My Body’s On The Line Now @wannabe-fic-reader - Tumblr Blog

Jun 26, 2025

Hotel California | Track 19: A Different Playlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, frontwoman of the punk rock band Velvet Rebellion, falls hard for a woman she believes is too good for her. Their intense relationship unfolds in the chaotic world of rock 'n' roll, where they struggle to balance fame, personal demons, and their undeniable passion for each other.

W/c: 5.5k

Chapter 19/20

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Note: Can't believe we are almost to the end. I had so many plans for this story to be an angst fest, but I didn't like that idea anymore. I love love.

Themes: love, fame, sex, drugs

"What’s up, L-A-ayyyy! Hope the 110 wasn’t too savage on your commute, ‘cause we’re cruisin’ in the express lane this morning. I’m DJ K-Breeze, and you’re locked into 92.3 The Vibe and, fam, my smile is wider than the 405 at rush hour because sitting across from me is one of the city’s finest exports

You know her voice from the chart-climber ‘Obvious’ with our homies Velvet Rebellion. You might know her lineage, yes, that Fury-Jameson dynasty runnin’ half of Hollywood. But around here, we call her the multi-hyphenate queen: Grammy-award-winning songwriter, PR sniper, founder of the brand-new Girls in Audio mentorship program, and mom to the coolest ten-year-old around.

L-A, make some noise for the fabulous, the fearless, the ridiculously talented Y/N Fury!"

There was a round of applause in the studio as K-Breeze announced your name.

"Hello LA, thanks for having me this morning," You grinned.

"Ohwee your voice is smooth like butter," K-Breeze grinned as he sat back in his chair.

"You flatter me," You chuckled, shaking your head. "First of all, thank you for that intro. My ego's never felt taller."

"You know you look real good," K-Breeze laughed. "We've known each other since we were younger. Obviously, I'm a bit older, but we've run in the same circles, and you know our kids go to the same school and are around the same age. So it's nice to finally get to have you here and talk to you one-on-one."

"It is! It's really good to see you. Thanks for having me."

"You slid in here looking like a million dollars," He said, and you nodded politely. "What's the secret? Green juice? Good genes?"

You laughed. "A ten-year-old alarm clock and a gallon of coffee this morning. That's the regimen."

There's a collective chuckle from the other studio hosts.

"Well, L.A. appreciates the view." He said.

"Breeze is pushing up on you heavy." Jazzy, his co-host said. She eyed him with a half-annoyed and half-amused expression. You looked back and forth between them. "You know she's taken."

K-Breeze threw his hands up, laughing. “Jazzy, let a man shoot his shot on-air—”

“—and miss in 4K?” she clapped back, leaning toward the mic. “Relax, Romeo.”

You raised your left hand, wiggling your fingers so the studio camera and the livestream chat caught the flash of diamond.

“Appreciate the love, Breeze, but I’m very much off the market,” you said, voice warm but final. “Fiancée’s probably listening right now, and trust me, she’s got a longer reach than this signal.”

The control booth howled; Breeze clutched his chest theatrically. “See, that’s why I stick to radio. Can’t get canceled for an innocent compliment.”

“Innocent, huh?” Jazzy teased. "While some of us are professional, congrats on the giant rock by the way, it does look good on you, girl. I want to know more about the non-profit you cofounded with your mother. What inspired this?"

"Well, my daughter inspired it, believe it or not," You began. "My daughter Isabella is ten, and we've had her on tour with us for a couple of months. Velvet Rebellion, my fiancé's band, is on a world tour. Shout out to them." You cleared your throat, settling back into the mic. “Yeah, Isabella’s the catalyst. Traveling from city to city, I kept noticing how few girls, especially Black and brown girls, were actually behind the console. They’re at the shows, they’re streaming the music, but they’re not in the booth pushing faders. So my mom and I launched Girls in Audio to change that.”

Jazzy nodded, clearly hooked. “Walk us through it, how does a ten-year-old spark a whole nonprofit?”

