carrying lanterns and scripture.
Natasha remained acutely aware of Agnes beside her the entire time.
Every footstep.
Every nervous prayer.
Every trembling breath.
Nothing happened.
The corridor remained silent.
Empty.
The doors locked normally. The shadows stayed motionless against stone walls.
No extinguished flames.
No presence.
No horns waiting in darkness.
Sister Agnes nearly laughed in relief by the time they returned upstairs.
“You see?” she said shakily. “Storm nerves. Fear spreads easily.”
Natasha said nothing.
Because the entire time they had walked below, she had felt it.
its about stucky& teen reader where reader is struggling with a smoking addiction and they dont tell steve or bucky and they just find out on their own? (with a little bit of angst and fluff, but its up to you! thank you if u see this🤍)
Addict
Dad!Stucky & Teen!Reader
[A/N] Happy Friday everyone, this week seems to have gone much quicker with Bank Holiday Monday ❤️ I am working this weekend 😭 Does anyone else have any fun plans? Thanks for this request my sweetie, hope you enjoy 😘
You reach into your backpack, pulling out a can of deodorant and quickly spray it all over your body. You’re a little sweaty from the walk home but that’s not the main reason you need so much deodorant - you want to try and keep the stench of cigarettes from your clothes. It was advice that your best friend had given you but it wasn’t like they had super soldiers for parents. You needed an even more generous amount of deodorant if you wanted to have a chance in Hell of hiding the stench from your Dads’.
Evenings and weekends are always long now. It’s easier to find a quiet place at school to smoke but at home, there’s no chance of you getting away with smoking a cigarette in the tiny apartment your Dads’ rent, they’d sniff you out like bloodhounds. Sometimes you can get away with saying you want to stretch your legs, and you can sneak one whilst walking around the block. If your Dads’ realise that they need anything from the store you’ll quickly volunteer to go fetch it, just so you can sneak a cigarette on the walk over. It’s a lot of mental gymnastics for something you didn’t really want to do in the first place.
Your Dads’, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, have always been strict – soldiers raised in the 1930’s do tend to be like that. Since you’d started High School you’d struggled with their strict code though. You loved them both but they weren’t willing to let you take any risks or figure things out for yourself. Your curfew was way earlier than the rest of your friends, and it was an absolute no to any parties. Which is why you’d told them a little fib a few months ago, and had asked if you could stop at a friend’s house. And you had spent the night there – when you’d both got back from a party.
One of your classmates’ parents were away so they’d thrown a teen party, and you’d told yourself you’d be sensible. It hadn’t exactly gone the way you’d thought though, and you and your best friend had drank far more than you’d intended. When someone had offered you a cigarette you’d initially said no, but then someone had sneered, “Y/N? No way, they’re a goodie two shoes.”
That wasn’t the reputation you wanted to leave school with. So you’d accepted, joining in with the laughter when you’d coughed and spluttered after your first drag. By the time you’d finished it though it was far easier. You’d accepted another one, and then another one. After the party, you’d assumed that was that - you wouldn’t smoke again. Until you’d found you were struggling to concentrate because all you wanted was another nicotine hit. You’d thought you’d need to smoke far more to get an addiction but three cigarettes at a dumb party was all it had taken.
Someone at school with a fake ID gets you the cigarettes, selling them on to you for a higher price. It takes up all of your allowance but you don’t have much of a choice. Smoking wasn’t something you’d wanted to start up but giving them up now felt impossible. One of the worst parts was sneaking around and hiding it from your Dads’. Every time you snuck a cigarette you felt like you’d proved them right. You’d gone to just one party and now you were addicted to the stupid things.
“Hey kid,” Steve calls out when he hears you let yourself in. “How was school?”
“Fine,” You call back, kicking off your shoes, hoping to head straight to your room.
“Got any homework?”
“Some.”
You hear him getting up from the couch and groan internally. Shouldn’t have kept it so vague, your parents are not put off by lack of details, they always want to know more. Sure enough, Steve appears in the hallway, his arms folded, “What’s ‘some’?”
“I got a History paper due on Friday then just some simple Maths equations for tomorrow. I’ll get it done.”
Steve doesn’t say anything for a long moment and you avoid his gaze, hoping that you used enough deodorant. You’re worried you’ve already grown ‘nose blind’ to the cigarette smoke, and with your Dad’s super soldier senses… Eventually Steve nods, “Don’t leave that paper to the last minute. Get a head start on it.”
“Yeah, I’ve got my opening paragraph and most of the source references, I just need to… Actually put it together.”
“Do you want any help?”
“I’ll be okay. Thanks though.”
Steve nods, looking you up and down for a moment, “Is everything okay kiddo?”
You swallow hard, wiping your hands on your jeans, “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure? You seem a little distant lately. Your Dad and I are getting a bit worried-”
“There’s really nothing to worry about-”
“It’s just… You know we’d help you, right? If you needed it.” Steve unfolds his arms to run his fingers through his hair, fixing you with that look. The look that makes you feel like he can see right through you and knows all of your secrets. “I know you’re growing up but you don’t have to fix everything on your own.”
After a moment’s hesitation you wipe your hands on your jeans again and nod, “Everything’s fine Papa. Really.”
Steve looks at you again for a long moment before sighing, “Okay. Dinner will be ready at six.”
Now you’ve been officially dismissed, you dart to your room and try to focus on your homework. Your Dads’ had raised you to work on your homework the night it was set so that it didn’t all get on top of you, something that you still took seriously now. Trying to focus on your History paper turns out to be harder than you thought, and you find your fingers tapping agitatedly against your desk. You haven’t had a cigarette since lunch. You only have a couple left in the pack, and you need to make them last but you’re desperate for another one. Eventually you close your laptop and try to focus on your equations instead but it’s hard to concentrate.
Your eye prickle with frustrated tears. You can’t honestly say that you like smoking and now it feels like it’s taking over your life. Eventually you can’t even focus on the equations or the paper or anything else so you get up, pacing restlessly back and forth, rubbing your hands against your jeans. By the time Bucky calls you through for dinner you’re feeling wound up and stressed, unable to stop your agitated fidgeting.
It’s spaghetti bolognese with garlic bread for dinner, one of your favourites, but you’re too wound up to enjoy it. Your Dads’ insist that the three of you eat at the table to eat, even though the kitchen in your apartment is tiny, and barely fits the small table and chairs. You’d told them it would be a better use of space to just get trays and all of you sit on the couches in front of the TV to eat, but they’d told you in no uncertain terms that dinnertime was family time. Every meal was to be had at the table, except for Sunday mornings when they let you eat your breakfast in the living room whilst you watched cartoons.
“How are you getting on with your History paper, Y/N?” Steve asks.
“Fine.”
“History paper, huh?” Bucky asks. “What have they got you writing about?”
“French Revolution.”
“Ah, ‘let them eat cake’ and all that,” Bucky says. “Do you want any help?”
“Papa already offered. I’m fine.”
“How was school today?” Steve asks. “Have they posted volleyball tryouts yet?”
“I don’t think I’m gonna go for volleyball this year.”
“Oh?” Bucky asks. “Why not?”
“Just not feeling it.”
“You gonna pick something else then?” Steve asks you. “You know we like you to do at least one sport-”
“I don’t know!” You snap loudly. “Will you get off my back? I’m just trying to eat!”
Steve and Bucky glance at each other and you wait for the inevitable lecture on being rude. Neither of them says anything as they continue eating but you see the look on their faces which makes you feel even worse than if they’d just yelled at you. Maybe your Dad’s are a little strict, but you’ve always been close to them and you don’t want to hurt their feelings. Now you’re snapping at them just because you’re craving a stupid cigarette?
You tap your fingers against the table and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
Bucky reaches over to put his hand on your shoulder, “Kid, is there anything you wanna tell us?”
Your throat dries up and you look down the table, torn between wanting to be honest with them and not wanting to be grounded for the rest of your life. Steve glances at Bucky again before looking back at you, “Maybe it would help if we gave you this.”
You wait at the table as Steve heads out of the room, Bucky’s gaze boring into you. It takes a couple of minutes whilst you and Bucky sit in silence until Steve returns, placing a pack of nicotine gum in front of you. Oh. They’d figured it out - of course they had. You’d been stupid to think you could get anything past your military Dads’.
You open and close your mouth a few times before eventually mumbling, “I… I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Steve asks.
“Because I didn’t want to get into trouble and I- Please stop looking at me like that, it’s making me feel awful.”
You burst into tears and Bucky sighs, unable to help pulling you into his lap and wrapping his strong arms around you. He might be disappointed but you’re still his kid, and he kisses the top of your head. “You really thought that some deodorant would cover up the stench of the cigarettes?”
You sniffle, burying your face in his shoulder, “I’m really sorry. I hate them, I want to quit but it’s so hard and now I’m being mean to you both and it- It-”
“What made you even start in the first place?”
You tell them about the party and the comment that the other kid had made, and how you’d had so much to drink that you’d kept accepting the cigarettes that had been handed to you. Steve looks so disappointed that it makes you cry harder. “I’m really sorry!”
“Okay,” Steve says in that commanding voice, the one that you know means it’s time to shut up and listen. “Tell us where you’ve been getting the cigarettes.”
“Guy at school sells them to me. It takes up all my allowance.”
“Okay.” Steve sighs, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “From now on, you’re not taking your allowance to school. Or any money actually, it stays home with us. If you don’t have any money on you then you can’t buy the cigarettes. How many do you have left?”
“Only two.”
“We’re gonna get rid of them.”
“But-”
“No ‘but’ Y/N, you know we don’t mess around when it comes to your health,” Steve says firmly whilst Bucky tucks your head beneath his chin, his hand rubbing comfortingly up and down your back. “If you need anything… The gum, patches, whatever, me and Dad will buy them for you.”
“You should try out for the volleyball team again,” Bucky says. “You need an outlet. Something to keep your mind off the cravings.”
“If you’re struggling with it then tell us,” Steve says. “And we’ll do what we can to help you.”
“Am I grounded?” You sob.
Steve sighs, “We’re not thrilled about the party. But no, you’re not grounded.”
“You can do the dishes every night for the next two weeks though,” Bucky says. “Consider it an outlet until the cravings pass.”
“And no using the dishwasher,” Steve says. “Gotta keep those hands busy.”
Despite how disappointed they are in you, you can’t help feeling relieved that the burden is finally lifted from your shoulders. If your Dads’ take the cigarettes away from you, there’s nothing you can do. The decision has finally been taken away from you, the burden shared… You slump in Bucky’s arms with an almost relieved sigh. “I really am sorry.”
“We know you’re getting older and you want to try new things,” Bucky says, “But we need you to do that reasonably.”
“No more hiding things from us,” Steve says. “If you’re struggling with something then we want you to tell us. Not bottle it up because you’re worried you’re going to get into trouble.”
“We love you,” Bucky says, “Always have, always will. No matter what.”
You relax a little, relieved that they don’t seem too angry with you. Their disappointed expressions have morphed into loving ones and Bucky presses another kiss to the top of our head. You feel hopeful too – with their help, you know you’ll be able to shift the addiction. Maybe it will take time - you still crave a cigarette but now you at least have the gum. And two Dads’ who’ll be there for you every step of the way.
A.N: an unrealistic ending to a story that’s true for many. This one I’ve been meaning to write for a while; it felt like a hug 🫂
You don’t like loud classrooms.
They make your chest feel tight, like the air is too thick to breathe properly.
The other kids don’t seem to notice the chatter, the scraping chairs, or the laughter that comes too easily.
You sit at your desk near the window, fingers curled around the edge, eyes fixed on the trees outside.
It’s easier that way.
“Y/N?”
Your shoulders tense.
You know that voice.
Soft.
Careful.
Like it doesn’t want to scare you.
You turn your head just a little. Your teacher, Ms. Maximoff, is kneeling beside your desk now.
Her red hair falls forward slightly as she tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern.
“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” she says. “Is everything okay?”
You nod immediately.
Her expression doesn’t change much, but something in her eyes softens even more, like she doesn’t believe you, but she won’t push. Not yet, at least.
“That’s alright,” she murmurs. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
You look back at the window, not wanting to continue the conversation.
Wanda notices patterns. It’s something she’s always been good at. Like, small shifts, quiet changes, the things other people overlook.
It’s part of what makes her such a good teacher.
And you… You don’t fit.
Not in the way the other children do. You don’t laugh loudly. You don’t raise your hand. You flinch when someone moves too fast near you. You freeze when voices get too sharp.
And sometimes—this is what unsettles her the most—you look tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired.
That deep, bone-heavy kind of tired no child should carry.
She tries again a few days later.
“Y/N,” she says gently after class, when the other students have left.
You pause at the door, your small backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Can you stay for a moment?”
You hesitate.
Then nod.
You step closer, but you don’t meet her eyes.
Wanda keeps her voice soft. “I just wanted to check in. I’ve noticed you’ve been a little… quiet lately.”
Silence.
Your fingers tighten around your sleeve.
“You know,” she continues, “sometimes when something is bothering us, it can help to talk about it. Even a little.”
You shake your head.
Still not looking at her.
“I’m okay,” you whisper.
The words sound practiced.
Rehearsed.
Wanda feels her chest tighten.
“Alright,” she says, just as gently. “You can go.”
You leave quickly.
Too quickly.
-///-
That night, Wanda doesn’t stop thinking about you.
Her wife, Natasha, notices.
She always does, too.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Natasha says from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in her hand.
Wanda looks up from the couch. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’m worried but trying not to say it out loud’ thing.”
Wanda exhales softly, rubbing her hands together. “There’s a student in my class.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Only one?”
Wanda almost smiles, patting the seat next to her.
“She’s… different. Quiet. Withdrawn. But it’s more than that.” She hesitates, meeting Natasha’s eyes as she moves towards the couch. “She flinches. A lot. And she looks… exhausted.”
She sits down next to Wanda, knees touching her thigh as she tucks her legs underneath herself.
“How old?”
“Six.”
Natasha sets her mug down.
“Has she said anything?”
Wanda shakes her head. “Every time I ask, she shuts down. It’s like she’s… afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
That’s what does it.
Natasha straightens slightly, something cold and precise settling behind her eyes.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “I’m coming with you.”
Wanda blinks. “Nat—”
"Wands, I work in children's welfare. What you said is reason enough for me to look into it,” Natasha says calmly. “And if something’s wrong…” She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish.
Wanda nods.
She trusts her.
Always has.
-///-
The next day, you notice her immediately.
She doesn’t belong in a classroom.
Not like Ms. Maximoff does.
This woman is… different.
She stands near the doorway at first, speaking quietly with your teacher.
She’s dressed simply, but there’s something about the way she holds herself, straight, alert, like she’s always watching.
Her eyes scan the room.
And then they land on you.
You look away quickly.
But it’s too late.
She’s already noticed.
Natasha takes her time.
She doesn’t approach you right away.
Instead, she observes.
The way you sit too stiff in your chair. The way your gaze flickers toward the door every few minutes. The way you hesitate before answering even the simplest question.
And then—
A boy runs past your desk too fast, and a chair scrapes loudly.
You flinch.
Not a small reaction.
Not subtle.
A full-body recoil, like you were expecting something worse.
Natasha’s jaw tightens.
Yeah.
Something’s wrong.
Later, during lunch break, Wanda sits beside you on the bench.
Natasha lingers a few steps away, pretending to check something on her phone.
“You remember my wife, Ms. Romanoff?” Wanda asks gently.
You nod.
“She works with children, too,” Wanda continues. “She just wants to make sure everyone is safe and happy.”
Safe.
The word makes your stomach twist.
Natasha steps closer, crouching down so she’s at your level.
Her voice is calm and steady.
“Hi, Y/N. I’m Natasha.”
You don’t answer.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
You glance at her.
Just for a second.
Her eyes are different from everyone else’s.
They’re not soft like Wanda’s.
But they’re not harsh either.
They’re… certain.
As if she already knows something.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
You hesitate.
Then shrug slightly.
It’s not quite a yes.
But it’s not a no.
Natasha nods once, like that’s enough.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
Your heart stops.
The world goes very, very quiet.
You stare at the ground.
You don’t respond.
You can’t.
Because if you say the wrong thing—
If you say anything—
Your fingers curl tightly into your sleeves.
Natasha watches the silence stretch.
The way your shoulders tense.
The way your breathing changes.
And that’s all she needs.
She doesn’t ask again.
Instead, her voice softens—just slightly.
“You’re not in trouble,” she says. “And whatever is going on… it’s not your fault.”
Your throat tightens.
You blink hard.
Still, you say nothing.
But Natasha doesn’t push.
