aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh

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The agony of thinking you’re finished doing the dishes only to turn around and to your horror: the pot.

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Head Over Feet: Chapter Two Butterflies

Summary: You didn’t know Dina before she came back to Jackson. She’s guarded, jaded, and carrying the weight of too many goodbyes. Now you can’t stop thinking about her. It’s a slow burn, and you’re patient… but will she ever let down her walls? Or will someone else reach your heart first?

Pairings: Dina x GN!Reader slowburn

warnings: spoilers if you haven’t played the game or seen the show

Previous Chapter

You walked up the driveway to your friend Cam’s house when she shouted from the porch.

“You missed lunch, what the hell happened?”

“I was fixin’ someone’s sink.” You took a seat on her porch, Cam handed you a glass of lemonade. You watched Her daughter Julie and Charlie chasing their old dog around the front yard, and her wife Lisa was fixing something in the house.

Cam settled beside you on the step, peering at you like she was reading a manual only she understood. “So?”

You raised an eyebrow. “So what?”

“You think she’s hot?”

You tried not to smile and failed. “She’s… intense.”

Cam grinned. “I knew it. Dina, right? Short, sharp, curly hair like she stepped out of a salon, eyes that could make a priest stutter?”

You blinked. “You know her?”

“Everyone knows of her,” she said, popping a piece of bread into her mouth. “She’s been back a little while now. Keeps to herself. Heard she’s been through it.”

You nodded slowly, thinking back to the way Dina’s hands had fidgeted on the counter while you worked, like she couldn’t decide whether to talk or bolt. “She’s got some walls.”

Cam snorted. “Y/N, that woman built a damn fortress after her ex. You showing up with a ladder or a battering ram?”

You huffed a small laugh. “Neither,” you muttered, more to yourself than to her. “I’m just fixing sinks.”

Cam gave you a knowing look, one brow arched like she’d seen this movie before.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Okay. Maybe I like her.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You hesitated, then glanced at her. “Should I be scared to ask what her ex was like?”

Cam leaned back on her elbows, smirking. “Ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alright… what’s the story?”

She exhaled. “Well, Jesse was basically next in line to run Jackson after Maria and Tommy. Everyone figured he’d be the one to take over someday. But…” Her face softened. “He didn’t make it back from Seattle.”

You nodded, already knowing the ending, but not the in-between.

“Before that,” Cam continued, “he and Dina were together. A solid couple, sure, but I don’t think anyone ever thought they were in love. It felt more like… comfort. Ya know? Then Ellie came into the picture. Best friends first. Then something more. That one burned hot, but fast. After JJ was born, the three of them tried to make it work for a while. Then one day, Dina left with Ellie. When she came back, it was just her and JJ.”

You were quiet.

Cam added, a little softer now, “Ellie was tough. Brave, sure but just like Joel and Tommy she was reckless as hell. She always seemed to be chasing something she could never catch, and Dina… she was always the one pulling her back from the edge.”

You took that in slowly, thinking of the way Dina kept her emotions buttoned tight, the way her eyes held both warmth and warning.

“She must’ve gone through hell,” you said.

Cam nodded. “Still is, maybe. But she’s back. And you my friend-” she poked your arm, “-you’re not just fixing sinks.”

“She offered me lunch for the help.” You shrugged.

“That’s everything.” Cam whistled. “Oof. You sure know how to pick ’em.”

You laughed under your breath. “She was just being nice. She’s not ready. ”

Cam bumped your shoulder with hers. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just waiting to see if you are.”

You looked down at your hands, still stained with dirt and soap. “I didn’t even flirt.”

“Sure,” she said. “But you showed up. You fixed what was broken. That’s kind of flirting.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for the wisdom, Dr. Cam.”

She grinned. “Anytime.”

In the distance, Charlie and Julie let out a victorious howl, and the dog barked happily after them. You sat back, letting the moment settle into your bones.

You weren’t rushing anything. But something in Dina’s eyes when she cooked withe you that had stirred something in you.

And maybe just maybe it had stirred something in her, too.

A few days later it’s your turn to go on patrol and Dina just so happens to be on your run. You know Maria had a hand in that line up.

The sun is already beating down by the time the two of you make it past the west perimeter of Jackson, hooves crunching on dry dirt and loose gravel. You can feel the heat rising through the soles of your boots, smell the dust warming in the grass. Late summer always has this golden, heavy kind of silence to it like the world is holding its breath.