“Well, Bella loves to tinker,” you said, smiling. “She’d sneak side-stage during soundcheck and start asking the front-of-house engineer a million questions—‘What does this button do? Why do you set that EQ?’ One night, she looked at me and said, ‘Mom, where are the girls?’ And it just hit me. If my kid notices the gender gap at ten, adults should’ve fixed it yesterday.”

Breeze whistled under his breath. “Facts.”

“So we built a pipeline,” you continued. “We partner with public schools in South L.A. and Inglewood and donate starter gear, run weekend workshops with female engineers, pay stipends so nobody’s choosing between studio time and a part-time job. Then we place the top students as interns on real sessions of gospel, hip-hop, rock, you name it. Culture isn’t monolithic, so the training shouldn’t be either.”

Jazzy’s eyes lit up. “You said starter gear, so y’all foot the bill for laptops and interfaces?”

“Absolutely. We’ve got sponsorship from Focusrite, Ableton, and a few angels in Silicon Beach. My mom handles the grant writing; I call in favors from everybody I’ve ever written a hook for,” you laughed. “No shade, but if I’ve helped you hit platinum, I will text you for a pair of reference monitors.”

Breeze cracked up. “Put that on a T-shirt: ‘Don’t go gold if you can’t buy monitors.’”

You shrugged playfully. “Look, you gotta leverage the room you’re in.”

“Okay, Y/N, before we spin ‘Obvious’, I’ve gotta ask the question everyone’s texting us about. You slipped it in there so casually: ‘My fiancée, Natasha.’” She held up her phone, screen flooded with emojis. “The streets want to know what it’s like dating a rockstar and having a relationship so public, especially after already being married and divorced to a public figure."

You gave Jazzy a conspiratorial smile the let 's-get-real-but-keep-it-cute smile you’ve perfected after a decade in showbiz.

“Here’s the truth,” you said, fingers drumming lightly on the console. “Dating a rockstar is exactly like dating an accountant… if the accountant plays to twenty thousand screaming people every night and has a fan club named after their favorite guitar.”

The room laughed, but you kept rolling.

“I’ve done the ‘front-page-love’ thing before with the big wedding, headlines, the whole nine. What I learned is that privacy isn’t a location; it’s a boundary. Nat and I decided our relationship lives in a bubble we built ourselves. We’ll share the music, the causes we believe in, the goofy tour videos, but the arguments, the inside jokes, the ugly-cry FaceTimes at 3 a.m.? That stays in the bubble.”

You tapped your ring lightly against the mic stand. “Public eyes can feel loud, but they don’t get a vote, only we do. And when the noise gets crazy, we’ve got a ten-year-old human lie-detector who’ll roast us if we start acting famous at the dinner table. Keeps things humble real quick.”

Jazzy nodded, eyes sparkling.

K-Breeze cleared his throat. "Y/N, I have a confession to make. As you know, I've been doing this for a long time and we have known each other since the beginning. When I met you, you were this sweet little girl hanging onto your daddy's coattails. You are the middle child of three siblings. You are a mother. You work hard. You mentioned the public eye and privacy. How have you managed to keep those boundaries but also keep a level head when it comes to things like the groupie girl situation that happened a while back?"

You leaned into the mic, fingers laced in front of you, posture of a pro, but there’s a flash of real behind your grin.

“Whew, straight for the jugular at eight-forty-five in the morning,” you teased K-Breeze, earning a low laugh from the board-op in the corner. Then you got honest.

“Look, the groupie-gate headlines were messy. Anybody with Wi-Fi saw the photos and the speculation. My first impulse was not to clap back; it was to pick up my phone and call Nat. Not the lawyer or the manager, not my parents or my big sister. Just my partner, who had the biggest stake in it."

You adjusted yourself in your seat. “Boundaries look like this: I can’t control what strangers upload or hashtag. I can control whether I refresh Twitter six hundred times, right? So I log off, have the hard conversation in private, and then get back to living my life. Our daughter sees that. She learns okay, something embarrassing blew up online, Mom handled it without torching the house. That’s the lesson.”