She stands slowly, exchanging a look with Wanda.
A silent understanding passes between them.
This isn’t nothing.
This is something.
And they’re not going to ignore it.
-///-
That afternoon, as you sit by the window again, the classroom feels a little different.
Not louder.
Not quieter.
Just… different.
Because now, someone has seen you.
Even if you didn’t say a word.
And for the first time in a long while, you’re not completely invisible anymore.
The man introduces himself as Steve.
He doesn’t stand over you like most adults do when they want something. Instead, he pulls a chair out slowly and turns it so he’s sitting across from you—not too close, not too far.
Just enough that you know he’s there, but not enough to make you feel trapped.
“Hi,” he says, offering a small, careful smile. “I’m Steve.”
You don’t answer.
You keep your eyes on the desk, tracing a faint scratch in the wood with your fingertip. You’ve already counted it before—three fingers long, slightly curved—but counting it again feels easier than looking up.
“That’s okay,” Steve says gently, like he expected the silence. “You don’t have to say anything right away.”
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Outside the classroom, you can hear the distant noise of other students—chairs moving, someone laughing, a teacher calling out instructions. It feels far away. Like it belongs to a different world.
“I heard you like sitting by the window,” Steve continues after a moment.
Your finger stills.
He notices things.
You don’t like that.
“It’s a good spot,” he adds. “Lots of light. And you can see outside.”
You don’t respond.
But you don’t move away either.
Steve shifts slightly in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. He doesn’t take out a notebook. Doesn’t write anything down.
He just… sits.
“I work with kids sometimes,” he says. “Mostly I just make sure they’re okay.”
Okay.
You swallow.
“I talk to teachers. Sometimes parents. Sometimes kids, if they want to.” He pauses. “But only if they want to.”
Silence stretches again.
Your shoulders feel tight.
Your chest feels tight.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
There it is.
The question.
It drops into the room like something heavy.
Your heart starts beating faster. You can feel it in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips.
You nod.
Too fast.
Too automatic.
Steve doesn’t react right away.
He just watches you.
Not in a scary way.
Not like he’s angry.
But like he’s… thinking.
Like he’s trying to understand something you didn’t say.
“Okay,” he says finally.
That’s it.
No follow-up.
No pressure.
But somehow that makes it worse.
-///-
He comes to your house two days later.
You know it’s him before anyone says his name.
There’s something about the knock, firm but not aggressive.
Steady.
Your stomach twists so hard it almost hurts.
“Stay in your room,” your parent says sharply, already moving toward the door.
You don’t argue.
You never argue.
You close your door quietly and sit on the floor, your back pressed against the side of your bed. It feels safer down here. Smaller. Like, if you make yourself small enough, you won’t be noticed.
Voices drift through the house.
Muffled at first.
Then clearer.
“…just a routine check…”
“…she’s a quiet child…”
“…always been sensitive…”
You pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them, pressing your face down.
You try to make yourself even smaller.
“…we would never…”
“…of course, we understand your concern…”
Their voices sound normal.
You know that tone.
You’ve heard it before.
It’s the voice they use for other people.
Not for you.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
If you don’t move, if you don’t make a sound, maybe he won’t come up here.
Maybe he’ll just leave.
Maybe everything will stay the same.
You don’t know if that’s what you want.
But it’s what you’re used to.
After a while, the voices fade.
The door opens.
Closes.
Footsteps.
Silence.
He’s gone.
Nothing changes.
At first.
Then everything does.
You don’t go to school the next day.
Or the day after that.
At first, you think you’re sick without knowing you were.
Or maybe in trouble.
You don’t ask.
You’ve learned not to ask.
“There’s no need,” your parent says when you linger near the door on the third morning, your backpack hanging loosely from your shoulder. “You’ll stay home for a while.”
“For how long?” you whisper.
They look at you.
Just look.
Your throat closes.
“…okay,” you say quickly.
Your backpack stays by the door.
You go back to your room.
-///-
Days blur together.
You lose track of time.
Morning feels like evening. Evening feels like nothing.
The window doesn’t help anymore.
You stop looking outside.
There’s no point.
No one is coming.
-///-
Wanda notices on the first day.
The empty chair.
Your chair.
She pauses in the middle of attendance, her eyes lingering just a second longer than they should.
“Y/N?” she calls out automatically.
Silence answers.
A student shifts in their seat.
“She’s not here,” someone says.
Wanda nods slowly, marking it down.
Absent.
It happens.
Kids get sick.
But something about it doesn’t sit right.
On the second day, she asks the office.
“No call or note,” they tell her.
Her concern sharpens.
On the third day, she calls.
No answer.
By the fourth day, she’s pacing.
“You’re wearing a path into the floor,” Natasha says from the kitchen, watching her with quiet focus.
Wanda doesn’t stop. “She hasn’t been in school all week.”
Natasha sets her mug down. “Did the office hear anything?”
“No. No call. No email. Nothing.” Wanda runs a hand through her hair, frustration and worry tangled together. “That’s not normal.”
“No,” Natasha agrees. “It’s not.”
Wanda turns to her. “What if something happened?”
Natasha doesn’t answer right away.
Because they’re both thinking the same thing.
“What if we missed something?” Wanda whispers.
Natasha’s gaze softens slightly. “You didn’t miss anything.”
“But she wouldn’t talk to me,” Wanda says, her voice tightening. “She wouldn’t talk to Steve either, and now she’s just—gone.”
Natasha straightens. “Then we go find her.”
Wanda blinks. “Nat—”
“I mean it,” Natasha says. “This doesn’t feel right. Not after what we saw.”
Wanda hesitates.
Then nods.
“I’m going there,” she says.
Natasha doesn’t argue.
“I’m coming with you.”
The house looks normal.
That’s the first thing Wanda notices, and it makes something deep in her chest twist uncomfortably.
The curtains are neat. The garden is trimmed. The front step is clean.
Everything looks… fine.
Too fine.
“She lives here,” Wanda says quietly.
Natasha stands beside her, eyes already scanning windows, corners, and small details most people would miss.
“Okay,” she replies.
Wanda steps forward and knocks.
The sound echoes too loudly in the still air.
They wait.
Nothing.
Wanda knocks again, harder this time. “Y/N? It’s Ms. Maximoff.”
Summary: you and nat officially start your dream life
Warnings: nat has babyfever
W.C: 5k
A.N: Enjoy <3
The compound is unusually loud when you get home.
Not the chaotic, battle-debrief loud. Not Tony blasting music loud. It’s…anticipatory. Like something is about to happen, and everyone knows it except you.
You don’t have the energy to question it.
Your day has wrung you dry—every meeting dragging, every small thing going wrong in that slow, relentless way that makes it worse than a single disaster.
By the time you step through the door, your shoulders ache, your eyes burn, and there’s a tightness in your chest you’ve been ignoring for hours.
You barely register the way a few heads snap toward you. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence.
“…she’s home,” Thor whispers.
You frown, confused, but your brain feels like it’s moving through syrup.
You don’t ask. You just keep walking.
The smell hits you first.
Warm. Comforting. Familiar.
Food.
You follow it like a lifeline, down the hall and into the kitchen—and there she is.
Natasha stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of her face.
She’s stirring something in a pan, her movements precise but… off.
A little too careful.
A little too tense.
You don’t notice that part right away.
All you see is her.
Something in you finally gives.
You cross the room without a word. She starts to turn, probably to greet you, but you don’t let her get that far.
Your hands find her arms, gently but insistently, and you turn her fully toward you.
“Hey—”
You pull her into you before she can finish.
Your arms wrap around her, tight, almost desperate, your face pressing into the crook of her neck.
She stiffens in surprise for half a second—and then immediately melts, hands coming up to hold you just as firmly.
“Hey… hey,” she murmurs, softer now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “What happened?”
You shake your head against her shoulder. You don’t trust your voice. If you try to explain, you’re pretty sure it’ll all spill out in a way you can’t control.
So you don’t.
You just hold on.
And then, quietly, without warning, your body betrays you.
Your breathing stutters.
Your grip tightens.
And the tears you’ve been holding back all day finally slip free. Silent at first, just a tremble against her.
Natasha notices immediately.
She always does.
“Oh,” she breathes, and something in her voice shifts, something fiercely protective and achingly gentle all at once.
She turns slightly, guiding you so you’re more comfortable against her, one arm firm around your back while the other strokes slow, steady lines through your hair.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
You nod, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Her jaw tightens.
Because she knows.
She knows exactly what’s sitting in her pocket right now. Knows what she had planned. Knows that, hours ago, everything was supposed to go differently.
Candles.
A calmer atmosphere.
You smiling, not…this.
And earlier—
“—Oh my god, you’re proposing to y/n?!” Wanda’s voice had rung through the common room, loud and unmistakable.
Natasha had frozen.
Clint had choked on his drink. Steve had blinked like he’d just been hit with a flashbang. Tony had immediately started asking questions at maximum volume.
“You’re proposing? Romanoff? With feelings? This I have to see—”
Natasha had very seriously considered disappearing.
Instead, she’d just pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “You were not supposed to say that out loud.”
Wanda, to her credit, had looked genuinely apologetic.
“…I forgot we weren’t alone.”
So now everyone knows.
Everyone is waiting.
And Natasha—
Natasha is standing in the kitchen, holding you while you quietly fall apart after a terrible day, with a ring in her pocket and a plan that no longer fits.
Her hand stills in your hair for just a second.
Then she exhales, slow and steady.
Plans can change.
You come first.
Always.
“Hey,” she says softly after a while, just loud enough for you to hear. “Look at me for a second?”
You hesitate, then pull back just enough.
Your eyes are a little red, your expression worn and fragile in a way that makes something twist painfully in her chest.
Her thumb brushes gently under your eye, catching the last trace of a tear.
“Rough day?” she asks.
You let out a weak huff of a laugh. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
You nod, glancing down. “I’m okay. I just… needed a minute.”
“You don’t have to be okay right now,” she says quietly.
You look back up at her.
There’s something different in her expression.
Still soft. Still steady.
But beneath?
Nervousness.
Real, unguarded nervousness.
You blink, confused. “Nat?”
She inhales.
And for someone who has faced down gods, assassins, and the end of the world more than once…this might be the most uncertain you’ve ever seen her.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice low. “Hi.”
You almost smile. “Hi.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying to mirror it, but there’s too much else going on.
Behind you, there’s another barely-contained whisper.
“…is she doing it now?!”
“Shut up—”
Natasha ignores them.
Her focus is entirely on you.
“I had a plan,” she admits, almost under her breath. “It was…better than this. Less—” she gestures vaguely “—you crying in the kitchen.”
You let out a soft, embarrassed groan. “I can stop crying—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts gently. “That’s not the point.”
Her hand finds yours.
You feel it then, something shifting.
Your exhaustion doesn’t disappear, but it makes space for something else.
Curiosity.
A flicker of anticipation.
“Natasha…?”
She swallows.
And then, because she’s never done anything halfway in her life, she lets herself be completely honest.
“You had a terrible day,” she says. “And you came home, and the first thing you did was find me.”
Your fingers tighten around hers.
“You didn’t say anything,” she continues softly. “You just…trusted me to be there.”
“I always do,” you whisper.
That almost undoes her.
You see it—just for a second.
Then she steadies herself.
“Good,” she says. “Because I need you to trust me for one more thing.”
Your heart starts to pick up, just a little.
She lets go of one of your hands.
For a split second, you think maybe she’s pulling away.
Instead, she reaches into her pocket.
And then, before your brain fully catches up, she’s stepping back and lowering herself onto one knee.
Your breath catches.
Somewhere in the hallway, there’s a very audible thud followed by a muffled, “oh my god—”
Neither of you looks.
Natasha doesn’t break eye contact.
She opens the small box in her hand, revealing the ring—simple, beautiful, unmistakably you.
“I had a whole speech,” she says, a little breathless now. “It was structured. Thought out. Probably less…rambling.”
You stare at her, heart pounding.
“But this is what I’ve got,” she continues, a faint, nervous smile breaking through. “You. Right here. Exactly as you are.”
Your eyes sting again—but for a very different reason.
“I don’t need perfect timing,” she says. “I just need you.”
She takes a breath, steadying herself, like this is somehow harder than anything she’s ever faced.
“So, will you—”
“Yes.”
It slips out of you, immediate and certain.
Natasha closes her eyes for half a second.
“…I’m going to ask the full question,” she says.
“I know, I just—yes.”
“You’re going to let me finish.”
“I am, I promise.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Natasha exhales, fighting a smile. Then she looks back at you, really focusing.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“I know.’’
She tightens her hold on your hands just slightly.
“Will you—”
You inhale sharply.
She gives you a look.
You clamp your mouth shut so fast it’s almost impressive.
Her lips twitch.
“Good,” she says softly.
And then, slower this time—
“Will you marry me?”
There it is.
Clear. Simple. Real.
You don’t interrupt.
You just stare at her, eyes already stinging again, your grip tightening around her hands.
“Yeah,” you whisper, then add to really confirm it: "Yeah, I will. Of course I will.”
Relief floods her face, immediate and overwhelming, like she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear it said all the way through.
“Yeah?” she asks, just to be sure.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
You grin, a little teary, a little breathless.
“I said yes three times, by the way.”
“I noticed.”
“I was very enthusiastic.”
“You were very interruptive.”
“Same thing.”
That finally breaks her—she lets out a soft laugh as she slides the ring onto your finger, her hands just a little unsteady now for an entirely different reason.
“Still counts,” she murmurs.
“Every single one counted,” you say.
You don’t wait; you pull her up into yourself, arms wrapping tight around her, your face pressing into her shoulder again, but this time you’re laughing.
Behind you, the hallway erupts.
“FINALLY!”
“Took long enough!”
“I had money on four interruptions!”
Natasha just holds you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head again, grounding, warm, yours.
“You didn’t let me finish the first time,” she murmurs into your hair.
You tilt your head up, smiling. “You got there eventually.”
She brushes her thumb under your eye, soft and steady.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”
You lean in and kiss her gently.
Like sealing something that was already decided long before tonight.
-///-
You’re half sprawled across the bed, tucked into Natasha’s side, a laptop resting against your legs as the night crawls closer.
The glow from the screen paints both of you in soft light as you scroll through listings, one after another.
Most of them blur together.
Too modern. Too far. Too…not right.
Natasha’s arm is draped loosely around you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy patterns along your stomach—barely there, but constant.
Grounding.
You hum quietly, squinting at another house.
“Mm…how many bedrooms do you think we should look for?” you murmur, your voice already a little sleepy.
There’s a pause.
Then, without hesitation, the words leave her as if she had thought about it for more than a minute.
“At least five.”
You blink.
Turn your head to look up at her.
“…Five?” you repeat.
She doesn’t even look away from the screen. “Minimum.”
You prop yourself up slightly on your elbow, narrowing your eyes at her. “How many times are you expecting me to get pregnant, exactly?”
That gets her attention.
Slowly, Natasha turns her head toward you.
There’s a smirk there. Subtle, but definitely there.
You stare at her.
“Natasha.”
She leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your neck.
It’s soft and teasing, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Relax,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice warm and amused. “I’m planning ahead.”
You huff, but it dissolves into a quiet laugh, your hand coming up to rest lightly against her arm.
“Natasha and babies, who would have thought?" You smile at her, pecking her lips, then, quieter, ‘’You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” she says, pressing one last soft kiss there before pulling back, “you said yes.”
“Multiple times.”
“Very enthusiastically.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you settle back down against her.
“Five bedrooms,” you mutter. “You’re so ambitious.”
“I’m just practical.”
“You’re quite optimistic.”
“That too.”
You glance back down at the screen, scrolling again.
And then you pause.
“…Wait.”
Natasha’s hand stills for just a second at your stomach.
“What?”
You tilt the screen slightly so she can see better.
A white house.
Simple, but warm. Big windows. A wraparound porch that looks like it was made for slow mornings and late evenings.
And just beyond it…
Water.
A lake, stretching quietly and calmly behind it.
“It’s not exactly close to the tower,” you say softly, almost like you’re thinking out loud. “But it’s not that far either…”
“Far enough,” she murmurs.
“Close enough,” you add.
She studies it for a moment, her thumb resuming its slow, absent patterns against you.
Then she nods once.
“It’s pretty.”
That’s all it takes.
You light up a little, shifting so you’re more comfortable as you start clicking through the photos.
“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, suddenly more awake. “This one—this kitchen, we need a kitchen island.”
“Obviously.”
“And that—” you swipe. “—that could be a second living room. Or like…a playroom?”
“A playroom?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not,” she says, though there’s amusement in her voice.