Your horse keeps an easy pace beside Dina’s, both of them familiar with this trail by now. The ride is quiet. Almost too quiet.

You steal a glance at her as she adjusts the brim of her cap. Her face is shadowed, unreadable, except for the slight tension around her mouth. Ever since the lunch she said she wasn’t looking for anything this has been the way of it. Not cold. Not distant. But careful. Like she’s guarding a line she doesn’t trust herself not to cross.

You clear your throat, keeping your eyes forward. “JJ still running around shirtless like it’s a beach town?”

Dina’s lips twitch into a smile. “He spent all morning in just his pull-ups and cowboy boots. I gave up halfway through trying to dress him.”

You laugh. “Charlie rolled around in the mud yesterday. I think we’ve officially lost control.”

“Good,” Dina says. “Let the kids take over. They might actually improve things.”

You both smile, the air between you softening just a little.

The horses carry you through the thinning trees, their tails flicking lazily at the flies. The wind rustles the tall grass beside the trail. Far ahead, a pair of hawks circle lazily over the ridge.

There’s a comfort in the rhythm of two people riding in sync, not touching, not even looking at each other for too long, but still moving together. Still something.

“I meant what I said the other day,” Dina says quietly, and the words hang there like dust in sun. “I didn’t want to confuse things. Or lead you on.”

“I know,” you answer, after a pause. “It was clear.”

She nods, but the way her jaw shifts says it wasn’t that simple for her either. “You’ve just… been there. For JJ. For me. It means more than you probably realize.”

Your throat tightens a little. “I didn’t do it expecting anything.”

“I know that too.” She looks over at you then, and for a moment the sun hits her face just right — warm and golden, her eyes darker than usual beneath the brim of her cap. “But I figured if I didn’t say something, I might start… wanting things I can’t handle.”

You want to ask what exactly she can’t handle. Want to ask if maybe, somewhere in her hesitation, there’s still a door cracked open. But you don’t. You just nod, like that’s all you ever needed.

You dismount when the trail dips near a narrow creek, horses left to graze in the shade while you both walk the line of snares. The grass is brittle, some of it yellowed at the edges, the summer drought stealing green from the edges of the land.

One of the snares has caught a rabbit — a clean catch. You kneel beside it, glancing at Dina. “Dinner?”

“JJ’s been begging for stew,” she says. “But he calls it ‘goo soup’ and refuses to eat it unless it has carrots.”

You smirk. “I’ll trade you half if you give Charlie the illusion she helped make it. She’s been stuck in this ‘I’m the chef’ phase.”

Dina chuckles, then crouches beside you, close enough that you can smell the faintest trace of her — something earthy and warm, like lavender soap and worn leather. You glance over just as she’s reaching to help you untangle the line.

Your fingers brush just briefly.

It’s not much. Not even half a second.

But it makes her freeze.

You don’t move, holding the wire steady. Her eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, the look on her face says everything she isn’t ready to voice — hesitation, want, fear. And something else buried underneath all that — something unguarded.

She pulls her hand back, too fast. “Sorry.”

You nod slowly, giving her an easy out. “All good.”

You follow the curve of the trail into a grove of cottonwoods. The air shifts here — cooler under the canopy, the sun fragmented in patches on the ground. Both horses slow naturally, hooves muffled by dried leaves.

“You and Charlie doing okay?” Dina asks, quieter now.

You nod. “Yeah. She’s resilient. I still catch her crying sometimes. Late at night, when she thinks I can’t hear. That’s why my back has been killing me lately. I've been sleeping on her bed holding her until she stops crying.”

Dina glances over. “I know I’ve said this before, but she’s lucky to have you.” She watches you for a second too long, then looks away.

You ride in silence for a while. The birdsong thickens. Somewhere to your left, a woodpecker taps away. It’s peaceful — until your horse’s ears pin back, nostrils flaring.

You pull on the reins slightly, scanning the edge of the woods. Dina slows too, her eyes narrowing as she follows your line of sight.

Then you hear it: a faint, wet groaning sound — just beyond the trees.

Clickers.

At least two. Maybe more.

Dina nods toward a bend in the trail. “Tie them off?”

You both dismount, working fast and wordlessly. Your heart picks up, but you’re already sliding into that familiar focus. The sharp edge of readiness that comes when things go sideways.

You grab your knife and shotgun. Dina keeps her gun drawn as the two of you move quietly off the trail, boots crunching dry leaves with careful steps.