Jazzy snapped her fingers. “Not torching the house, write that down, Breeze.”

"I got you," he responded. "Now, let's listen to 'Obvious' featuring the lovely Y/N and Velvet Rebellion. This is the hottest rock and R&B record on the charts. It's a smash hit. Congrats, ladies. Thank you so much, Y/N. This has been great. Thanks for coming out and chatting with us."

"Thank you for having me," You smiled.

"We'll take a short break, and we'll be right back."

As the commercial played, the engineer cued your single over the air. The producer came over to you, shook your hand, and told you that he loved the song. You sat with K-Breeze and mingled until it was time to talk again.

"Now, the people want to know where you have been all this time?" K-Breeze asked. "You know it's kind of expected for someone who grows up around so much music to have an interest. We saw you back in the day singing the oohs and the ahhs and performing, but what made you stop? The world wants to see more of y/n."

"Well, I'm glad you all feel that way," You nodded.

“Yeah, the assumption is Fury kid equals record deal by fifteen, right?” you laughed softly. “But when I got pregnant at seventeen, my priorities did a somersault. I’d watched the industry eat grown-ups alive; I wasn’t about to feed it a newborn. So I pivoted, college classes during nap time, writing hooks in the studio at 3 a.m., PR by day, so the bills stayed paid. Not that I necessarily had to work. My parents certainly didn't want me to, but I wanted to. I had brands and networks wanting a reality show knocking at my door when I was married to Sam. It wasn't right for us. I never stopped loving the music; I just decided the spotlight wasn’t worth my daughter flinching at every flashbulb.”

You glanced through the glass at the on-air light, then back to Breeze. “Fast-forward: Velvet Rebellion needed a layered vocal for ‘Obvious.’ Natasha asked, and it felt… fun. No thirty-city promo run, no manufactured persona, just jump in the booth, sing my heart out, hop onstage a couple of weekends, then go home to be with my kid and dog."

A quick shrug, equal parts humble and unbothered. “So I guess the answer is I never left music. I just chose the back row until the front row fit my life.”

*********

Natasha kept her attention between her phone and the stove, humming along to the soft hiss of butter in the pan as she made herself breakfast. She’d just smashed half an avocado over sourdough, sprinkled it with chili flakes, and was now putting a sunny-side egg toward the center with chef-level precision. It was a decent meal for someone who usually lived on catering trays. She had been watching the radio station's live stream of your segment with them when she heard what the radio host said.

Her thumb flew across the screen while the yolk settled.

Natasha: Tell K-Breeze to chill. That “smooth like butter” line?

Natasha: The only butter around here is the one on my toast.

Natasha: & my fiancée is spoken for 💍🔥

She grinned, took a quick photo of the finished toast with the egg halo intact, and hit send. No read-receipt yet. You were probably still shaking off the studio lights. Natasha leaned against the counter, waiting for the little “typing…” bubble that never failed to give her a rush.

Crash.

Bear heard it first and immediately rushed to the front door. Natasha quickly turned the stove off and went to search for the noise.

"Don't mind us, I'm just a little wobbly on my rollerblades," Isabella said sheepishly as she flopped down onto the ground to kick them off.

"Hi Natasha, do you live here now?" Lenny, Isabella's best friend, asked.

"Uh yeah, I moved in last week," She nodded.

"How come?" Lenny asked, following Isabella down the hallway.

"Because she and my mom are getting married," Isabella informed her friend. "We talked about this."

Natasha blinked, still clutching her phone. Two roller blades spun in lazy circles on the hardwood like crashed UFOs.

“Uh-huh-yep, we’re all one big happy household now,” she said, stepping around a helmet that had rolled under the console table. “Mind the guitar cases. And the cables. And, wow, that’s… glitter?”

Lenny’s eyes went saucer-wide. “Wait, so you and Izzy’s mom are, like, official? That’s so pog.”

Natasha opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Pog… is good?”