You keep going, pointing at different parts of the layout, dreaming about a future with her.
“Okay, so this would be our room,” you decide, clicking on one of the larger bedrooms. “Because it has the windows facing the lake.”
“Agreed.”
“And then—” you swipe again, already thinking ahead. “—this one would be for our first kid.”
Natasha’s hand pauses again.
Not tense.
Just…noticing.
You don’t.
You’re already moving on.
“And then this one could be the second kid's room.”
She hums, watching your face now instead of the screen.
"And this one could be like a quest room… or a possible third kid. Depending.’’
“Efficient,” she murmurs, nuzzling her nose to your cheek.
“I learned from the best.”
“And the fifth?”
You hesitate for a second.
Then shrug, softer now.
“…Something the future will bring.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her hand shifts, flattening more fully against your stomach, her thumb tracing slower now, more deliberate.
Grounding.
Thinking.
You glance up at her. “Too much?”
Her gaze meets yours.
There’s something warm there. Something steady.
“No,” she says quietly. “Not enough.”
Your expression softens immediately.
“Five bedrooms,” you murmur again with a smile, turning back to the screen.
This time, you lean into her a little more, your hand finding hers where it rests against you.
She laces your fingers together without even looking.
The house stays on the screen.
The porch.
The lake.
The space.
And for a while, neither of you scrolls to look at a different house.
-///-
The day came before you knew it.
There’s movement everywhere.
Voices in the hallway, footsteps, doors opening and closing, and someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.
It all sounds distant, like you’re hearing it through water.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ache.
Your dress hangs nearby.
Everything is ready.
Everything is happening.
And your brain will not slow down.
You swallow, staring at the floor.
You’re getting married today.
To Natasha.
That part feels right. Steady. Certain in a way nothing else has ever been.
But layered underneath that certainty—
Something else.
Your heart starts to race again, and you press your palms harder together, as you can physically hold yourself in place.
Because, of course, your brain picked today.
Of all days.
To replay that email.
The donor profile.
The one you weren’t even expecting to find.
Anonymous, yes—but detailed enough. Similar features. Similar background. Even little things that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.
It had felt…right.
Too right.
Like a possibility you hadn’t let yourself fully imagine until it was suddenly right there in front of you.
A future.
A real one.
Kids that might look like her too and not only you.
You exhale shakily.
You haven’t told her.
You want to.
You’ve wanted to all week.
Every time she talks about the house.
The bedrooms.
The way her hand keeps finding your stomach like she’s already picturing something there.
Every time, the words sit right at the back of your throat and then disappear.
Because what if it’s too much?
What if it’s too soon?
What if you bring it up today and it shifts something? Adds pressure? Changes the moment?
Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
You flinch slightly at the voice.
When you turn, you see Wanda leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, expression softer than usual.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she says gently.
You let out a weak breath. “Can you not—”
“I’m not,” she interrupts, holding up her hands. “You’re just…broadcasting a little.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”
She steps into the room, quieter now, her tone shifting.
“You’re nervous.”
“Very.”
“Cold feet?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. God, no. Not about her.”
“I know,” Wanda says.
You hesitate.
“There’s just…something I haven’t told her yet.”
Wanda studies you for a second.
“You want to?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
You look down at your hands again.
“Because it feels big,” you admit. “And today is already big. And I don’t want to…overwhelm her. Or mess anything up.”
Wanda’s expression softens.
“You think telling her you’re thinking about a future with her is going to mess something up?” she asks quietly.
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounds like you.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself.
“I just—I found a donor,” you say, the words finally leaving your mouth. “Like…a really good one. It just—it made it feel real, you know? And I want that with her, I just don’t know if today is—”
“Hey,” Wanda cuts in gently.
You look up.
“You don’t have to decide your entire future before you walk down that aisle,” she says. “You just have to show up. The rest? You figure out together.”
You let that sit for a second.
It helps.
A little.
“…So I shouldn’t tell her?” you ask.
“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replies. “I said you don’t have to do it right now if it’s making you spiral.”
You nod slowly.
That feels reasonable.
“You know her,” Wanda adds softly. “Better than anyone. When it feels right, you’ll know.”
You take a breath.
Then another.
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Okay,” you murmur.
“Okay.”
Wanda gives you a small, reassuring smile before heading back toward the door.
“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, glancing back, “she’s just as nervous as you are.”
You blink. “Natasha? Nervous?”
Wanda just smirks slightly. “Terrified.”
That actually makes you laugh.
“Good,” you say. “That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
She disappears down the hall.
You sit there for a moment longer.
Then you look at your dress.
At your hands.
At the life waiting just on the other side of today.
The nerves are still there.
The question still lingers.
But beneath all of it—
There’s something steady.
You’re not doing this alone.
And you don’t have to have every answer yet.
You stand slowly, exhaling as you smooth your hands down your legs.
“One step at a time,” you murmur to yourself.
-///-
You’re running on fumes.
Not the romantic kind.
The dangerous kind.
You haven’t eaten. Not really. Every time you tried, someone pulled you away—photos, speeches, hugs, “just one quick thing” that turned into ten.
And every single time you sat down—
“—KISS! KISS! KISS!”
You did. Of course you did.
And every time you came back?
Your plate was gone.
At this point, you’re pretty sure you’ve had three bites of something, maybe a piece of bread, and about…far too much champagne.
The room is loud. Bright. Spinning just a little at the edges.
You’re smiling—but it’s getting harder to keep it steady.
Natasha is…worse.
Not drunk, exactly—but irritated in that very specific, very controlled way that means she’s about three interruptions away from snapping.
Someone had just pulled her away again, and you’d watched her jaw tighten as she nodded politely and followed.
Now she’s back.
Finally.
And when she finds you, her hand immediately goes to your waist, pulling you close like she’s making up for lost time.
“You okay?” she murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
You shake your head a little, pressing into her. “I’m starving.”
Her grip tightens. “I noticed.”
“I tried to eat,” you mumble. “But every time I sit down, I get kidnapped.”
“I’m aware.”
There’s an edge to her voice.
You glance up at her. “You’re mad.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m—” she exhales slowly “—a little frustrated.”
“That’s a scary version of mad.”
She huffs, but her hand softens against your side, her thumb brushing gently like she’s grounding herself through you.
“I just want five minutes with my wife,” she mutters.
That word.
Even now, it hits.
“My wife,” you echo softly.
Her eyes flick to yours.
“Yeah,” she says.
And then—
The music changes.
The crowd shifts, noise dimming as someone announces the dance.
There’s a ripple through the room—people moving back, forming space.
And for the first time all day—
No one interrupts.
Natasha looks at you.
“Come on,” she murmurs.
You nod.
She leads you to the centre of the floor, her hand never leaving yours.
And then—
It’s quiet.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that it feels like the world just… fades out around you.
Her hand settles at your waist.
Yours finds her shoulder.
And you start to move.
Slow.
Easy.
Close.
You exhale, your forehead drifting toward hers almost immediately. “Finally.”
“Finally,” she agrees.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sway together, your body relaxing into hers, the tension of the day slowly unravelling.
Her thumb traces slow patterns against your side again.
Familiar.
Steady.
Yours.
“I missed you,” you murmur.
“I was right there.”
“Not like this.”
Her hold tightens just slightly. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t like people taking you away,” she admits.
You huff softly. “I didn’t like it either.”
“Good.”
You smile a little against her. “Possessive.”
“Accurate.”
You laugh quietly, but it fades into something softer as you settle more fully into her.
This.
This is what you needed.
Just her.
Just a moment.
Your fingers tighten slightly against her shoulder.
“…Hey,” you murmur.
“Mm?”
You hesitate.
The thought from earlier creeps back in.
The one you pushed aside.
But now—here, like this—it doesn’t feel as overwhelming.
Just…important.
“I wanted to tell you something,” you say quietly.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t tense.
Just listens.
“Okay.”
You swallow.
“I found…a donor.”
Her movement stills for just a fraction of a second.
Not pulling away.
Just…listening harder.
You rush a little now, words soft but quick.
“I wasn’t planning to. It just kind of happened, and I saw the profile and—it just—it felt right. Like, really right. And I didn’t want to bring it up before today because I didn’t want to overwhelm you or make it—like—a big thing, but I just—”
“Hey,” she murmurs gently.
You stop.
Look up at her.
Her expression isn’t tense.
Or upset.
Just…focused.
Warm.
“You found someone you like?” she asks.
You nod, a little nervous now. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then—
“Okay.”
You blink.
“…Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
She huffs a small, almost amused breath. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, like—a reaction?”
“You’re talking about a future with me,” she says simply. “That’s not a problem.”
Your chest tightens, but in a good way this time.
“I just—I thought maybe it was too soon.”
“We’ve been planning bedrooms,” she points out.
“…That’s fair.”
Her thumb brushes your side again.
“You don’t have to figure all of it out today,” she adds. “We’ll look at it together.”
Together.
That word settles everything.
You nod, your forehead resting against hers again. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
There’s a small pause.
Then—
A loud, booming voice cuts through the moment.
“YOU TWO!”
You both flinch slightly.
Thor appears at the edge of the dance floor like an event all by himself, holding—
Shots.
Multiple.
“I HAVE BROUGHT CELEBRATORY DRINKS!”
Natasha closes her eyes briefly. “…Of course he has.”
You let out a soft laugh. “We’re doomed.”
Thor strides over, beaming, completely ignoring the fact that this is supposed to be a quiet, romantic moment.
“FOR THE NEWLYWEDS!” he declares, handing each of you a glass.
You take it.
Of course you do.
Natasha eyes it.
Then you.
Then the glass.
“…We haven’t eaten,” she mutters.
“Details,” you whisper.
She exhales.
Then takes it anyway.
“Fine.”
Thor grins like he’s just won something.
“TO LOVE!” he booms.
You clink your glasses together—yours with Natasha’s, then both with his.
“To love,” you echo.
And then you drink.
Immediately—
Regret.
You cough slightly, eyes widening. “Oh my god—”
Natasha winces, shaking her head. “That was a mistake.”
Thor just laughs, delighted.
“ANOTHER?”
“Absolutely not,” Natasha says instantly.
You, however, are already laughing, leaning into her again, a little dizzier now but smiling.
“Okay,” you murmur, breathless. “Maybe now we really need food.”
She steadies you, one hand firm at your waist.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m stealing you for that.”
“Please do.”
Her forehead rests against yours again, just for a second, grounding the moment before everything inevitably gets loud again.
“We’ll figure everything else out,” she murmurs.
You nod, smiling softly.
“Together,” you say.
“Together.”
-///-
By the time you make it to the kitchen of the venue, you are done.
Not elegantly overwhelmed.
Not softly emotional.
No—fully, completely, dramatically done.
“This is ridiculous,” you say, pushing the door open harder than necessary.
Natasha is right behind you, equally tense, equally fed up. “I told them we needed food.”
“I tried to eat." You spin around, hands flying. “I sat down three times—three—and every time someone dragged me away!”
“I noticed.”
“And now—now—” you gesture wildly at the counters.
Empty.
Completely, offensively empty.
No trays. No plates. Not even crumbs.
“…they took everything,” you say, your voice going dangerously quiet.
Natasha steps further into the room, scanning it like maybe food will magically appear if she looks hard enough.
“It seems that way.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
You grab a glass off the counter.
Natasha turns just in time to see—
“Hey—”
SMASH.
The sound is sharp, echoing through the kitchen as the glass hits the floor and shatters.
You stand there, breathing a little too fast, staring down at the pieces.
“…okay,” you say after a second. “That helped. A little.”
Natasha exhales slowly.
Then, very calmly—
“I’m not even going to pretend to be mad about that.”
You look up at her, a little wild-eyed.
“I’m hungry.”
“I know.”
“I might actually die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
She reaches for you, hands settling on your arms, grounding you just enough to pull you back from full meltdown territory.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “We’ll fix it.”
“How?” you demand. “Conjure food? Steal it? Fight someone?”
“…all viable options.”
You huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
Then Natasha’s attention shifts.
To the side.
To a champagne bucket you hadn’t even noticed.
Inside—melting ice.
And strawberries.
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“…hold on.”
Before you can question it, she leans over, plucks one out, and pops it into her mouth.
You blink.
“…Natasha.”
She chews.
Swallows.
Then immediately grabs another.
“Are you—are you eating garnish?”
“It’s fruit.”
“It’s drunk fruit.”
She pauses mid-reach.
“…that explains a lot.”
You stare at her.
She eats another anyway.
“Okay, no, stop—stop eating the champagne strawberries,” you say, trying and failing to sound authoritative.
She points at you with the next one. “You smashed a glass.”
“That was emotional.”
“This is survival.”
You open your mouth to argue—
Then close it.
“…okay, fair.”
She eats another.
And another.
By the fourth, you’re narrowing your eyes.
“You’re getting more drunk.”
“I’m already drunk.”
“You’re getting more drunk.”
She smiles—just a little too confidently.
“I’m fine.”
You sigh.
“…we need real food.”
She nods immediately. “Agreed.”
A beat.
Then—
“Let’s leave.”
You blink. “Leave leave?”
“Yes.”
“In our wedding dresses?”
“Yes.”
“…okay.”
-///-
The taxi driver does not ask questions.
Which is probably for the best.
You’re half-laughing, half-complaining in the backseat, still riding the wave of hunger and alcohol, while Natasha has one arm firmly around you like she’s not letting you disappear again.
“I can’t believe they took all the food,” you mumble.
“I’m still upset about it.”
“I smashed a glass.”
“I know.”
‘’You didn’t stop me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
You snort.
The line is painfully slow.
You and Natasha stand at the counter of Burger King, still in your wedding clothes, still slightly swaying from too much champagne and not nearly enough food.
Natasha is trying so hard to be patient.
You can tell by the way her jaw keeps tightening every time someone ahead of you asks another question.
“…and fries,” she says flatly, finishing the order. “A lot of fries.”
You lean into her side, nodding like this is a very serious, collaborative decision. “Emotionally important fries.”
The cashier blinks. “…okay.”
You shuffle off to the side to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
You stare at the counter like it’s personally responsible for your suffering.
“…this is cruel,” you mutter.
Natasha crosses her arms. “It’s inefficient.”
“I’m so thirsty.”
“We ordered drinks.”
“I need them now.”
“You can survive two minutes.”
“I cannot.”
She glances over at you. “You absolutely can.”
You squint at her.
Then—
You slip away.
Not dramatically.
Not announced.
Just…gone.
Natasha doesn’t notice at first.
She’s too busy watching the kitchen like she might will the food into existence through sheer irritation.
Behind the counter, things are moving slowly. Someone fumbles an order. Another employee calls for help.
Time stretches.
“Ma’am, can you handle your wife?”
Natasha blinks.
Turns slightly. “Excuse me?”
The employee gestures vaguely past her. “Your wife—she’s—uh—”
Natasha follows the gesture.
And then she sees you.
At the drink dispenser.
Not with a cup.
No.
You’ve leaned down, pressing the lever with your hand, drinking straight from the stream of soda as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Completely unbothered.
Completely committed.
There’s a beat.
Natasha just… looks at you.
All the irritation.
All the tension from the night.
It dissolves instantly.
Replaced by something softer. Warmer. A little incredulous, a lot fond.
Summary: you get a tattoo when your girlfriend told you not to
Warnings: mention of Natasha’s past
W.C: 2.3K
A.N: just a fluffy one today guys
The Avengers Tower was quiet in the late evening. The city lights stretched endlessly beyond the windows, casting a soft glow across the room.
Natasha was slumped against the couch, one arm draped lazily along the back as something she had already declared stupid played on the TV.
You were tucked into her side, half under a blanket she insisted she didn’t need but had pulled over both of you anyway.
Her arm rested around your shoulders, fingers idly tracing slow, absent-minded patterns against your arm. It was the kind of touch she only allowed when it was just the two of you—soft, unguarded, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
You were only half-watching.
The thought had been sitting in your head all day, turning over and over until it felt impossible to ignore.
“…Hey, Nat?”
She didn’t look away from the screen, but her fingers paused slightly against your skin. “Mm?”
You shifted a little closer into her, your head brushing her shoulder. “What do you think about tattoos?”
That got her attention.
Her eyes flicked to you instantly, sharp and assessing in that way that always made it feel like she already knew where this was going.
“No.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t even say I wanted one.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, nudging her lightly with your shoulder. “Wow. Harsh.”
She didn’t smile—at least not fully—but her arm tightened around you just a little, pulling you closer without thinking.
“Okay, but hypothetically—” you started.