You catch sight of them near an old wreck — an SUV long since rusted through, ivy crawling up its sides. Three infected, faces slack and bodies twitching. One turns its head suddenly, sniffing the air.

You raise your hand. Dina stops.

A runner breaks off and comes lurching through the brush fast.

Before she can raise her gun, you move.

Your body reacts before thought catches up — a clean, fluid motion. One shot to the knee brings it down, the second rips through its head before it even hits the ground. You step back, breathing sharp, ears ringing from the close echo.

Another one stumbles toward you. You let it come close, then pivot hard, slamming the butt of your gun into its temple, knocking it back. Before it can recover, you drive your knife clean into its skull.

It drops. Dead.

You look up — the third’s gone.

Dina signals, and you both sweep left. A brief scramble. A noise behind you. You spin and level your shotgun — but Dina’s already there. One quick shot to the eye.

Silence.

You both stand there, chests heaving, the forest too still.

“Jesus,” Dina mutters, lowering her gun. “You okay?”

You nod, wiping your blade. “You?”

She nods back, watching you longer than she needs to. Her eyes are darker now, more unreadable.

“You didn’t even flinch,” she says.

You shrug. “Didn’t have time to.”

She studies you — not just your stance, but your face, your breathing. “You’re different when you’re out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“I don’t know.” She pauses. “Sharper. Calmer, but also… dangerous.”

You snort. “I’ll put that on my resume.”

But she doesn’t smile. She just looks at you, the weight of her gaze pressing something low in your gut. There’s tension there — not the kind that repels, but the kind that hums, delicate and electric.

Back at the horses, you clean your blade again, wiping the blood on your rag. Dina watches you with a frown that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You ask focusing on your knife that had once belonged to your father.

“I didn’t expect—” She breaks off, then quietly: “You scare me a little.”

You glance up, surprised.

“In a good way,” she adds quickly, but her cheeks are pink now, and she looks away. “It’s like… I didn’t think someone could come in and just… be that steady. That sure.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s thudding too loud for words.

She mounts her horse again before you can reply. You follow, both of you silent as you guide the horses back toward the trail.

When you’re riding side by side again, she doesn’t pull away when your knee brushes hers. She doesn’t move her horse back to its usual space.

She just lets it happen.

“Maybe we can set up a play date with JJ and Charlie?” she asks as the trail winds back toward town.

You glance at her, surprised. But you keep your voice steady. “Yeah. We could do that.”

The gate to Jackson comes into view, sun sinking low behind the treetops. You don’t know what she meant by we. Maybe she doesn’t either.

But as her shoulder grazes yours again — deliberate this time, no apology — you realize the line she’s trying to keep might not be as solid as she wants it to be.

And that feels like the beginning of something.

Something slow.

Something real.

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The house is quiet.

JJ’s finally down, curled under his favorite blanket with a stuffed fox half-under his cheek and a fist full of berries he refused to let go of. The air is still thick from the day’s heat, windows cracked but barely letting in a breeze. Dina stands at the kitchen sink, rinsing a couple plates, the water warm and mindless.

She’s not really focused.

Her eyes keep drifting to the corner of the table — the same place you sat across from her the day before, elbow on the table, fork in hand, that crooked little smile she swears you don’t know you have. You’d just fixed the plumbing under her sink, mud still drying on your pants, and she knew the moment she opened the fridge and offered you lunch, she was toeing a line she didn’t want to acknowledge.

So she told you.

“I’m not looking for anything right now.”

And you’d just nodded. Like it didn’t knock the wind out of you. Like you were too kind to show it even if it did.

Dina sighs and shuts off the water.

She moves through the house like muscle memory, picking up stray socks and crayons, locking the front door. Her eyes land on JJ’s cowboy boots by the mat, one upright, one on its side and a pang hits her chest out of nowhere. Not grief, not quite. Something softer. More complicated.

Upstairs, she changes into a worn T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, the smell of lavender clinging faintly to her skin. She lies down on her bed — and immediately knows sleep’s not coming anytime soon.

Because you’re still in her head.

Not in some abstract, friendly way. But you… breathing hard after taking down those infected, the sun catching your flexed biceps, the quiet steel in your eyes when you moved ahead of her like you’d do it every day, just to keep her safe.

Dina presses her fingers to her temple.

You didn’t flinch.

She meant it. It scared her, not just how capable you are, but how it made her feel. Because for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to brace for disappointment or danger. You moved through that moment like a wall between her and chaos, and not for show just because that’s who you are.