“It means epic,” Isabella translated, already peeling off elbow pads. “She’s pogging.”

“Right. Epic. Great.” Natasha made a mental note to Google that later. She watched as the girls made a beeline for Isabella's bathroom. "Okay, I'm just gonna let you guys hang out in there while I eat breakfast, cool?"

She received no response back and decided to dig into her food. She sat herself at the kitchen island with her toast and a glass of orange juice. The sound of giggling and splashing water from Isabella's bathroom filled her ears, and she chuckled, shaking her head. She didn't even want to guess what those girls were getting into.

Natasha had managed exactly one serene bite of avocado-toast heaven when the bathroom door slammed open again. Four pink socks, skirts, and sparkles barreled into the kitchen.

"Snack raid," Isabella announced. Before Natasha could swallow, the girls had yanked open every cabinet as if a secret portal to Narnia might be hiding behind the cereal boxes. Goldfish, fruit leathers, half a sleeve of Oreos, everything hit the counter in a technicolor heap.

“Whoa, whoa, tempo, ladies.” Natasha nudged a box of fruit snacks out of Isabella's reach. “Your mom will stage-dive off a table if she sees this mess.”

“We’ll clean up,” Lenny promised, already double-fisting pretzel sticks. Isabella slid onto the stool beside Natasha, cheeks still pink from whatever they had been doing in her bedroom that required so much noise and laughter. “Nat, can I ask you something kinda… biological?”

Orange juice detoured down the wrong direction as Natasha sipped. What could they possibly have to ask her? She coughed, grabbed a napkin. “Biological as in homework, or biological as in—” She waved vaguely at the growing snack mountain.

“Girl stuff.” Isabella’s tone was hushed but deadly serious. “Like… when do boobs start actually growing? Lenny says hers are late, but I think mine are early, and Coach Karen said everybody is different, but that’s not helpful at all.”

Natasha stared at her toast, suddenly nostalgic for the simplicity of paparazzi scandals. “Well,” she began, buying seconds, “bodies run on their own tour schedule. Some headline early, some show up fashionably late, everybody still plays the same festival eventually.”

Two blank stares.

“Translation,” she tried again, “there’s no wrong time. It could be this summer, it could be two summers from now. Doctors call it a growth ‘stage,’ not a growth ‘race.’"

Lenny chewed on that literally and figuratively. “So if mine are… backstage for a while, that’s fine?”

“Totally fine.” Natasha softened, remembering her own twelve-year-old panic. “And when they do start, you come tell me or Y/N or your dad, and we’ll get you the comfiest first bra Target has ever seen. Deal?”

Both girls nodded, relief palpable.

“Now,” Natasha added, tapping the counter like a snare drum, “house rule: any conversation containing the word boobs requires at least one serving of actual fruit.”

There were groans followed by grudging applesauce cups appearing from the fridge.

"I do have a really serious question, though," Isabella's brows furrowed.

"The one before wasn't serious?" Natasha raised a brow.

"No, this is way more serious," she shook her head.

"Okay, hit me," she nodded.

"When you and Mom have a baby," Isabella began. "Can I pick the name? I think, as the oldest sibling, I should have rights."

"Oh," Natasha blinked. "Um. You have a few years before we get to that."

"I'm just saying. If you want me to like the baby, the least you can do is let me name it."

Natasha had to think about this for a moment. "I'll talk to your mom about it. In a few years."

Isabella seemed fine with that. She scooped up her snacks and wrangled Lenny to return to her bedroom.

*****

Hours later, with a babysitter covering for you and a few drinks in hand, Natasha asked you to come with her on a ride. You weren't entirely sure where she planned on taking you. Ten minutes in, you realized she’s taken the shoreline route past the Marina, not the quickest way to any venue you knew. Another five and Mulholland’s lookout posts glide by on the right. You tipped your head, studying her profile.

“We’re nowhere near the studio,” you said, eyeing Natasha before looking back to the road.

“Correct.”