“I don’t deal in hypotheticals,” she cut in, reaching for the remote to lower the volume. Now she was fully focused on you, her thumb brushing absent circles against your arm again. “Why are you asking?”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual even as your fingers played with the edge of the blanket. “I just think they’re… kind of nice. Some of them. Small ones, I mean.”
After a moment, you added, “I guess I like the idea of marking something that matters. Just for me.”
Her expression didn’t soften.
“If you want my opinion,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “I don’t like them.”
You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at her. “At all?”
“No.”
There was no hesitation in it. No wiggle room.
“Why?” you asked, quieter now.
Natasha leaned back into the couch, but she didn’t let go of you. If anything, she pulled you a fraction closer, her chin briefly resting against the top of your head before she spoke.
“Because I’ve had enough done to my body without my permission,” she said.
For a moment, her expression flickered—distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.
“There was a time when scars and marks just showed up, and I couldn’t stop them. It never mattered what I wanted.” Her voice stayed steady but softer now. “So now, even if it’s a choice… adding something else just feels like letting them win all over again.”
Her fingers stilled against your arm.
“I don’t see the appeal in choosing more of it.”
That landed heavier than you expected.
You shifted slightly, your hand finding hers where it rested against you, lacing your fingers together.
“I wouldn’t be forced,” you said gently. “It’d be my choice.”
“I know,” she replied quietly. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
There it was again—clear, unwavering.
You nodded a little against her shoulder. “Right.”
The TV kept playing in the background, filling the silence she didn’t seem bothered by.
You were.
After a moment, Natasha glanced down at you, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“You’re thinking about getting one.”
It wasn’t a question.
You hesitated just long enough to confirm it.
“…Maybe.”
Her jaw tightened slightly.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
You let out a small breath, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “You don’t recommend a lot of things I do.”
“That’s different.”
You tilted your head, looking up at her again. “Is it?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she shifted just enough to press a quiet kiss to your hair, like it was instinct more than intention.
Her hand squeezed yours gently.
“I’m not telling you what to do,” she said finally. “But you asked what I think.”
You squeezed her hand back, settling closer into her side, your cheek resting against her shoulder again.
“Yeah,” you murmured softly. “I know.”
Natasha stayed quiet for a while after that.
Not the uncomfortable kind of silence — just the kind that happened when she was thinking too hard to speak immediately.
Her hand was still holding yours. Still warm. Still there.
The TV droned on in the background, completely forgotten now.
Finally, she exhaled through her nose, like she was letting something go rather than holding it in.
“You don’t listen very well,” she said, but there was no bite to it.
You smiled faintly against her shoulder. “I’ve been told.”
Her fingers tightened around yours once, a quiet squeeze.
“I know you’re going to do what you want,” she added after a moment.
“That’s kind of the point of ‘want,’” you murmured.
That earned you the smallest huff of a laugh.
Natasha shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around both of you like it had suddenly become very important to get it right.
Her arm stayed around you, but now she pulled you in a little closer—until there was no space left between you except warmth.
“I don’t like the idea,” she said again, softer this time. “But I don’t like the idea of you hiding things from me more.”
That made you go still.
You tilted your head up slightly to look at her.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” you said honestly. “I just… didn’t want to turn it into a fight.”
Her eyes flicked to yours.
“You think everything with me turns into a fight?”
“No,” you said quickly, then softened. “I think you care a lot.”
That made something in her expression shift—something subtle, but real.
Natasha leaned her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a second like she was choosing her words carefully.
“I do care,” she admitted. “Probably too much, according to most people.”
You nudged her knee lightly with yours under the blanket. “I don’t think it’s ‘too much.’”
That got her attention again.
She looked back down at you.
“You don’t?”
You shook your head. “I think it’s just… you.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I like ‘you.’”
That earned you a look that softened in a way she didn’t try to hide this time.
Her thumb brushed over your hand again, slower now.
“…Even when I’m being difficult?”
You smiled. “Especially then.”
Natasha stared at you for a long moment like she was memorizing the answer.
Then she sighed—lightly, almost fondly—and tugged you even closer until your head was fully resting against her again.
“You’re still not getting a tattoo,” she muttered.
You laughed under your breath. “Noted.”
-///-
You didn’t mean for it to become a secret.
At least, not at first.
But once you’d done it—once the small, permanent mark had been placed on your skin—it suddenly felt too fragile to talk about.
Like saying it out loud would change it.
Or change her.
So you didn’t.
And instead, you started avoiding her.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Natasha noticed.
Of course she did.
Natasha Romanoff picked up on the shift within a day.
It started small—your hesitation when she reached for you.
The way you always seemed to turn slightly away before she could fully pull you in.
The way you stopped lingering.
Then it became more obvious.
You stopped initiating closeness altogether.
And you definitely avoided anything that might lead further than that.
Natasha didn’t push at first.
She just watched.
Until one night, as she sat beside you on the couch, she finally spoke.
“You’re avoiding me.”
You didn’t look up from your hands. “I’m not.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—but sharper:
“Yes, you are.”
Silence stretched.
Her arm, usually around you, stayed resting on the back of the couch instead of pulling you in.
That alone made your chest tighten.
“Did I do something?” she asked.
That hit harder than you expected.
You shook your head immediately. “No—Nat, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what is it?”
You hesitated.
Because there was no good answer that didn’t make you feel like you were about to disappoint her.
“I just…” Your voice dropped. “I need to tell you something.”
Her gaze softened slightly but stayed steady. “Okay.”
Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest.
“I got the tattoo.”
The words landed between you.
Natasha didn’t respond right away.
Not anger. Not frustration.
Just stillness.
“…When?” she asked finally.
“A few days ago.”
Another pause.
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t mean to hide it,” you said quickly. “I just—every time I thought about telling you, I got nervous, and then it just got worse and I—”
“Show me.”
The interruption was calm.
Not demanding.
Just certain.
You looked up at her, searching her face.
She wasn’t upset.
Just… focused.
So slowly, you stood.
Your hands trembled a little as you pulled your pants down to your hips.
She raised her eyebrow, crossing her arms.
You gave her a shy smile before pulling down the side of your panties to reveal the small tattoo—subtle, clean, and carefully placed.
A single initial.
You had chosen Natasha's because it meant more than any symbol or date could.
To you, her initial was a promise: a quiet way of carrying her presence with you, a mark for the moments she'd held you together after everything else felt uncertain.
It was hope, memory, and belonging all at once—something indelible meant just for you.
Her initial.
Natasha didn’t speak.
For a long moment, she just looked.
Completely still.
Like her brain had gone quiet.
Then she stepped closer.
Careful.
Almost like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch it.
Her fingers hovered first—barely there—before finally brushing over it.
You flinched slightly, a small hiss escaping before you could stop it.
“Does it hurt?” she asked immediately, pulling back a fraction.
“...A little,” you murmur.
But instead of moving away, you caught her hand gently.
“Wait.”
You guided her closer again, slower this time. “It’s fine.”
Her eyes flicked up to yours, checking.
You nodded.
So she touched it again.
More carefully this time.
Her expression changed.
Not sudden.
Not loud.
Just… softer.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked quietly.
You swallowed. “Because it’s yours.”
That made her freeze again.
“You did this… for me?”
You gave a small, nervous shrug. “It felt right.”
For a second, she didn’t move.
Then she exhaled slowly, her shoulders rising and falling as if releasing a burden she had carried for longer than she cared to admit.
For a moment, Natasha felt caught between instinct and something softer. Her mind ran through all the old warnings, the walls she built to keep pain at bay, the history written into every scar and choice she was never allowed.
The idea of someone willingly marking themselves, especially for her, pulled up memories she usually kept locked down.
Disbelief flickered in her eyes, quickly chased by something gentle, almost vulnerable: a private relief that softened the set of her mouth and eased the tension she held.
The intimacy of what you'd done for her overwhelmed her in a way that was as comforting as it was frightening.
It was a quiet, complicated feeling—something like disbelief and something like warmth mingling, as if acceptance could be as healing as scars could be defining.
“You are going to be the death of me,” she muttered.
That made you laugh weakly. “That bad?”
Natasha finally looked at you properly again.
And there it was—that shift.
The seriousness is melting just slightly at the edges.
“…No,” she said softly. “Not bad.”
Her hand slid from the tattoo to your waist, pulling you gently closer until there wasn’t any space left between you.
“You just don’t think things through.”
“I thought this through,” you argued quietly.
Her mouth twitched.
“That makes it worse.”
You smiled, tension easing out of your shoulders completely now.
“Are you mad?”
Natasha paused.
Then shook her head once.
“No.”
A beat.
“…Surprised.”
Her eyes dropped back to the tattoo again, and this time there was something unmistakably fond in her expression.
“And?” you prompted softly.
“And I think,” she said slowly, “that you are very lucky I like you.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s dangerous,” she corrected—but there was no real edge to it.
Only warmth.
She traced the tattoo again, gentler now, like she’d memorized its meaning.
“It’s… very you.”
You tilted your head. “You don’t hate it?”
Natasha looked up at you.
And this time, she didn’t hesitate at all.
“No,” she said simply. “I don’t.”
A pause.
“I think it’s… kind of hot.”
Your eyes widened instantly. “Nat—”
“I’m not elaborating,” she cut in immediately, but there was the faintest smirk forming.
You laughed, completely relieved now, leaning into her.
Natasha pulled you in properly this time, wrapping her arms around you like she’d decided the conversation was over, and you belonged there.
And when she kissed your temple, it lingered just a second longer than usual.
“Next time,” she murmured against your hair, “you tell me first.”
You smiled into her shoulder.
“Deal.”
And this time, when the TV played quietly in the background, neither of you cared about it at all.
Hi!! I saw you said you’re open to writing little side stories set in the Phone Girl world… I was rereading the series because it was just SO GOOD and some ideas popped into my head. No pressure of course! I understand as a writer you have to wait for inspiration to strike lol💡
What happens when an emotionally heavy day rolls around for Reader? (Ex. child’s birthday or death anniversary) How does Natasha react?
Or what if the roles were reversed? What if something happens to Nat (maybe disagreements that led to the events of Captain America: Civil War)? How does Reader react?
What happens if the Snap takes place in this universe? What would Nat do if Reader was snapped?
A really angsty scenario but… what id something happened to Sofia?! 🥺 how would Natasha and Reader handle that? (Idk just a really angsty thought that popped into my head…)
Just some thoughts I had while rereading!! Love your work <3
On God- I love all of this.
But hear me out, I would write one or two of them...
BUT
WHAT IF
I JUST MADE A WHOLE NEW SEASON?
#revivePhoneGirl #genius
Thank you for loving my writing, kitten. It means a whole lot, and it’s a major motivation to continue writing 😌
A.N: GUYS THIS IT THE LAST THING WE WILL SEE OF THIS MESSY SITUATIONSHIP RELATIONSHIP. I don't even know what to call these idiots. anyway. I'm like SO happy with how this chapter turned out. If you guys crave more from this universe, I guess I can chef it up and cook something delicious with them. But this is all from the main story.
... Pt. 3 , Pt. 4 , Pt . 5 , -
You push her up against the wall just inside the door.
The impact shuddered through the cheap drywall.
Your mouth finds hers again, soaked cotton and denim rubbing against each other.
Her hands are under your shirt, palms scraping over your ribs, cold and then impossibly hot.
You get her jacket off. It hits the floor with a wet slap.
Your fingers reach down to the button of her jeans.
“Fucking hurry up,” she grits out, her voice raw. Like she doesn’t trust this moment to last.
She’s already working on your belt, the buckle clinking loudly in the quiet room.
You get her jeans open and shove them down over her hips.
She wiggles out of them along with her boots.
Your hands are everywhere at once—her back, her ass, her hair, like you’re trying to memorize her faster than you can lose her.
Something shifts.
She suddenly spins you.
Reversing your positions.
Her strength effortlessly manhandles you until your back is to the wall.
For a second, she stills—like she might say something.
She doesn’t.
Her mouth leaves yours, trails down your jaw, your neck.
She bites down on your neck, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you curse and arch into her.
“You smell like cigarettes,” she mutters against your skin, her nose wrinkling. There’s a flare of genuine distaste in her voice–
a crack in the fury.
‘’Fuck you,’’ you breathe.
Your hand is in her hair before you think about it, dragging her onto your mouth like you’re trying to shut the words off at the source.
You don’t want to talk.
You can’t talk.
Talking is where this falls apart.
And you already broke enough tonight.
She meets you.
Hard.
No hesitation.
No softness.
Then she breaks apart from you, her breath uneven.
There’s a pause.
Too long to be accidental.
Natasha pushes you towards your bedroom.
You fall back onto the messy sheets, the scent of your own perfume rising around you.
Her shirt is transparent from the rain. It’s plastered to her chest, to the tight peaks of her nipples.
Her eyes catch yours for half a second—too aware, like she knows exactly what this is costing both of you.
Her shirt is gone in a blink.
It hits the floor before you even register the motion.
Then she’s on top of you, knees on either side of your waist.
You buck your hips upwards, your hands falling down on her thighs, gripping hard enough to anchor yourself in her.
She tugs your sweats and your underwear down in one swift, efficient motion.
You flip her onto her back.
Your grip loosens for half a beat.
Long enough to stop.
You don’t.
Neither does she.
Natasha gasps when your hand pushes past her panties.
‘’Fuck.’’
Her inner muscles clamp around the sudden, delicious invasion.
Your fingers curve slightly, hitting a spot that made white flash behind her eyes.
You started to move, a relentless, driving rhythm.
Like, if you slow down, you’ll think too much.
Your palm is grinding against her clit with each thrust, making her cry out.
Your other hand moves to her throat—not squeezing, just there.
Like you need to feel her breathing, or like you don’t know how to ask her to stay any other way.
“Look at me,” you ordered, not trusting her to do so unless you forced it.
She hesitates for only a second.
Then she meets your eyes.
Your face inches from hers, flushed, lips swollen, and her eyes wild with a feral intensity.
You tighten your hold on her neck, making her let out a choked moan.
“Yeah—just like that,” you bite back, your fingers fucking her harder.
Faster.
Deeper.
“There—” she panted, her voice strangled. “Right there, god, don’t stop—”
You watched her come undone, studying every moan, every gasp, committing it to memory.
She doesn’t stop.
She can’t stop.
Anything slower would make her think.
Natasha moved her hand between your bodies and found your soaked, swollen center.
She slid a finger into you, then two, mirroring your rhythm.
You gasped, your forehead dropping to her shoulder, your movements stuttering for a second.
She curled her fingers inside you, and you bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder—hard.
The bright pain mixed with the deepening pleasure was a perfect and painful sensation.
You were both moving now, a frantic, messy syncopation on your bed.
The springs squeaked in protest.
Your breath was hot and ragged in her ear, your moans low, guttural, utterly unfiltered.
She could feel the tension coiling in you, the trembling in your thighs.
Her fingers disappearing from your aching core.
‘’Nat–’’ you breathe out, voice breaking on the edge of frustration. Her name feels like the only thing keeping you steady.
Natasha pushed you onto your back.
Then she moved down, dragging you closer by your thighs, like distance is something she can actually control.
You looked down at her. Focused. Unreadable.
She doesn’t look up.
Not once.
She leaned in between your thighs.
Her tongue moves.
One slow, flat stroke from bottom to top.
You jerked, a gasp punched out of you. Your head fell back against your mattress.
Her mouth was hot and demanding, her tongue circling your clit with a focused, relentless pressure that made your hips buck off the soon-to-be-ruined sheets.
She hummed, the vibration shooting straight through your core, making you grip your hair.
“Shit—fuck,” you choked out, arching off the bed.
She pinned your hips down with one strong arm across your abdomen, holding you still so she could devour you.
Her other hand slid up your torso, under your shirt and sports bra, thumb scraping over your nipple.
You were babbling, a stream of curses and pleas, your thighs trembling against the sides of her head.
She moaned, the sound muffled against you, and the feeling of it, the raw feedback, pushed you higher.
You were hurtling toward the edge.
Too fast.
Too soon.
You didn’t want it to be over.
You reached down, your fingers tangling in her damp hair. Not to guide her, but to feel the reality of her there.
She arched into your touch, a hungry sound leaving her throat.
She sucked your clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking rapidly.
You came apart with a shattered cry, your back bowing, your vision blurring at the edges as the orgasm ripped through you.
She surged up, climbing onto your lap, her knees on either side of your hips.
Her mouth found yours.
You could taste yourself on her lips, her tongue—salty, intimate, obscene.
When you pulled apart, you met her wide pupils, your breath ragged.
‘’Nat–’’
‘’Shut up,’’ she mutters, like she doesn’t want to hear her words either.
When her lips touch yours, they’re soft.