And then that stupid touch.

That split second graze of your fingers when you untangled the snare. Her hand still tingles from it. It was nothing. It meant nothing.

Except it didn’t.

Her body remembered it long after her brain told her to ignore it.

And the way your knees brushed on horseback? She could’ve moved. She didn’t.

Dina exhales, staring at the ceiling. Her heart beats a little too fast when she lets herself picture what would’ve happened if you’d touched her for real. If she’d leaned just slightly closer. If the line between comfort and something else had blurred.

But she can’t.

She has JJ. She has scars still mending inside her. And you… you’re the only steady thing in her life right now. She can’t let herself want that. Not when wanting always seems to mean losing, eventually.

Still.

She shifts on the bed, frustrated with herself. This was exactly why she tried to draw that line.

But instead, you’ve become the exception to every rule she made to survive.

She shuts her eyes. Tomorrow, she’ll keep it simple. Be polite. Friendly. Grateful.

But for tonight… she lets herself remember the look on your face when you said, “Didn’t have time to [flinch].” The calm in it. The quiet strength.

And maybe just for a second she lets herself wonder what it would feel like to be held by someone like you.

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The sun’s barely crested the mountains when Dina walks to Maria’s house, JJ in tow. His tiny backpack thumps against his back with every clumsy step, stuffed with crackers, crayons, and the dinosaur he refuses to nap without.

Maria’s already on the porch, sipping her coffee, eyes half-lidded in that way that always makes Dina nervous — like she’s watching more than she lets on.

“Morning,” Maria says as Dina reaches the steps. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t,” Dina mutters. She ruffles JJ’s curls. “Think you can keep him for a bit? I could use some quiet.”

Maria gestures toward the house. “Kim’s inside. Go sit. I’ll take this little monster to terrorize the goats.”

JJ cheers and runs to Maria, who lifts him onto her hip like it’s nothing.

Inside, the house smells like fresh bread and wood polish. Kim stands at the counter slicing fruit, her sleeves rolled up, already humming something soft under her breath. She looks up. “Hey, sweetheart. You hungry?”

“Just tea. Maybe a shovel to dig a hole I can crawl into.”

Kim laughs and pours her a mug. Dina wraps her hands around it, lets the heat settle into her palms. She sits at the table and stares at it for a long second before blurting:

“I think I messed up.”

Kim’s expression softens, but she doesn’t speak. She sits across from Dina, patient as ever.

Maria joins them a moment later, dusting goat hair off her jeans. “Well,” Maria says, “if you’re gonna confess, now’s the time.”

Dina takes a breath. “I told Y/N I wasn’t looking for anything. That I wasn’t ready. And it was true, then. Still is, mostly. But now—”

She trails off.

Kim leans in. “But now something changed?”

Dina shakes her head. “It’s not that. Nothing happened. We were just on patrol yesterday. There were infected, and—” She hesitates. “Y/N was so calm. So in control. Y/N moved like they weren't afraid of anything, not even for themselves. It scared the hell out of me. But not because I didn’t trust Y/N. Because I did. Completely.”

Maria raises an eyebrow. “And that’s the part that freaks you out.”

“Yeah.”

Kim folds her hands. “What happened after?”

“We didn’t talk about it. We just rode back. But I keep replaying everything. The way Y/N looked at me with they’re eyes sparkling under the sun. The way they didn’t flinch. Even when I told Y/N, I wasn’t available. They just… accepted it. With so much grace, it hurt.”

Kim smirks. “Sounds like you’re mad Y/N didn’t fight you on it.”

Dina blinks. “I’m not—”

“You’re not mad. You’re conflicted,” Maria corrects. “Because you gave them a boundary and Y/N respected it. And instead of pushing, they made you feel safe. And that’s terrifying.”

Dina swallows. Kim reaches across the table and gently lays her hand over Dina’s. “Sweetheart… a lot of women fall for the ones who burn hot, who crash through the walls. But trust me. Long term? You want the one who builds a fire and waits for you to sit beside it.”

“Lord knows Ellie burned hot.” Dina blinks hard against the sudden tightness in her throat. “I’ve been alone a long time,” she says softly. “Even when I wasn’t.”

Kim nods. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. You’re allowed to feel all of this without acting on it.”

Maria leans back. “But if it’s Y/N? Don’t wait too long. They’ve got a good heart. I’ve seen what they do for Charlie, how the kid’s steady even after everything. That kind of care doesn’t come easy. And people like Y/N… they don’t come around often.”