“And you don’t need groceries this late.”

"Also correct.”

She turned and made a left onto a street you did recognize: a stretch of converted warehouses in the Arts District where you once took Isabella to a Saturday watercolor class. Most spaces were dark and intimate. A typical artsy venue.

Natasha parked, killed the engine, but left her phone in the cup holder.

“Come on,” she said, stepping out and grabbing a canvas tote from the back seat. You looked up at the building, Loft 312. You wanted to question her more, but decided it was best to go and investigate.

Inside, string lights zig-zagged beneath open rafters. The air smelled of paint, coffee, and faint lavender. Someone left huge drop cloths taped to the floor. In the far corner sat a rolling cart loaded with acrylics, oil sticks, and blank 30x40 canvases still wrapped in cellophane. You couldn't help but notice how quiet it was.

You turned a slow circle. “You rented the whole place?”

"Night rate.” She shrugged, suddenly shy. “Tony’s cousin manages it. I… thought it’d be fun to make something that isn’t music.”

Natasha tugged off her leather jacket, folded it over a metal stool.

You raised a brow, intrigued.

"Make something that isn't music," you repeated.

Natasha reached into the tote, produced two bottles of wine and two glasses. She walked over to a low table where she set the bottle of red and the two glasses, and pulled a bottle of white out next, handing it to you. "Take your pick."

"This is the sweetest," you grinned, taking the bottle of white and popping it open. "How did you think of this?"

"I figured we needed some real time together," Natasha answered. She reached onto the bar to find a sleek black remote. "What do you think?" The low notes of "I Wanna Know" by Avant filtered through the surround system.

"I love this song," you smiled. You watched Natasha walk back over to the canvas, take her spot, and pour a little bit of her wine into the glass. You did the same, taking a sip before sitting next to her.

"Do you like the space?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah, I mean it's gorgeous. There's a lot of natural light in here. Lots to do." You nodded. You watched as she rounded you to put a smock around you. It felt warm and soft on your shoulders. She tugged the ties at the back, fingers brushing the base of your neck.

“I figured tour buses and hotel suites all start looking the same,” she said, voice low near your ear. “Wanted a night that belonged to us."

You glanced at the blank canvas. “So this is, what, couples therapy with paint?”

“More like proof that we’re still making new memories, messy ones.” She offered you a flat brush as wide as your palm. “Pick a color; stake your claim.”

You picked the closest shade, a nice, rusty red. With the first confident swipe, a shock wave went up your spine.

"I forgot what a high painting is," you laughed.

"It's been a while for me," Natasha agreed, taking a sip from her wine glass.

"I was always the one painting my walls. It was never really something that I was encouraged to do," you shrugged. "I painted it black one year to piss my parents off."

"And how did that go?" Natasha chuckled.

"They made me repaint it," you told her.

"You rebel," Natasha teased.

"That's what they tell me," you snorted.

Natasha hummed. She finished her wine, reaching for the bottle again. "You have no idea how much I love being around you, being able to talk to you." The music shifted to Alicia Keys' "Unthinkable."

"The feeling is mutual," You smiled. You both sat with those words. For a while, the room was filled with nothing but the music and sounds of you walking across the studio.

When the canvas was nearly full, Natasha capped her tube of red and leaned against a stool, breathing hard like she’d just come off stage.

“Can I tell you something without the PR filter?” she asked.

You wiped your hands on a rag. “Always.”

“I hate how careful we've become after Miami,” she admitted. “Like we packed the whole relationship in bubble wrap. I kept waiting for you to… I don’t know. Hand me a rule book.”

“I kept waiting to feel safe enough to break one.”

Silence folded around the two of you, comfortable, this time.

Natasha stepped forward, specks of color dried on her knuckles. “If painting a wall together is what it takes for you to want me again—”

"I could never stop wanting you." You shook your head. You reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Natasha caught your hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. "Good. Because I can't stop wanting you, either."