Only for a second.
Like she forgot to fight.
It almost ruins you.
Natasha’s hands tug at your shirt impatiently.
You lifted your arms as she pulled the damp shirt off you, your sports bra following.
Her hands immediately came up to cup your breast.
Squeezing.
Pinching.
You moaned, pushing into her, kissing her again. Rougher now.
Your arms dropped from her arms to her hips.
You hooked your finger in her lace panties, pulling at them.
She helped you slide them down, the heat from her center radiating towards yours.
Your lips found each other again, all teeth and tongue and conquest, a battle for dominance neither could win.
Your hips rolled up against hers, a wet, hot grind that made her gasp into your mouth. You bit her lower lip, sucked it, soothed it with your tongue.
She let out a sound that was close to a whimper. Then she moved her left leg under yours.
The contact of your wet centers made you both moan and arch into each other.
“Stay right there,” you breathe, rough and unsteady, holding onto her shoulders as you rock your cunt against hers.
She moaned your name, head tipped back, as she continued her movement.
There’s no teasing in it anymore.
Just breath.
Just need.
The sound of your name from her mouth almost stops you.
Almost.
You move again anyway, faster this time, dragging her closer by the back of her knee.
You lock into a rhythm, but it feels wrong in a way neither of you says out loud.
Like you’re touching someone you don’t know if you fully know.
‘’I-I’m close,’’ you breathe out, an admission instead of a warning.
Her hand moves directly to your clit.
Her motion is fast. Rough. It brings you over the edge faster than you’d like to admit.
You come with a broken sound you don’t mean to make.
She follows right after you.
You ride her through her orgasm.
And then everything stops.
Not slowly.
All at once.
Your hands stay where they are, like neither of you remembers how to let go first.
You’re both breathing too hard.
Too loud.
Too real.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves.
Not away.
Not closer.
Just… there.
Your eyes meet hers.
And whatever that was sharp between you before has dulled into something heavier. Less violent. More uncertain.
Like the aftermath of something neither of you planned to survive properly.
Then–
a laugh breaks out of you.
Small.
Disbelieving.
Like your body doesn’t know what else to do with the fact that you’re still here, still looking at each other, still not gone.
And it’s not funny.
Not really.
But it happens anyway.
The laugh fades quicker than it came.
It doesn’t echo. It just… disappears between you.
You swallow, your breath still uneven, and suddenly you’re aware of everything again.
The room.
The mess of sheets.
The quiet settled back in like it was waiting for this moment to return.
Your hands are still on each other.
Neither of you moves it.
Then slowly–carefully–you shift her weight off you just enough to make it less like a collision and more like a choice.
She doesn’t stop you.
But she doesn’t follow you either.
That alone says enough.
You sit there for a moment.
Again.
Staring at nothing in particular, just trying to figure out what your body is supposed to do now that it’s done needing her like that.
It doesn’t have an answer.
When you finally look back at her, she’s already watching you.
Not intensely.
Not guarded.
Just present in a way that feels unfamiliar after everything that just happened between you.
Natasha’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it should.
Not on your face exactly.
But on the way you’re still slightly out of breath. The way your hands don’t quite know where to rest now that they’re not holding onto her anymore.
Like she’s trying to understand what part of you is real after everything that just happened.
You break the moment first.
The bed dips as you swing your legs off the edge.
The floor is cold under your feet.
For a second, you just sit there, catching your breath, hands still slightly trembling like they don’t know the moment is over yet.
Natasha watches you.
Doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t stop you.
You walk to your drawer.
Pull it open.
A pause.
Then you glance back over your shoulder.
“Do you want boxers or a thong?”
It comes out flat. Practical. Like you’re asking about the weather.
That earns you a look.
Not offended.
Just—
“…Boxers,” she says after a beat.
You nod like that’s the most reasonable answer in the world.
You toss her a dry shirt first.
It lands in her lap.
She looks down at it, then up at you again, like she’s checking if this is real or if she missed the moment it turned strange.
It didn’t.
Or maybe it did, and neither of you is acknowledging it.
You pull out another drawer, grab a pair of boxers, and hand them over, too.
Your fingers brush hers for half a second when she takes them.
Neither of you reacts.
Not because it doesn’t matter.
Because it does, but you’re both pretending it doesn’t need commentary.
She watches you as you get dressed in a shirt and a thong. Your movements are still a little unsteady, and your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that everything slowed down now.
You disappear into the kitchen.
Natasha shifts slightly, pulling the shirt on.
It’s too big on her.
It falls off one shoulder before she adjusts it properly.
She looks down at it, then grasps it gently in her hands, and then lifts it to her nose.
It smells like you.
She closes her eyes for a moment.
She hears the water running in the kitchen.
Natasha turns to your nightstand.
The picture of you and the little girl is still there.
Natasha doesn’t touch the frame.
Just stares.
Like she’s trying to understand how something like that existed so close to where she is right now.
You come back in with two glasses of water.
Bare feet quiet on the floor.
“Sorry, I only have tap,” you say lightly, as if it matters in a normal way.
You hand her one.
She takes it.
Fingers brushing yours again.
Still careful.
Still not breaking anything.
You sit on the edge of the bed this time, but angled toward her—not fully in it, not fully out of it.
She hasn’t moved much.
Just sitting there in your shirt.
Looking smaller than she has any right to.
Her gaze drifts again.
To the nightstand.
To the photo.
You notice it too late.
Her eyes don’t leave it.
And something in your chest tightens.
You can’t tell her to leave.
Not this time.
Your throat dries up right before you speak.
‘’...She died of leukemia.’’
Your voice doesn’t land steady.
Of course it didn’t.
Natasha doesn’t respond.
She swallows, listening.
‘’...About two years ago,’’ your voice trembles as you look down at the half-empty glass in your hands.
Or half-full.
You’re not quite sure.
Your fingers tap against the side of it.
‘’I-I-I don’t–’’ your grip tightens around the glass, your body not really knowing what to do at that moment. ‘’I don’t really know how– how to… be around this part yet.’’
Silence.
Real.
When you finally glance up, she’s still there.
She looks like she understands something without needing details.
Not pity.
Not shock.
Just recognition of a place you never learned how to stand in.
You exhale, small and uneven.
‘’I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now,’’ you admit. ‘’...What we’re supposed to do.’’
The honesty hangs in the air.
Unprotected.
Natasha shifts.
Not away.
Toward you.
She takes the glass gently from your hands and places both of them on the floor like they don’t matter anymore.
Then she reaches for you.
Not fast.
Not forceful.
Just certain in a way neither of you has been all night.
She pulls you into her arms.
You go easily, like your body was waiting for permission you didn’t know you needed.
Her hand presses into the back of your head.
Your face turns into her shoulder.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly–
‘’...I don’t really know how to do… this,’’ she says.
It isn’t just about you.
It’s about everything.
You breathe out against her.
‘’Me either.’’
That’s it.
No fixing.
No explanation.
Just truth landing in the same place.
Her grip tightens slightly.
Not possessive, but just steadying.
Your fingers move slowly.
Touching her hair, that's drying, curls starting to form
‘’...I didn’t know you had curls.’’
Natasha goes still for half a second.
As if she’s processing whether that’s about hair.
Or something else entirely.
‘’I don’t usually keep it that way.’’
You hum, twirling a strand around your finger.
Then, softer—almost like she’s not fully sure why she’s admitting it, “It gets in the way.”
Your thumb gently follows the shape of a curl, slow and absentminded.
“…You don’t seem like someone who lets things get in the way,” you murmur.
That makes her exhale through her nose.
Not a laugh.
Just something quieter.
“…Most things don’t survive long enough to get in the way,” she says.
It’s simple.
But it lands heavily.
You don’t rush to fill it.
Instead, your hand lingers in her hair like you’ve been given permission without asking for it.
“…I like it,” you say after a moment.
Honest.
Not loud.
Just there.
Natasha shifts slightly under you—not pulling away, not leaning in more either.
Just… present.
“…Of course you do,” she says softly.
Not teasing.
Not sharp.
Just an observation, like she’s trying to understand you the same way you’re trying to understand her.
A beat passes.
“It’s softer like this,’’ she murmurs.
That lands differently.
Because it doesn’t sound like she’s talking about hair anymore.
Your fingers slow.
“You are too...”
That makes her turn her head towards you.
Slowly.
There’s something in it now.
Awareness.
Of you.
Of this.
Of everything that’s still sitting between you, even now.
Your hand stills slightly in her hair.
“…I didn’t mean—” you start.
Then stop.
Because you don’t even know what you’re trying to take back.
Her eyes flicker. She caught it.
“…I know,” she says quietly.
A pause.
Your chest tightens just a little.
“I wasn’t trying to—” you try again, softer this time.
Less defensive.
More… honest.
Natasha exhales slowly.
Her hand shifts against you, fingers brushing along your side, not stopping you, not pulling you closer.
Just there.
“I know,” she repeats.
This time it lands differently.
Not dismissal.
Understanding.
That almost makes it worse.
Because now there’s nothing to hide behind.
You swallow.
“…I shouldn’t have—” you start again.
She cuts you off.
“Don’t.”
Your brows pull together slightly.
Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.
“…You meant it,” she says.
There’s no accusation in it.
Just fact.
A beat.
“…So did you,” you reply before you can stop yourself.
Silence.
Something shifts in her expression.
Small.
Almost imperceptible.
Then she nods once.
“…Yeah.”
That’s it.
That’s the closest either of you gets to an apology.
Not forgiveness.
Not resolution.
Just another acknowledgement.
And a choice not to leave anyway.
Your hand moves again, slower now.
Less uncertain.
Her fingers slide up your arm, settling there—light, but deliberate.
Like she’s staying.
Like you are too.
Neither of you says anything else.
Because there isn’t anything clean enough to say.
So instead—
you just keep touching each other like you’re figuring out a language that didn’t exist before tonight.
Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.
Your hand moves again, slower now, fingers slipping from her hair and down to her waist, under her shirt, to her back.
She lets you.
Leans into it, just slightly.
Not asking.
Not resisting.
Just… there.
Her forehead dips, resting briefly against yours, both of you breathing the same air for a second.
Not kissing.
Not pulling away.
Just staying.
After a long moment, she exhales.
“…Phone Girl,” she says suddenly.
You blink.
Then you laugh—quiet, surprised.
“That’s still the worst name I’ve ever heard for me.”
A pause.
Then she hums faintly.
“It’s better than nothing.”
That lands differently than it should.
Because it reminds both of you that there was a time when it was nothing.
Just a voice in the dark.
Just a line between staying and not.
You shift slightly closer without thinking.
Her bare knees touch yours.
Neither of you corrects it.
The silence after is softer now.
Not empty.
Just full of something that doesn’t hurt anymore.
Natasha looks down at your free hand.
The way your fingers stay open instead of holding too tightly.
She places hers in it, the soft skin feeling slightly unreal.
And quietly, almost like she’s admitting it to herself more than you, “...I wasn’t sure I was going to step back from that edge.”
A beat.
“…But I heard your voice.”
That’s it.
No dramatic confession.
Just truth.
Your thumb brushes lightly over her knuckles.
“You did step back,” you say gently.
Natasha exhales through her nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Annoyingly so.”
That makes you smile.
Small.
Real.
A pause stretches between you again.
But this one doesn’t feel like distance.
It feels like a pause.
Like breathing room.
Like, after something survives impact.
Natasha shifts slightly towards you.
Her voice drops a little, “…say it again.”
You frown slightly.
“Say what?”
Her fingers tighten just a little in yours.
“My name.”
Oh.
So you do.
“Natasha.”
Not loud.
Not careful.
Just steady.
She closes her eyes for a second.
Like it lands somewhere deeper than language.
Then she exhales.
“…I like it when you say it like that.”
You swallow lightly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m still here,” she says.
That hits.
You both stay quiet after that.
The need to speak wasn’t necessary.
It’s become a language between you two now.
Just presence that stays both ways.
Natasha leans her head against your shoulder.
Not dramatic.
Not fragile.
Just tired enough to stop pretending she isn’t human.
You lift your hand moves further around her, under her shirt.
Your shirt.
You pull her closer.
She doesn’t flinch.
She settles instead.
Like she’s allowed to.
“I’m still here,’’ you murmur, almost absentmindedly.
She doesn’t answer right away.
She’s just feeling the way your fingers trace her spine.
Then—
“…Yeah,” she murmurs.
A pause.
“…Me too.”
Silence again.
And just before everything fades into quiet, Natasha whispers.
Summary: Some calls don't end when the line goes dead.
Warnings: Grief, mental health struggles, suicidal ideation, emotional and sexual content (smootching)
W.C: 3.5K
A.N: It gets a bit angsty guys. Next chapter is the last. Probably. Unless I get a briliant idea.
... , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4 , -
You walk into work like it’s any other early morning. As usual, you are here before most of your colleagues. Before the noise and the distractions.
Sofia is awake. Even though she shouldn’t be, she is.
She’s curled slightly into the pillow, too small for the bed to feel full. The monitors hum softly beside her. Steady. Consistent.
You pause at the door.
She notices immediately.
‘’...thought about showering?’’ she says.
You exhale quietly through your nose and step inside.
‘’...good morning to you too.’’
She shrugs a little. It’s weak. Everything about her is, but her eyes are sharp. Watching you too closely.
You reach for her chart. Something to do. Something to avoid that look.
‘’...how are you feeling?’’
‘’Tired.’’
A beat.
‘’...you?’’
You don’t answer. You flip a page that doesn’t need to be flipped.
Silence stretches.
‘’...she came back.’’
Your hand stills just for a second.
‘’Who?’’ you ask quickly.
Sofia doesn’t even blink.
‘’You’re terrible at lying.’’
You close the chart, then set it down.
‘’...what did she want?'’
Sofia shifts, watching you for a second longer. ‘’...advice,’’ she says simply.
Your jaw tightens. ‘’...she shouldn't have been here.’’
A pause.
‘’...you told her to leave,’’ Sofia continues.
You glance at her, then at the monitor.
You nod once. It’s small. Controlled.
‘’I did,’’ you say in an exhale.
Sofia watches you quietly.
‘’...that was stupid,’’ she says.
You don’t react properly. Just a small shift of your jaw. ‘’...I know.’’
The words come out flat, as you’ve already said them to yourself at least a hundred times.
She frowns, ‘’...then why did you do it?’’
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t have one. At least not one that sounds right out loud.
‘’...she looked like she needed you, she looked worse than you do now,’’ Sofia adds.
Her words make something in your chest twist, sharp and uncomfortable.
You close your eyes slowly, ‘’I have rounds,’’ you say.
She doesn’t stop you; she watches you until you reach the door.
Then–
‘’...You’re going to lose her.’’
You freeze, your hand on the handle.
‘’...I think I already did,’’ you mutter.
-///-
The day drags, and everything feels off. It’s either too slow, too loud or too much. But you go through the motions. Patients. Notes. Conversations you won’t remember having.
But she’s there.
At the back of your head, gnawing like something feeding off your regret.
You freeze every time the phone rings, imagining it’s her on the other line.
It’s not.
The way silence stretches just a second too long.
Now you’re the one messing things up.
Your heart stung.
Go.
Another sting. It made you drag your hand across your face.
On the way home that evening, you were utterly exhausted. Your brain was working overtime about patients, your schedule that day and her.
Your apartment is quiet when you enter.
Exactly the same as you left.
And somehow–
worse.
You drop your keys onto the counter. They clatter too loudly.
You don’t turn on the lights.
You don’t need to.
You know this place well enough to move through it in the dark.
You stand by the counter for a second.
Then two.
And then you move down the hallway, past your bedroom.
The door is as she left it, slightly ajar, enough for your chest to tighten.
You don’t remember the last time you fully closed the door, though.
Your hand presses against it, pushing it open just enough.
It creaks. Soft and familiar. And everything inside is still untouched. Her bed is made neatly and with quiet care. Like it’s waiting for someone.
You step inside slowly, as if the room might break if you move too fast.
Your fingers brush against the edge of the dresser as you pass. The dust hasn’t settled. You don’t let it.
You never let it.
Your gaze drifts to the drawings still taped to the wall.
Crooked, but bright and alive.
You stop at the bed.
Just stand there.
Looking.
A beat.
You sit down.
Once all your weight is supported, the mattress dips slightly as it always has.
It’s too small for you, but you’ve spent countless hours at this bed.
Your hand moves without thinking.
A small teddy bear, tucked near the pillow.
It’s worn and loved. Yours, now.
You pick it up slowly.
Holding it in your hands for a second.
Then closer.
Against your chest.
Your breath stutters.
“…hey, baby,” you murmur.