“Not to mention the moms circling like sharks around them.”

“Why do they have to be such a dreamboat?” Dina presses her fingers to her temple, overwhelmed. “They brush my hand and I feel like I can’t breathe. Y/N says one kind thing and I start rethinking my entire future. It’s like they see me… not the version I show people, but the parts I try to bury.”

“Good,” Maria says simply. “Means you’re finally ready to stop hiding.”

Dina exhales. “I’m not ready to love again.”

“You don’t have to,” Kim says. “Just don’t lie to yourself about what you do feel.”

They sit in silence for a moment. The morning sunlight slants across the table, warm and blinding. Dina thinks of your eyes in that same light; clear, steady, unflinching. And her heart aches. Just a little.

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The afternoon sun glints off the greenhouse glass as you work your way down the garden row, dirt caked beneath your nails and sweat trickling down your spine. Charlie’s laughing somewhere behind you, tossing a handful of wildflower seeds while JJ stomps through a puddle he was specifically told not to jump in.

You should be focused. But your mind’s somewhere else stuck on yesterday’s patrol. On the way Dina’s fingers brushed yours. On the heat of her thigh against yours in the saddle. On the words she said over lunch.

“I’m not ready for anything.”

She’d smiled when she said it. Not cruel just careful. Distant in a way that didn’t match the rest of her.

You don’t hear Maria approach, but you feel her presence before she speaks. She’s always been like that steady, grounded, impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been tying that same stem for three minutes.”

You glance down. The tomato vine in your hand is bent at an odd angle.

You untwist it gently, avoiding her eyes. “Just… thinking.”

“Let me guess…About a short brunette with a fiery personality? Goes by Dina?”

You pause, then nod. No use pretending otherwise. Maria sees everything.

“I’m not trying to complicate her life,” you say quietly. “She’s got JJ. She’s been through hell. I know she’s not looking for anything.”

Maria hums, folding her arms over the top of the garden fence. “Doesn’t mean you’re not part of her life already.”

You glance at her.

“She trusts you with her kid. With herself. That’s not nothing.”

You nod, but there’s a bitter twist in your chest. “She pulled back. Yesterday. It wasn’t mean, just… clear. I think I made things weird.” You cringe.

Maria snorts softly. “You think that because she didn’t fall into your arms, it’s over?”

“No-yes- I don’t know,” you say. “But I think she’s scared.”

“And you’re not?” she asks.

You don’t answer. Because the truth is, you are. Terrified.

Maria watches you for a long beat. “I’ve known Dina a long time. She does this thing convincing herself she’s fine until the cracks start showing. She doesn’t open up easy. Especially not when she cares.”

You glance back toward the garden gate. Dina’s nowhere in sight now. Just Charlie and JJ building a very messy dam with rocks and sticks.

“I don’t want her to feel cornered,” you say.

Maria nods slowly. “Then don’t push. But don’t disappear either. Be the same person you’ve been. Steady. Present. Let her come to you when she’s ready.”

You take a slow breath, the sun warm on your shoulders.

“Feels like I’m just waiting.”

“Sometimes love starts like that,” Maria says. “Quiet. Patient. But it’s worth it.”

You blink at her, surprised by the tenderness in her voice.

She shrugs. “Just don’t get caught standing still if she finally turns around.”

And with that, she heads back toward the stables, leaving you alone with your thoughts, and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the door isn’t as closed as it feels.

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FUCK YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

Head Over Feet Chapter One Hello, I Love You

Summary: You didn’t know Dina before she came back to Jackson. She’s guarded, jaded, and carrying the weight of too many goodbyes. Now you can’t stop thinking about her. It’s a slow burn, and you’re patient… but will she ever let down her walls? Or will someone else reach your heart first?

Pairings: Dina x GN!Reader slowburn

warnings: spoilers if you haven’t played the game or seen the show

A/N: I’ve been obsessed with Dina from the Last of Us season 2 especially after playing the game. Those of you who may be waiting on Avengers Lane don’t worry I’m gonna come back to it I just need to get this out of my system.

Dina turned at the sound of a high pitched squeal, just in time to see a little girl darting toward the jungle gym, giggling as you chased playfully behind her.

The girl scrambled up the bars, laughing. A small boy nearby looked up and smiled shyly, curious.

“Hi! I’m Charlie. What’s your name?” she called brightly.