You both shared a look before you watched her lower her hand. "It's my own insecurity this time around." You admitted. "I think that entire situation was a non-factor. Not even a true blimp on our radar, and yet it had taken so much of my mind that I started thinking... What if someone younger catches your eye and you leave me?"

Natasha gave a half-smile. "Do you really think I would be here if that were true?"

You looked down at the ground, shuffling a bit. "Well, no, not really."

"Right," Natasha nodded. "And the only people who have the power to decide how I feel about you are me and you." She placed her hands on your arms. "But, if you want, I can remind you just how much I care about you."

"I don't need the reminder because I do know. Logically, I do," You breathed.

"Need I remind you our wedding is a month away?" She tilted her head. "Are you getting cold feet?"

"No, not at all, no, baby." You pulled her closer. You let out a shaky laugh, rubbing a stray streak of cobalt off Natasha’s wrist.

“It’s not cold feet,” you said, voice soft. “It’s more like… cluttered feet? We’ve been sprinting tour dates, interviews, Isabella’s schedule, my job, and wedding checklists. And when that Mia drama hit, I convinced myself I had to protect the plan instead of protecting us. So I threw up walls and told myself it was strategy.”

You met her eyes, heat rising in your cheeks.

“But the truth is, it was just fear wrapped in spreadsheets. The minute I pulled back, I knew it was the dumbest move I could make, because the only place I feel calm these days is right here, with paint on my face and you looking at me like I’m the whole set list.”

Natasha’s expression softened, and you pressed on, needing it out in the open.

“I feel stupid for letting noise make me question the thing I’m most certain about. I don’t want distance, Nat, I want vows, and shared coffee spoons, and arguing over whose turn it is to pack Isabella’s lunch. I want the everyday stuff that proves we’re already building the life we’re promising next month.”

You squeezed her hands.

“So no, not cold feet. Just nervous, wildly-in-love feet tripping over my own insecurities. And I’m sorry I let that doubt creep into you. There isn’t any.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Because cluttered or not, those feet are walking down the aisle to me.”

"And they've never been more ready." You nodded.

Natasha hummed, bringing her face close to yours. She brushed her nose against yours, nuzzling gently. "I think I'm going to have to make up for lost time with my wife."

"Yes, you should," You laughed softly, closing the space between you and her. Your lips molded perfectly, and you couldn't help but moan at the feel of her lips. You leaned into her, and your bodies melded like a puzzle. Her fingers gripped your hips, holding you to her. You felt like you couldn't get enough of her, and the kiss intensified. Natasha pulled away briefly, only to tug her smock over her head and toss it aside. She took her spot in front of the canvas again and patted the empty spot next to her.

You smiled, doing the same, and you both returned to your canvas, painting, sipping, and trading kisses.

"There was something you did today that made me really happy," Natasha said, lowering her glass from her lips. "Well, you did it a couple of times."

"Yeah? I thought everything I did made you happy," You said cheekily.

"Mmm," Natasha smirked. "You called her our daughter."

"What?"

"A few times. When you were talking to K-Breeze, and when we talked over the phone when I was in Miami. That's what you called her. Our daughter," Natasha, informed you.

You set your glass down, surprised by how quickly your eyes stung.

“I did, didn’t I?” you murmured, replaying the morning in your head.

Natasha nodded, smiling softly but with an impossibly bright smile. “It… landed. Like, click, this is my family. No footnote, no asterisk.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, half-choked, half-giddy. “I didn’t even realize it slipped out.”

“That’s the point,” she said, gently bumping her shoulder into yours. “It was natural. And it told me everything I’ve been hoping to hear without us scheduling a big ‘what-about-parenting-roles’ summit.”

Natasha reached out for your hand, and you tangled your fingers.

"You know what's so awesome about the word family?" she asked.

"What?"

"I've got the rest of my life to figure out the details. I know we're going to be together forever," she answered, a hopeful smile on her lips.

"Forever sounds perfect," you grinned. You eased back, still holding her hand. You grabbed the bottle of wine and handed her a newly filled cup.