Your voice is quiet. Careful.
Like you don’t want to wake her.
Like she’s still here.
Your thumb brushes over the worn fabric of the teddy.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“I—” you stop.
Swallow and try again.
“…I had a bad day.”
A weak huff leaves you.
It doesn’t sound right.
Nothing does at this moment.
“There’s this girl,” you continue softly.
Your gaze drops to the bear.
Like it might answer.
“…you would’ve liked her, I think.”
Your voice cracks.
You clear your throat.
“She’s… stubborn,” you murmur. “Doesn’t listen. Shows up when she shouldn’t.”
A pause.
Your grip tightens slightly.
“…she reminds me of you.”
You still then inhale sharply through your nose.
Your fingers stills on the teddy bear, near its cheek.
“I told her to leave,” you whisper.
The words feel worse out loud.
“Heh… you would’ve hated that.”
A tear slips before you can stop it, but don’t wipe it away.
“…I think I messed it up.”
Your voice is smaller now.
Quieter.
Like something in you is folding in on itself.
“I didn’t mean to,” you add. “I just—”
You stop because you don’t know how to explain it. Not even to her, not even like this.
Your head dips slightly, resting against the wall.
The teddy bear was still clutched to your chest.
“…I miss you,” you whisper.
That part comes easy, too easy. A shaky breath follows.
“I don’t know what I’m doing without you, sweet cheeks.”
Then, silence fills the room. It’s heavy, but never empty, like a lot of moments in your life.
Your thumb starts moving over the fabric once again.
Slower this time.
“…should I call her?” you murmur.
A beat.
Like you’re waiting.
Like you always used to.
For an answer.
For anything.
Your lips press together, then you exhale shakily.
“…yeah,” you whisper to yourself.
Like she said it.
Like she always used to.
You nod once.
Then you stand.
Carefully placing the teddy bear back where it was, where it belongs.
Your hand lingers for a second, but then you pull away.
You step back out of the room.
The door stays open.
Like it always used to do.
-///-
The phone in your hand feels heavier than normal. It’s telling you to think twice before making this choice.
You press call on the one person you’ve been calling more than anyone these past months.
It rings.
And rings.
Your jaw tightens with every second that passes. You almost hang up.
Then—
“…Y/N.”
Your breath catches. Just for a second.
“…hey.”
Silence.
Not empty. Not neutral.
Tense.
“You shouldn’t be calling,” she says.
It’s not angry.
That would be easier.
Your fingers tighten around the phone. “I know.”
“So why are you?”
You swallow. Your throat feels dry.
“I just—”
You stop.
Because nothing sounds right once it gets close to leaving your mouth.
A quiet exhale comes from her end. Impatient.
“…did something happen?” she asks.
It’s automatic.
Like she’s expecting you to be calling for a reason that makes sense.
That almost makes you laugh.
“Yeah,” you say.
A beat.
“I told someone to leave.”
Silence.
Then—
“…and you’re calling me about that?” she asks.
Flat.
You close your eyes.
“It’s not—”
“Because it sounds like you handled it,” she cuts in.
Your chest tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
You don’t answer right away.
Your fingers press harder into the phone.
“…she didn’t deserve it.”
The line goes quiet.
Not the same quiet.
Heavier now.
“…no,” Natasha says after a second. “She probably didn’t.”
Something about the way she says it, too calm.
Too distant. It makes something twist in your chest.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly.
“Then how did you mean it?”
Your jaw clenches.
“I was trying to—”
You stop again.
Because even now, you don’t know.
“Push her away?” Natasha offers.
Your eyes open.
“…yeah.”
It comes out quieter than you expected.
Another pause.
“And did it work?” she asks.
There’s something off in her tone now.
You frown slightly. “…what?”
“Did she leave?”
Your stomach drops.
“…yeah.”
A soft hum on the other end.
“Then I guess you got what you wanted.”
That lands wrong.
“I didn’t want that.”
“But you did it anyway.”
Your grip tightens.
“…you’re not making this better.”
“I’m not trying to,” she says simply.
That hits.
Harder than it should.
You drag a hand over your face.
“…you always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t care.”
A beat.
“I don’t,” she says.
Too quick.
Too clean.
Your chest tightens.
“…that’s not true.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” she replies.
Colder now.
Your jaw clenches.
“I’m not deciding anything. I just—”
“Then stop talking like you know me,” she cuts in.
Silence snaps between you.
Sharp.
Your heart is beating too fast now.
“…I do know you.”
You shouldn’t have said that.
You know it the second it leaves your mouth.
Because she laughs.
It’s quiet.
But there’s nothing warm about it.
“No,” she says. “You don’t.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m the one you call.”
“And you answer,” she shoots back immediately.
“Yeah,” you snap. “Because someone has to.”
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it.
The shift.
It’s heavy and wrong.
“…right,” she says.
Soft.
Too soft.
You swallow.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then stop saying things you don’t mean,” she replies.
There’s no anger now.
That’s worse.
“I’m tired of guessing which version of you I’m getting.”
Your chest tightens.
“…you’re doing the same thing.”
“No,” she says. “I’m not pretending.”
A pause.
Then—
“I don’t call people back, Y/N.”
That lands.
Deep.
“I don’t stay on the phone. I don’t—” she exhales sharply. “I don’t keep coming back.”
Your fingers go still.
“But I did,” she adds.
Quieter now.
“And you’re acting like that doesn’t mean anything.”
Your throat feels tight.
“It does.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?” she asks.
You don’t have an answer.
You hate that.
“I just—” you start.
Stop.
Then start over.
“I thought you’d understand.”
There’s a long pause.
“…that’s your problem,” she says finally.
Your brows pull together. “What?”
“You only want people around when they understand you.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not—”
“And the second they don’t,” she continues, voice sharper now, “you push them away and act like it’s their fault for trying to stay.”
“That’s not fair,” you snap.
“It’s not supposed to be,” she shoots back.
Silence cracks again.
Your breathing is uneven now.
So is hers.
“…I shouldn’t have called,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” she says.
A beat.
“You shouldn’t have.”
That stings more than it should.
You nod to yourself.
Even though she can’t see it.
“…okay.”
Silence.
Neither of you hangs up.
Neither of you fixes it.
“…take care of your patients,” she says after a second.
It’s distant again.
Professional, almost.
Like she’s already pulling away.
Your chest tightens.
“…Natasha—”
But the line clicks.
Dead.
The conversation didn’t fix anything.
It was never going to.
It just peels things back.
Strips them raw.
Every word feels heavier than it should.
Natasha is still holding the phone when the line goes dead.
The silence doesn’t arrive cleanly.
It arrives like pressure.
Like something filling her lungs instead of air.
For a moment, she just stands there, staring out over the edge like it might answer for her.
The city doesn’t move for her grief.
It never does.
Her grip loosens slightly.
Then tightens again, like her body can’t decide whether to let go of the world or hold onto it harder.
Her breathing feels wrong—too loud in her own ears, too close, like it doesn’t belong to her.
“…I don’t understand you,” she whispers, but there’s no one left to hear it.
The words don’t land anywhere.
They just fall.
Below her, everything is distant.
She takes a step forward without meaning to.
Then stops.
The wind shifts hard against her face, and it feels almost grounding for half a second—sharp, real, physical.
But it doesn’t last.
Because then your voice comes back.
Not through the phone.
Not even clearly.
I’m the one you call.
Natasha flinches.
Her fingers curl slightly as if she’s been touched. That shouldn’t happen.
You’re not here, but her mind doesn’t correct it fast enough.
It repeats anyway.
Slower this time.
Less like memory.
More like presence.
She swallows hard, shaking her head once.
“No,” she says quietly, but it doesn’t sound like a refusal.
It sounds like trying.
Another breath—and suddenly there’s something else underneath it.
Not your voice when you’re speaking.
But your voice when you’re not speaking.
The pause you leave between words when you’re holding something back.
The way you go still right before you shut down.
It presses into her harder than anything you actually said.
Her chest tightens.
Her hand lifts without permission and brushes against her own lips.
The kiss doesn’t arrive as a thought at first.
It arrives as a presence.
You.
Just you.
Too close, too real, too much. Like you needed her.
Just pulling her in like it was inevitable.
Her breath catches sharply.
“Fuck,” she whispers, but it’s not anger this time.
It’s interruption.
Her mind stutters like it’s lost its footing.
Her stomach turns.
Not away from it.
Toward it.
It doesn’t fade the way it should.
Natasha steps back abruptly, like the memory has weight and she’s trying to escape it.
Her heel hits something solid.
Reality snaps back in too fast.
She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face.
“Get it together,” she mutters to herself—but it’s shaky, uneven, like she doesn’t fully believe she’s talking to herself.
The wind pulls at her again. The edge is still there. Still waiting.
But something in her has shifted.
Not fixed. Not healed. Just… redirected.
Her fingers press briefly to her lips again, slower this time.
A pause.
Then—
“…screw it,” she breathes.
But it doesn’t sound like surrender anymore.
It sounds like a decision under pressure.
Her breath shakes.
Then she turns away from the edge.
She leaves the roof without looking back.
-///-
You step outside, the pack of cigarettes fits wrongly in your hand.
The cold hits hard; the pouring rain doesn’t help.
Then, you see the car.
You freeze in your step as the figure steps out.
She meets your eyes.
And Sofia was right, she did look worse than you.
Her hair was soaked, mascara smudged.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, walking up to her.
Her expression tightens. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “It’s just easier for you.”
Your jaw clenches.
“At least I show up.”
That hits.
You step closer. “You leave.”
Her eyes flash. “I come back.”
A beat.
Neither of you backs down.
“You only come back when it’s on your terms,” you push.
“And you only want me when it’s safe for you,” she fires back.
Silence cracks between you.
Too loud.
Too real.
“You call me,” you say, voice shaky. “In the middle of the night. When it’s bad. When you’re—”
You stop yourself.
She doesn’t.
“Say it.”
Your eyes meet hers.
“When you don’t want to be here. When you want to end your life by jumping off a fucking building,” you finish.
Her jaw tightens.
“And you answer,” she shoots back. “Every time.”
“Because I care! I care about you, Natasha.”
“Then why does it feel like you only care when I’m breaking?” she snaps.
That hits somewhere deep.
“I don’t—”
“You’re good at fixing things,” she continues. “At holding it together. Being what people need.”
A step closer.
“You patch people up and send them away like that’s enough.”
Your head snaps up. “That’s not what I—”
“It is,” she cuts in. “You don’t keep anyone. You don’t even try.”
Your chest tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” she fires back. “You had me right there, and the second it got real, you shut the door in my face like I meant nothing.”
“I didn’t ask you to stay!” you snap.
The words hit the second they leave your mouth.
Her expression flickers.
Something sharp.
“Yeah,” she says, quieter. “I noticed.”
Your stomach twists. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” she steps closer. “Because it sounded a lot like you don’t actually want anyone—you just want someone to need you.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” she presses. “You like it when I call. When I’m falling apart. When I need you to talk me down—”
“Don’t,” you warn.
“Because then you’re in control,” she keeps going. “Then you’re the one holding everything together, the one who gets to walk away clean—”
“I said don’t!” your voice breaks louder this time.
But she doesn’t stop.
“You don’t want me,” she says. “You want the version of me that makes you feel useful.”
Something in you snaps.
“At least I’m not standing on rooftops every other night!” you fire back.
The silence after that—
is instant.
Dead.
Her face changes.
Not anger.
Worse.
“You really want to do that?” she asks, low.
Your breathing is uneven. You don’t answer.
“You think that’s something I choose?” she steps closer again, voice shaking now. “You think I call you because it’s fun?”
“I think you call me because you don’t know how to deal with your own shit!” you throw back.
She laughs. It’s sharp. Empty.
“Right. And you do?”
Your jaw clenches. “At least I’m still here.”
“Are you?” she snaps. “Because from where I’m standing, you checked out a long time ago.”
That lands deeper than anything else.
“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking. “You don’t get what it’s like to have everything and then lose it in a second—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in, harsher now.
You ignore it.
“I had a life. I had a family. I had—”
“You think you’re the only one who loses people?” she shouts.
Your chest heaves.
“I lost my daughter.”
The words tear out of you.
Raw. Uncontrolled.
They hang there.
Heavy.
But Natasha—
doesn’t back down.
Her eyes are glassy now, but there’s something reckless in them.
“Yeah?” she says. “I lost the chance to ever have one.”
And that is a different kind of silence.
Not empty.
Shattered.
You both just stand there.
Breathing too hard, too close, too far gone to take anything back.
Your eyes drop to her mouth.
You don’t mean to.
It just happens.
Her chest rises sharply. She notices. Of course she does.
“Don’t,” she breathes, but she doesn’t step back.
You shake your head once. Like that’ll clear it. Like that’ll fix anything.
It doesn’t. “Then stop standing so close,” you shoot back.
“I’m not the one who moved,” she snaps.
“Then move.”
“Make me.”
You surge forward, your hand fists in her shirt, pulling her into you hard enough that it knocks the breath out of both of you.
Then your mouth is on hers.
And it’s not a kiss.
It’s a collision.
Teeth. Breath. Anger.
She makes a sharp sound against your mouth—half gasp, half something else—but she doesn’t pull away. She grabs you just as hard. Fists in your now soaked clothes. Pulling you closer like she’s trying to win something.
Like she’s trying to prove something.
Your back hits her car instead, the impact dull and ignored as she pushes into you, and you push right back.
It’s messy.
Uncoordinated and desperate.
All the things neither of you knows how to say—forced into this instead.
Your grip tightens. Hers does too.
There’s nothing soft about it.
Nothing careful.
Just heat. Friction, too much feeling with nowhere else to go.
She exhales sharply into your mouth, breath breaking, and for a second, it almost sounds like a whimper, like she didn’t mean for that to slip out.
Your head tilts, deeper, rougher, like you’re trying to drown out everything she just said.
Everything you said.
It doesn’t work.
It just makes it worse.
Because now she’s right there.
Still here.
Still choosing this.
Your other hand comes up, gripping her jaw, holding her in place, not gentle, not asking.
She doesn’t fight it.
If anything, she leans into it.
A broken sound leaves her this time, muffled against your lips, and it hits straight through you, sharp and immediate.
You pull back just enough to breathe—
foreheads almost knocking together, both of you gasping, eyes blown wide, wrecked already, but neither of you lets go.
Not even a little.
“Say something,” she pants.
You almost do.
But you don’t.
You shake your head.
“No.”
Because if you do, this stops.
And neither of you wants that.
So you kiss her again.
Harder.
Like it might fix something.
Or ruin everything.
Yet, you don’t stop.
Pt. 6
End of chapter A.N: guys, guys how fun doesn't this sound? Currently in the making
Summary: Natasha doesn't think twice about it, little does she know that it's so much more than that
Warnings: smut, P in V, A/B/O themed
W.C: 3.3K
A.N: Guys... hi... I've been two weeks off, for many reasons. However, if it is to any relief, I'm almost finished with the next part of Phone Girl and another WandaNat X Reader. I also, quite literally, have 10 unifinished drafts... I wrote this with a week apart so the pace and wording might be off, idk, I didn't really read through it heheh...
The first time Natasha noticed it, she didn’t think much of it. You were always like that.
Always playful, teasing and a little too close.
A little too soft when you spoke, your voice dipping just enough to make people lean in without realizing it.
It wasn’t new.
You did it to everyone.
That’s what she told herself.
The Avengers compound was quieter than usual. It was evening and most of the team had either gone out or buried themselves in their own corners of the building.
It left the common room open, dimly lit, the soft hum of distant machinery filling the space.
Natasha sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a book resting in her hand.
She looked focused. Calm. Controlled.
Or at least she had been, until you walked in. Your presence hit her before she even looked up.
Omega.
Soft and warm.
Familiar in a way that settled somewhere under her skin than around it, something instinctive and quiet that made her jaw tighten ever so slightly.
She didn’t react, didn’t look.
And certainly didn’t give herself away.
You padded into the room like you belonged there. Your eyes found her immediately, they always did.
Your gaze lingered. Not just passed over her, not casual, not thoughtless, but intentional. Like you were looking at her, not just in her direction.
Her fingers stilled slightly against the page.
She didn’t look up right away.
Didn’t give you that satisfaction.
‘’Still hiding in here?’’
Your voice was light, teasing–but softer than usual, like it was meant just for her.
Natasha exhaled quietly through her nose before finally lifting her gaze.
‘’You say that like I’m avoiding something.’’
Your lips curved.
‘’Someone,’’ you correct gently.
That shouldn’t have affected her.
But it did.
You moved around the couch, your fingers dragging lightly along the back before you stopped behind her, close enough that your presence pressed into her space.
Natasha’s shoulders tightened slightly.
She didn’t move away.
“Careful,” she said, her voice dropping just a fraction. “People might start thinking you’re looking for something.”
You leaned in just enough for your hand to settle against her shoulder, warm and grounding, your thumb brushing once—slow, deliberate.
“Maybe I already found it.”
The contact was light.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Natasha felt it travel further than it should have, settling somewhere low and unwelcome. Her grip tightened faintly around the book as your touch lingered, then shifted—your fingers sliding from her shoulder down along her arm, slow enough that it couldn’t be accidental.
Her breath changed.
Just slightly.
“You do this to everyone?” she asked, quieter now, though the tension in her voice betrayed her.
Your hand paused near her wrist, your thumb brushing lightly over the inside of it, right where her pulse sat steady beneath your touch.
“Do what?” you murmured.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Her body had already gone still under your hand, controlled but far too aware of where you were touching her.
So you leaned closer.
Close enough that your chest almost brushed her back, your breath warm against her ear.
“You get like this every time I’m near you,” you said softly. “All quiet… like you’re trying not to react.”
Natasha’s eyes slipped closed for half a second.
Just a second.
But it was enough.
Her jaw tightened as she exhaled slowly, like she was forcing herself back into control.
“You’re imagining things,” she said.
You hummed softly, your fingers tightening just slightly around her wrist—not restraining, just holding, keeping her there with you.
‘’I am,’’ a playful smirk fell onto your lips, ‘’I’m imagining you and me on this couch. Alone.’’
Natasha stiffened.
‘’You’ve got a body I’ve heard a lot about...’’
She shifted, and your hands drifted towards her shoulder, caressing the round edges of them.
You let out a hum in delight.
‘’You don’t let anyone touch you like this,’’ you say, your voice dipping lower, quieter. ‘’But you haven’t told me to stop.’’
You felt it in the way her breathing shifted again, deeper this time.
Slower.
Controlled but thinner.
‘’You’re pushing,’’ Natasha said under her breath.
‘’Say the word and tell me to behave,’’ you whisper softly, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. ‘’...but I don’t think you want me to.’’
This went on for far too long than either of you wanted to admit.
Long enough that it stopped feeling like a game.
Long enough that the air between you changed.
Natasha should’ve stopped you.
That was the problem.
She knew it.
Felt it in the way your fingers still rested against her wrist, in the way your breath kept brushing too close, in the way her body had gone completely still—not relaxed, not comfortable, but aware.
Too aware.
“You’re not subtle,” she said finally, her voice quieter now.
Rougher.
You smiled slightly against her ear.
“I’m not trying to be.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
‘’You’d take me so well, hm?’’
Natasha reached out for your cheek but you pulled away just in time.
She turned suddenly, fully, pulling you with her just enough that your balance shifted and you ended up standing between her knees. Her other hand came to your waist without hesitation, steadying you, holding you there.
Closer than before.
Closer than either of you had allowed.
Your breath caught, just slightly.
Your gaze flickered down for a second, taking in the way she was holding you—the firmness of her grip, the way her thumb pressed lightly into your side like she didn’t even realize she was doing it—before lifting back to her eyes.
“I think you’re not as in control as you want to be,” you said quietly.
Her fingers pressed in a little more, a subtle warning that didn’t actually push you away.
“You should stop,” she said.
But it didn’t sound like an order.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t give her that out.
Instead, you leaned in just a fraction more, closing the already minimal distance between you.
“Make me,” you whispered.
Something in her expression shifted then, something sharp and instinctive breaking through the control she’d been holding onto all evening. Her grip tightened, not to restrain you—but to pull you closer.
That small movement was enough to send something warm and heavy settling low in your stomach.
Your hand moved without thinking, sliding from her shoulder up to the back of her neck, your fingers threading lightly into her hair. The contact was different now. Not teasing. Not playful.
Intentional.
Natasha let out a breath and moved away.
You bit your lip, your head lowered as you watched her walk away.
-///-
The next time it happened, it wasn’t quiet.
It wasn’t controlled.
And it definitely wasn’t just the two of you.
The common area was louder now, the rest of the team scattered around—voices overlapping, something playing faintly on the TV, the usual rhythm of people who had stopped being careful around each other a long time ago.
You were stretched out across the couch like you belonged there, one leg thrown over the armrest, absently listening to something Clint was saying.
Or pretending to.
Your attention drifted the second she walked in.
It always did.
Natasha didn’t look at you right away.
But you felt it—that subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders squared just slightly, like she’d already registered you without needing to see you.
You smiled faintly.
“Hey, Nat,” you called, voice light, easy.
Too easy.
Her gaze flickered to you briefly. Controlled. Neutral.
“Y/n.”
That was it.
That was all you got.
It should’ve been enough.
It wasn’t.
You sat up slowly, your movements unhurried, deliberate in a way that didn’t draw attention unless someone was already watching.
She was.
Of course she was.
You crossed the space between you without hesitation, stopping just close enough to step into her space—but not enough for anyone else to notice.
Casual. Familiar. Dangerous.
“You ignored me earlier,” you said, softer now.
Natasha didn’t react immediately. Didn’t step back either.
“I had things to do,” she replied.
You tilted your head slightly, studying her.
“Mm. Didn’t seem that urgent.”
Her jaw tightened faintly.
“You’re making assumptions again.”
“Am I?” you murmured.
Your hand lifted, brushing lightly against her arm like it was nothing—like it wasn’t deliberate, like it didn’t linger just a second too long.
She went still.
Again.
Always like that.
And you leaned in just slightly, your voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you.
“You left pretty quickly,” you added. “Almost like you needed space.”
Her gaze snapped to yours.
Sharp.
Your eyes trailing slowly down her body, landing on her lap, then up to her eyes again.
“That’s not what that was.”
You smiled softly, knowing and with a tilt to your head.
“You sure?”
A beat.
The noise around you faded—not actually, but enough that it didn’t matter.
Natasha’s hand moved before she seemed to think about it, fingers closing briefly around your wrist.
Not pulling you away, not drawing you closer.
Just there.
A warning.
“You don’t stop,” she said quietly.
Your pulse jumped under her touch, yet you didn’t pull away.
“Do you want me to?” you asked.
And that—
That was the problem.
Because for a second—
A very brief, dangerous second—
She hesitated.
Her grip tightened just slightly before she let go, like she’d caught herself doing something she shouldn’t.
You pressed closer, ‘’I bet you’d ruin me for everyone else… I’d feel you a week later, still craving you and your…’’ you glanced down, then up, smiling with mischief. ‘’You know.’’
She blinked.
‘’You wouldn’t let me forget who I belong to.’’
“Go bother someone else,” she said.
Dismissive.
Too quick.
You leaned in just a fraction more, close enough that your shoulder brushed hers as you passed, your voice soft against her ear.
“I don’t want someone else.”
That slipped out.
Too real.
Too quiet.
Too easy to ignore.
Natasha didn’t turn around to stop you, didn’t acknowledge it.
And that was worse than anything else.
Because she still didn’t see it.
Still thought it was just you being you.
Still thought none of it meant anything.
-///-
Natasha moving swiftly around the kitchen, breakfast almost ready.
Then she felt your presence.
Fuzzy socks, an oversized t-shirt you stole from her and lace panties.
She didn’t look at you, she didn’t dare.
You moved up behind her, your head falling onto her shoulder.
‘’Good morning, pretty,’’ you muttered, your hands coming around her waist.
Natasha smirked, “careful. You’re starting to sound like you need it.”
You smirk lazily, your hot breath falling against her neck.
She closed her eyes briefly, taking in a breath she couldn’t control.
‘’What’s the matter?’’ you say, pressing yourself further into her. ‘’Getting distracted?’’
She doesn’t say anything, only continuing to place cheese on her pieces of bread.
In just a few movements, you were in front of her, blocking her from her food.
‘’Hey–’’
You couldn’t help but laugh, wiggling your ass against her crotch as you took a bite of her bread slice.
Natasha’s hands found your hips faster than she could think, grip tightening just enough to ground herself—just enough to feel you.
‘’Don’t do that.’’
‘’Do what?’’ you asked innocently, turning around.
You looked down, a faint blush covering your cheeks.
‘’You respond well,’’ you mumble, more to yourself than to her. ‘’...very well.’’
Natasha rolled her eyes, pushing you gently aside so she could resume her breakfast.
You moved behind her again, hands low over her hips.
‘’Y/n…’’ “I think about your desk constantly. Me on top of it, you between my legs…” you murmured, your voice soft, but heavier—less teasing, more certain. ‘’Or better, me on top of you like I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.’’
Natasha’s jaw tightening hard enough to ache, a quiet, almost inaudible growl catching in her throat before she swallowed it back down.
Not subtly this time.
Completely.
Her hand tightened around the knife before she even seemed aware of it.
For a second, she didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.
You pressed further, ‘’fuck, I’d moan your name loudly. All I’d remember would be you, Alpha.’’
Natasha didn’t answer, only moved.
Fast.
Her position changed, pushing you back in one clean motion until your spine met the counter behind you. The movement was controlled, precise—but there was nothing casual about it.
Your breath caught.
Hard.
She followed immediately, closing the distance before you could even think about stepping away, her hand locked at your waist, the other against the overhead kitchen cabinets beside your head.
Trapping you.
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a sharp inhale, your hands instinctively catching onto her arms, steadying yourself—or holding on.
Natasha’s gaze dropped for just a second, like she was taking in the way you’d gone still under her, the way your breath had changed.
Then back to your eyes.
Dark and focused.
“You’d like that?” she asked, her voice low, edged with something that wasn’t quite control anymore.
It wasn’t a tease.
It wasn’t soft.
It was a challenge.
Your throat tightened and for the first time since you’d started this you didn’t answer immediately.
Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.
And she noticed, of course she did.
Her head tilted just slightly, her expression shifting into something sharper, something almost amused—but not soft.
“Speechless now?” she murmured.
Her hand tightened at your waist again, pulling you just a fraction closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you felt it everywhere.
Your breath stuttered. That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be in control of this.
Not her.
Not like this.
“I—” you started, but your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, your grip tightening slightly on her arms.
Natasha’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Not understanding. Not realization.
Just reaction. Pure instinct.
“You talk a lot,” she said quietly. “Thought you’d have more to say.”
Your jaw tightened slightly, something stubborn flaring up even as your body stayed exactly where it was—pinned, held, not moving away.
“I do,” you managed, your voice softer now, less steady than before. “Just… depends what you do with it.”
That made her pause.
Just for a second.
Her gaze dropped again—brief, controlled—but you caught it this time.
The way her attention flickered.
The way her grip didn’t loosen.
“You push everyone like this?” she asked.
Your expression shifted just slightly, but enough.
“No,” you said.
Simpler this time.
No teasing.
No edge.
Just truth.
Her brows pulled together faintly, like she didn’t quite believe it—or didn’t want to.
You lean in like always—but this time your voice isn’t playful.
It’s quieter. Needier.
Less performance.
‘’Ruin me in your office, Natasha… I wouldn’t care if anyone heard me, just knowing I’d be claimed by you is all I need.’’
Something in her expression changed—but this time it didn’t pass.
It stayed.
Her grip loosened just slightly, not letting you go, just… recalibrating.
Her eyes searched your face—not your body, not your mouth, not the way you pressed into her—your face.
Your eyes.
Like she was looking for the joke and not finding it.
“You’re serious.”
Not a question.
Something quieter. Rougher.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away this time.
“I’ve only ever been serious about you.”
She didn’t say anything else.
Just grabbed your wrist—firm, unyielding—and pulled.
You stumbled after her, breath uneven, pulse racing for a completely different reason now.
The hallway felt too long. Too quiet.
Every step sharpened something in the air between you.
You could feel it in the way her grip didn’t loosen.
In the way she didn’t look back.
Like if she did—
she wouldn’t stop.
“Natasha—”
“Don’t,” she cut in, voice low. Controlled—but barely.
“Not unless you’re going to say it again.”
Your throat went dry.
“…I meant it.”
That was all it took.
Her grip tightened.
-///-
‘’Your scent is strong, Omega,’’ Natasha mumbles, fingers tracing the line of your panties.
You’re sprawled across her dark wooden desk, your bare back arching against unfinished reports.
Natasha stood between your legs, topless, her crotch pressing into yours.
Heated.
Needy.
‘’Natasha, I–’’
‘’Shh,’’ her voice dipped lower, her thumb rubbing lightly over your clothed clit.
Her hand didn’t just touch you—it settled, like it belonged there.
You gasped, ‘’fuck, Natasha… again, please.’’
The movement of her thumb continued, eyes watching your face the whole time.
Your head landed on the edge of her desk with a soft thud, your mouth opening slightly at her gentle touch.
‘’Claim me, Alpha, please,’’ you begged, the words slurring into a moan.
Natasha removed her thumb, pressing herself closer, leaning over you.
Her touch was dominant yet gentle.
Exactly what your body needed.
Your scent hit her harder this time—thicker, harder to ignore.
Natasha couldn’t wait any longer.
She needed you.
Now.
She unbuttoned her pants, not bothering to pull it off herself completely.
Her boxer came down next, her dick bouncing up to her stomach.
‘’You’re–fuck–’’ you bit your lip at the sight of her.
Natasha smirked, stroking herself as she looked at your soaking panties.
She pushed it aside with a finger, almost moaning at the sight.
‘’You’ve been dreaming of this, haven’t you?’’
You blush, bucking your hips involuntarily.
Her tip presses against you, making you whimper.
It doesn’t take long until you’re filled to the brim by her unexpected size.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin became obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Her green eyes found yours.
Glazed and desperate.
A sharp gasp tore from your lips.
‘’fuck, fuck, faster,’’ you slurred, hands finding hers.
A wicked, knowing grin spread across Natasha’s face.
She slowed her thrusts to a brutal, teasing grind, drawing a broken sound from your throat.
“Say it again… what you wanted me to do to you.”
‘’Don’t hold back, Natasha… I can’t– I–’’
‘’Don’t fall apart on me now.’’
You let out a soft whimper, moaning as she hits deep inside you.
She grunted, the sound rumbling low in her chest, ‘’keep making those sounds and I won’t stop.’’
The sound that escapes you is raw, guttural, and completely unrestrained, bouncing off the walls as your body convulses against the desk.
‘’Yes! Please, Alpha!’’
Natasha’s control snapped, her own composure shattering as she began to fuck you in earnest, sharp, deep pistons of her hips that made the desk screech against the floor.
‘’Yes! God, yes, right there!’’
Your cries climbed higher, a frantic chant of ‘yes, yes, yes’ until it all melted into a wordless, shuddering wail as you came.
Natasha continued, not slowing down.
‘’Fuck– it’s too much!’’ you gasp, eyes going wide as you try to sit up.
Natasha pins you down with a firm hand on your shoulder.
‘’You asked for this,’’ she pants.
Your back arches, ‘’Nat–’’
You choke on her name, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. ‘’Oh, God!’’
Natasha arches her back, a harsh groan ripping from her chest as she presses her forehead to your shoulder.
Her release rolled through her in visible waves.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing.
Neither of you moved.
Not right away.
Natasha stayed where she was, forehead still resting against your shoulder, like pulling away would break something she hadn’t fully understood yet.
“…you’re my soulmate,” she said, quieter this time.
You smile, sitting up, ‘’took you long enough.’’
That finally gets a reaction out of her. A faint exhale, almost a laugh.
She kisses you again—quick, firm, like she can’t help herself this time.
When she breaks it, she steadies you with a hand before slowly shifting back, regaining her posture with deliberate control.
Like she’s forcing herself not to lose it completely.
‘’Done already?’’ you tease, legs spread.
She raises a brow, fixing your panties.
‘’We’re moving,’’ she said simply, ‘’somewhere more comfortable location.’’
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
FNAF VR. Mostly because it feels more real.
Little Nightmare series is probably my favorite though. It’s not quite scary always, but the story and game play is brilliant. Inside and Limbo are my favorite horror indie games.
i’ve found myself liking some of your fics, but i can’t but help to notice how different the writing style varies from story to story. i’m genuinely curious, do you utilize ai for your fics
GREAT QUESTION! I have been writing for a long time (not always fics), probably since I was around 12. My writing style changes a lot depending on the tone, story or characters—and I do love experimenting, so that’s probably why it feels different sometimes :)
I do use AI a bit for brainstorming and getting feedback on ideas or characters, but I’m the one who writes and edits everything. I just like using it as a tool to help me think things through!