“There’s… one wrinkle I never unpacked with you.”

Natasha’s brow creased, but she stayed relaxed. “All right.”

“You know that couples retreat my friends brought up a while ago? The one I kept tiptoeing around whenever the NDA subject came up?”

Natasha nodded. “The ‘mysterious-files-sealed-until-forever’ weekend, yes.” A crooked smile flickered across her lips, but her eyes stayed attentive.

“It was more than a weekend. It wasn’t mysterious so much as… messy,” you said, exhaling through your nose. “Our marriage was on its last legs. We thought a ‘modern-love’ workshop one that encouraged openness might save us.”

Natasha’s fingers tensed, then relaxed again, wordlessly urging you on.

"It was more for me than him," You explained. "If Sam had a say, we would probably still be married. He would have settled. But the thought of being with someone for the sake of being with them... it was killing me."

"Okay..." Natasha trailed off.

"Anyway, there was this after-hours party that everyone would hold, and naturally, out of curiosity, we went, and I met a woman."

You drew in a breath, wiping your fingertips on the paint-splattered apron. “That woman at the retreat?” Your pulse kicked. “It didn’t stop at a kiss. I slept with her a couple of times. It was the first time I’d ever crossed that line, the night I realized why the line even existed for me. Sam was always present, but we knew it was more than that.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t pull away. So you kept going, words spilling with the relief of a secret finally surfacing.

“I’d been telling myself I was only curious, that an innocent crush would jolt the marriage awake. It jolted me instead. Sam said he was fine, modern love and all that. But the truth is neither of us could un-see what it meant. I was queer, I was starving for connection, and the marriage was already limping.”

You swallowed. “We tried to renegotiate the rules, but jealousy crept in and never left. He didn’t become the villain, and I didn’t become the cheater. We just… ended.” Your gaze dropped to the paint on your nails. "And I’ve carried the story like a caution sign ever since. ‘Want too much and you’ll ruin everything.’ Obviously, there's more to the story, but NDAs are a thing, and I value not being sued.”

Natasha’s fingers tipped your chin up. “You didn’t ruin anything then or now. You told the truth, you learned who you were, and you refused to keep pretending. That’s not destruction, that’s survival.”

“So here’s the new rule,” she whispered. “No starving. Not for connection, not for honesty, not for pleasure. We feed the whole thing, together, or we push back from the table together. Deal?”

You let out a trembling laugh. “Deal.”

She angled her head, searching your face. “Tell me what you need tonight."

“Just touch,” you said. “No finish line, no scoreboard. I want to remember that wanting you isn’t dangerous or something for the public to squabble over.”

She nodded, reaching up to run her thumb along your jaw.

"Okay, we'll just take our time." She kissed you softly, pulling you onto her lap. Your thighs straddled her. You ran your hands over her shoulders, kissing her harder. Natasha groaned into the kiss. You rocked against her, and she moaned again, running her hands up your back. "My hands aren't clean." She said in an almost pouting way.

"That's fine. Mine aren't either," You giggled. "I guess you'll just get creative."

Natasha's hands found their way to your hips, and her mouth found its way to your neck. She placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against your neck, her tongue slipping out and swiping up, her teeth nipping at your pulse point.

"Are there cameras in here?"

"I turned them off when we came inside. Unplugged the entire system."

"Good," You breathed. Natasha's hands traveled up your shirt and under the band of your bra, cupping the heavy weight of your breast, her fingers ghosting over you. "I'm gonna make sure you remember why we work, and why we'll always work." is their love too easy

---> next part

wannabe-fic-reader

Idk how tf I missed this chapter dropping but yes!!!

I so genuinely love Nat and R’s honesty with each other. And how open they are about their feelings. They’re just so cute and they work together, in every meaning of the phrase.

All the references of relationships and life and bodies to music is actually so cool and kind of adorable.

This series is feeding me. I love it.

#natasha romanoff #black reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #black widow x female reader #natasha romanov #natasha x you #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel #hotelcaliforniaau

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