For some of my stories I even create mood boards, character sheets, beat sheets etc. in my story bibles🫶
Requests can feel different since I’m working around specific ideas people want included, but I try my best to blend that in!
A.N: guys, buckle the fuck up! also, sorry if it's a little short...
Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , - , Pt. 5
The apartment is quiet–the kind where it settles into the walls.
You’re asleep.
She’s not.
Natasha lingers in the doorway of your bedroom, one hand resting lightly against the frame. She doesn’t step in. Not yet.
Her gaze lingers on your face.
Your breathing is slow, even. For once, there’s no tension in your face, no tightness in your shoulders. Whatever you’ve been carrying for so long is quieter. At least for now.
Your guard is down.
Completely.
It does something to her. Something unexpected.
She exhales slowly, almost soundless, and steps back. She doesn’t close the door.
The hallway is dimly lit, illuminated only by a faint spill of light from the living room and a soft lamp on a hallway table. She glances around without really meaning to.
Her eyes catch on the small, human things. Your jacket tossed over a chair. A mug left on the counter.
It’s simple.
But it’s yours.
And it doesn’t feel empty.
She moves further down the hall. Her steps are careful. Almost hesitant.
Then she notices it—
a door, slightly ajar.
She pauses.
There’s something different about it—untouched.
Like the rest of the apartment kept moving forward, and this room didn’t.
She looks at it for a second longer.
Her hand lifts.
Then stops.
She almost turns away.
But doesn’t.
Then pushes the door open just a little more, careful not to make a sound.
It creaks softly anyway.
Inside, everything is softer. Lighter. A bed too small for you sits neatly against the wall, a blanket folded with too much care. Drawings. Taped. Pinned. Kept.
They haven’t been taken down.
They haven’t been packed away.
They’ve just been left.
Like someone might come back for them.
Natasha doesn’t step further into the room. She stays at the threshold, her hand resting against the door, like crossing it would mean something she’s not quite ready to face.
But she sees enough.
More than enough.
Something shifts in her chest. Low and heavy. Not sharp, not sudden. Just… there.
She steps back after a moment, slowly and deliberately, as if even leaving requires thought. The door stays slightly open behind her, exactly the way she found it.
She stands in the hallway for a second longer, quiet, still.
Then she turns and walks back.
Back to you.
You haven’t moved.
Still asleep. Still unguarded.
She leans lightly against the frame again, her gaze setting on you as it did before.
She reminds me of someone I knew very well.
Your voice echoes in her head, quieter now, but it lands harder this time.
It settles somewhere under her ribs. Tugging.
Her jaw tightens faintly. She looks away, just for a second, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again.
Then she pushes herself off the doorframe and moves into the living room.
The couch creaks softly as she sits, elbows resting on her knees, hands loosely clasped. Her gaze drops to the floor, unfocused.
She stays like that for a while.
Silent and still.
And for once–
she doesn’t leave.
Her head tilts back slightly, eyes closing but only for a second.
Then they open again.
Decision made.
She stands, slower this time, more certain in her steps as she heads back down the hall.
When she reaches your room, she doesn’t hesitate.
She steps inside.
The space already feels different now. Warmer somehow.
She moves to the other side of the bed, careful with every step, aware of the slightest shift of the wooden floorboards, the smallest creaks.
The mattress dips slightly as she sits.
You don’t wake.
Of course you don’t.
You’re exhausted.
She watches you for a moment, taking you in one last time.
Then she lies down on top of the covers, not too close, not far enough to feel like distance.
Just… there.
Without touching.
Her gaze stays on you longer than it should. Her fingers flex once against the mattress, like she almost reaches for you—then stills.
Eventually, her eyes drift shut.
And this time–
she doesn’t leave.
-///-
Light filters through the curtains, soft and pale, as you wake.
It’s slow at first. Awareness comes back in pieces—the warmth, the weight of the duvet, the quiet rhythm of breathing.
Not yours.
Your brows knit slightly before you turn your head.
Natasha.
She’s asleep beside you.
Not touching. Not quite close enough for that. But close enough that it means something—like she let herself stay, just not all the way.
Your breath stills.
For a moment, you just look at her.
Really look.
Her hair is slightly out of place, strands falling across her face. There’s no tension in her expression, none of that constant edge she carries. She looks… softer. Unarmed.
It does something to your chest. Something quiet. Something you don’t try to name.
Your gaze lingers a second too long.
Her eyes open.
Slow. Heavy. And then—focused.
On you.
No confusion. No startle. Just recognition.
A beat passes.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“You stayed,” you reply softly.
She shifts slightly, one arm tucked under her head.
“Yeah.”
Simple. Like it didn’t cost her anything to say it—even though you know it did.
Silence settles again.
Not awkward. Not empty.
Just… full.
You shift a little closer. Barely anything. Just enough that you can feel the warmth between you.
Her eyes drop to your lips, then back up.
Your breath catches.
Neither of you moves.
But something’s already happening.
Her hand lifts slowly, like she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to, and rests lightly against your cheek.
Warm. Careful.
You don’t pull away.
Your own hand starts to rise, stopping just short of her wrist, like you’re waiting—for permission, for certainty, for something.
Her thumb shifts slightly against your skin.
Closer.
Your breathing isn’t steady anymore.
Neither is hers.
You can feel it in the space between you—the hesitation, the pull, the quiet question neither of you says out loud.
You lean in first.
Just a fraction.
She meets you there.
Your lips hover—
so close you can feel her breath, warm against your mouth.
A second passes.
Another.
And then—
Her phone vibrates.
Sharp. Loud. Wrong.
It cuts straight through the moment.
Neither of you moves at first.
You’re still there. Still close. Still almost.
Like if you ignore it, it might go away.
It doesn’t.
The vibration comes again.
Her jaw tightens slightly.
Yours does too.
“…you should get that,” you murmur, voice low, barely there.
She doesn’t pull away immediately.
Her eyes stay on yours.
For a second, it looks like she might ignore it.
Like she might choose this instead.
Then she exhales.
Pulls back just enough to reach for her phone.
Answers without breaking eye contact.
“…what.”
A pause.
“Yeah. I know.”
Another.
“I’m busy.”
Your eyes flick to her mouth again despite yourself.
“Handle it yourself, Fury.”
She hangs up.
Just like that.
Silence rushes back in.
But it’s not the same anymore.
Heavier now.
Charged.
Unfinished.
“…Work?” you ask.
She nods once.
“Mm.”
“They need you?”
Another nod.
“Yeah.”
You hesitate.
“…You should probably go.”
It’s gentle. Careful. An out.
Her eyes flicker—but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.
“Someone told me not to mess this up,” she says quietly.
Her gaze drops again, just for a second, to your lips—then back up.
Her hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, until her fingers rest against your cheek.
Warm. Slightly unsteady.
You inhale.
Your own hand rises without thinking, stopping just short of her.
“…I—”
“Shh,” she whispers.
Soft. Careful.
She leans in.
Closer than feels safe.
Your lips hover, barely a breath apart. You can feel it—the hesitation, the pull, the question of it.
You close your eyes just enough.
Her lips hover, then brush yours–soft, almost questioning.
Your chest lifts. You press back slowly, tentatively, just enough to let her know you’re there.
Yet it’s everything.
She pulls back a fraction. Your eyes meet.
Something unspoken passes between you.
Then your hand finds her shoulder, pulling her closer—firm, but careful. There’s a hint of urgency now, but it doesn’t rush the moment.
This time, when your lips meet, it lingers.
Still soft.
But certain.
Your hand moves.
Slow. Absentmindedly.
To her wrist.
Gently.
Like you mean to pull her closer. Like you don’t even think about it.
Her breath catches—a sharp inhale.
You feel it before you understand it—the tension, the way her body goes still under your hand.
She pulls back slightly.
‘’Wait–’’
It’s quiet, but it stops you instantly.
“Sorry,” you murmur, already pulling back. “Did I—”
Your eyes flick down. The bandages.
Right.
It lands properly this time. Not like last night. Not distant. Not abstract. Here. Now.
Your chest tightens.
“…does it hurt?” you ask, softer now.
She avoids your eyes for a second. ‘It’s fine.’’
It’s not. You can hear it.
You don’t argue—you just nod once.
“Let me fix it,” you say. “If it’s not cleaned properly—”
You stop yourself. Too clinical.
A breath.
“I can change it.”
Now it’s not doctor. No duty. It’s just… you.
She studies you for a moment. Like she’s trying to figure out what this means.
What you mean.
Then she nods.
“…okay.”
You’re quick when you leave the room.
She watches the door. Listening to the quiet sounds, drawers opening, something shifting.
Her gaze drift.
Taking in the space. Not in detail. Just enough to feel it.
You return quickly, not wantingt to leave her alone too long.
‘’Sit,’’ you murmur softly, gesturing to the edge of your bed.
She hesitates—only a second—then moves.
When she sits it’s careful, like if she’s not used to being handled like this.
Her legs hang slightly off the side.
You sit down beside her. Close. Knees touching. Neither of you move away.
You reach out for her hands. Slow. Giving her time if she might want to change her mind.
She doesn’t.
Your fingers are warm around her wrist. Steady.
You start peeling the bandages back. Gently.
Yet, precise.
She watches you the whole time. Not the bandage—you.
Your brows pull together as you focus. Your touch never wavers.
‘’...this might sting,’’ you murmur.
Natasha huffs quietly. Like she doesn’t care. Like she does. Then—a sharp inhale. Her fingers twitch in your grip.
You pause instantly. Eyes flicking up.
‘’...sorry,’’ you speak, softly.
Sha shakes her head once. ‘’Don’t be.’’
A beat.
You silently continue. Gentler, somehow, if that’s even possible.
Silence settles. Far from empty.
Your thumb brushes lightly against her skin as you work.
You don’t think twice about it.
But it’s grounding.
Her gaze doesn’t leave your face.
‘’...You’re careful,’’ she comments quietly after a moment.
You glance up. ‘’I have to be.’’ Automatic.
A beat.
‘’...I want to be.’’
That lands. She feels it.
You don’t look at her again. Not right away.
You finish cleaning the wound. Wrap fresh bandages around her wrist. Neat. Secure.
Your fingers linger for a second longer than needed.
Then—without really thinking—you bring her wrist closer.
Your lips brush softly against the edge of the bandage. Barely there.
A pause.
Again. Softer. Slower. Not clinical. Not routine. Something else.
Your eyes close just for a second.
When you pull back, the room feels different.
You clear your throat quietly.
‘’...there,’’ you murmur. ‘’That should be better.’’
But your hand doesn’t leave hers. Neither of you moves. Not really.
Just—sitting there. Close. Quiet. Too close for this to be nothing.
Her eyes land on something small on your nightstand.
She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move closer. Just looks. Keeps looking.
A photo. Framed in white.
Her expression doesn’t change much, but something softens in her gaze.
You follow her gaze. Your stomach drops. Not because she saw it…
…but because she wasn’t supposed to.
You swallow. “…she was a patient,” you say too quickly.
The words hang in the air, thin, flat. Wrong.
Natasha looks at you now. No accusation. No edge. Just knowing.
There is a small shift to her head. ‘’No...’’ Soft. Not pushing, but not accepting it either.
You stiffen. Jaw tightening. ‘’...you kept it the same,’’ she says quietly. ‘’Like you’re waiting.’’
Everything in you locks up. Fast. Clean. Just like that.
Shoulders pull back slightly. Spine straightens. Bracing for something that has already hit.
Silence crashes down. Heavy. Thick. Your gaze drops from hers, then returns.
Different.
Closed off.
“…you went through my apartment?” Your chest tightens.
Your voice isn’t soft, it’s sharp. Controlled. Too controlled.
Natasha blinks. Caught off guard by the shift. “I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t what?” Too fast. Defensive. Immediate. You need to get there before she does.
“You just—what—wander around people’s homes now? Open doors?”
She stills. You can see the moment it hits her.
‘’I didn’t mean to–’’ she starts. ‘’It was open–’’
‘’And that means you can just walk in?’’ Your voice rises. Not loud, but enough. Enough to make it real.
The softness from before—gone. Completely.
Natasha’s chest tightens. Hurt flickers across her face, quick, gone just as fast.
‘’You should–’’
You stop. Swallow. ‘’...just go.’’ Cold now
‘’What?’’
You don’t hesitate. You point to the door. ‘’Leave.’’
She stares at you. Searching. Trying to find the version of you from five minutes ago.
The one who—held her. Kissed her. Looked at her like this mattered.
‘’Y/n…’’ Softer. Careful. ‘’Go.’’
Your voice breaks slightly on it. You hate that.‘’Just—go.’’
Natasha stops. Completely still. Waiting. Giving you space to take it back. To fix it. To stay.
You don’t. You can’t. Your hand is still lifted. Pointing. Your whole body locked tight. Closed off.
Untouchable.
Something in her expression shifts. Small, but final.
She swallows. Her gaze flicks once—past you. Toward the hallway. Then back.
‘’…now you’re the one messing things up,’’ she says. Quiet. Honest..
A beat.
She doesn’t move. Not yet. Giving you one last chance.
You don’t take it.
And that’s what does it.
Her jaw tightens. She nods once.
More to herself than to you.
Then she turns. And this time—
she leaves.
-///-
Natasha doesn’t look back.
She doesn’t let herself.
The door clicks shut behind her, and the for a small while—she just stands there. In the sadly lit hallway. Still.
Your voice is still in her head. Sharp. Louder than anything you’ve said before.
Go.
Her jaw tightens.
She moves before she can think too much about it, down the stairs. Out into the morning sun. It’s shining too bright at someone who just got their heart broken.
The drive is quiet. No radio. No distractions. Just—you.
And the way you looked at her. The way it changed. The way you shut down.
Her grip on the wheel tightens.
‘’…you were right there,’’ she murmurs under her breath.
A beat.
‘’…and I still—‘' She cuts herself off. Shakes her head once. Frustrated.
Because that’s the problem.
She doesn’t run. Not really.
But she doesn’t stay, either.
Not like you do.
Not like that.
Not when it matters.
She doesn’t remember deciding where to go, but the car takes a right anyway.
-///-
The hospital smells clean in the early morning. People are moving like they always do, like nothing has changed.
And Natasha walks in like she belongs there. Because at this point—she kind of does.
Sofia is awake when she steps in. Barely. But enough.
‘’…morning,’’ Sofia mutters.
Natasha pulls a chair closer. Sits.
Same place as before.
Like it’s familiar now.
Sofia studies her, eyes narrowing slightly.
‘’…you look worse.’'
Natasha huffs.
‘’Good to know.’'
A pause.
‘’…you messed it up, didn’t you?’'
Natasha lets out a breath, and drops her head back slightly.
‘’…yeah,’’ she admits.
Her nails pick at her skin around it.
Sofia watches closely.
‘’What happened?’'
Natasha exhales through her nose. ‘’…she told me to leave.’'
Sofia frowns. ‘’And you did?’'
A beat.
‘’…yeah.’'
Sofia lets out a quiet, pained groan.
‘’Natasha.’’
‘’What?’’
‘’Why?’’
Natasha shrugs, but there’s tension in it.
‘’She told me to.’'
‘’And you just left?’' Sofia says without thinking twice.
‘’…she yelled.’'
Sofia looks at Natasha, expression changing.
‘’She does that when she’s scared,’’ she adds.
‘’…you don’t know that.’'
Sofia shrugs weakly, ‘’I know enough.’’
The silence between them thickens with each second that passes.
‘’…I told her she was messing it up.’' Natasha swallows.
The words come quieter. Heavier.
Sofia blinks.
‘’You said that to her?’'
Natasha nods slowly.
‘’…yeah.’'
A pause.
Then—
‘’…good.’'
Natasha frowns. ‘’…what?’'
‘’She probably needed to hear it.’'
That was not the answer she expected. Natasha leans forward slightly.
‘’…she kicked me out.’'
‘’Yeah,’’ Sofia says. ‘’Sounds about right.’'
Sofia changes her position slightly.
‘’You still left.’'
Natasha exhales.
She glances down at her hands.
‘’...I kissed her.’’
She closes her eyes.
‘’...and I still left.’’
Sofia shifts again, wincing, but keeps going.
‘’You’re both kind of stupid.’'
That almost pulls a laugh out of her. Almost.
‘’…I don’t know how to fix it,’’ Natasha admits.
It’s rough.
Honest.
Unfiltered.
Sofia studies her, then shrugs faintly. ‘’You don’t need to.’’
Natasha blinks.
‘’Just don’t leave,’’ Sofia says. ‘’That’s it.’'
Simple. Again like it’s obvious. Like it’s easy.
Natasha leans back slightly and runs a hand over her face.