The boy hesitated a moment before answering. “JJ.”

You stood a few steps back, letting the kids have their moment. Your gaze drifted to a woman sitting on a nearby bench, dark hair tucked behind one ear as she closed a book in her lap. She was stunning, and instinctively, you figured she must be JJ’s mom.

You offered a friendly smile. “Looks like they’re already best friends.”

She gave a small, polite smile in return. “I’m Dina,” she said, shaking your hand but not quite meeting your eyes.

You picked up on the subtle cue maybe she wasn’t the chatty type. Respecting that, you nodded and give her space, making your way to an empty swing nearby.

From there, you watch as Charlie and JJ took turns on the slide, their laughter echoing across the playground.

“Coach Y/N! Coach Y/N!”

You turned at the familiar chorus of voices. A small pack of kids was barreling toward you, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hey, crew!” you waved, standing up.

“I’ve been practicing!” one kid beamed.

“Me too!” another chimed in, bouncing with excitement.

“That’s awesome!” you said, ruffling a few heads. “You wanna run some drills?”

“Can we play a game?” one asked eagerly.

You glanced back toward the jungle gym. Charlie was still climbing, cheeks pink from the sun and play.

“Charlie!” you called. She paused and looked your way. “I’m heading to the court, okay? I’ll be right there.”

She gave you a thumbs-up and went back to sliding.

“Alright, team let’s move out!”

The kids erupted into cheers, scattering toward the nearby court and dividing themselves into teams like seasoned pros.

Back on the bench, Dina looked up from her book again, her attention drawn by the laughter and the thump of sneakers on pavement. She watched as you gently lifted each child to help them dunk the ball, your smile wide and your energy endless.

“Ooooh! Y/N! Y/N!” Charlie’s voice rang out again.

You turned to see her waving excitedly. She ran over to Dina, who raised an eyebrow as the girl tapped her knee.

“Hi,” Dina greeted, more relaxed this time.

“Hi! I’m Charlie! Can JJ come play basketball with me?” she asked, bouncing on her toes.

Dina hesitated, unsure.

“Pleeeeeeaaaaase?” both kids chimed, hands clasped in dramatic pleading.

You walked up just in time to catch the moment.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” you said gently.

Dina looked from you to the kids. Something in her softened. “Okay,” she said, finally smiling.

Charlie and JJ whooped in celebration and took off toward the court, with you jogging behind them.

Dina watched as you joined the game, her smile lingering a little longer this time. She watches as you patiently teach JJ how to dribble the ball, his tiny hands clumsily mimicking yours.

He bursts into giggles when you lift him high into the air, letting him dunk the ball with a triumphant slam.

A familiar ache stirs in Dina’s chest, an ache that twists into something bittersweet. But watching the way you are with her son, she can’t bring herself to look away.

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting a golden hue over the court as Dina rises to her feet and calls out,

“JJ, come on buddy, it’s time to go.”

“No!” the toddler shouts gleefully, darting off to play with the older kids.

Dina closes her eyes and exhales, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

“I’m guessing that’s his new favorite word?” you ask with a laugh.

“Pretty much the only one he wants to use,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Hang on a sec.” You jog toward the center of the court and catch the ball mid-bounce.

“Awww, come on coach!” one of the kids groans.

“The sun’s setting, let’s call it here. We’ll get more practice tomorrow.”

The kids groan in protest.

One of them smirks and elbows his friend. “Alright, we’ll stop—but only if you make it from half-court!”

You grin, eyes twinkling. “Deal, Jack.”

With a swift pivot and smooth release, you send the ball soaring.

Dina watches as the court erupts.

“OHHHHHHH!” the kids shout, clapping and jumping.

“Alright, off the court! Head home! I’ll see you all tomorrow!”

JJ giggles as the kids scramble away, racing each other toward the street.

“Nice shot,” Dina says, lifting JJ into her arms.

“Thanks.” You flash her a smile.

“Thanks for watching him,” she adds, her voice softer now.

“Anytime.”

“Let’s go Pony!” Charlie calls, clambering up your back.

You playfully gasp as her little arms swat at your throat. “Ah! She’s trying to take me out!” You cough as she settles on your back. “It was nice meeting you, Dina. You too, little man.” You offer JJ a fist bump, and he giggles as his tiny fist taps yours.

“It was nice meeting you too,” Dina says, her smile warm as JJ hides shyly in the crook of her neck.

“Bye JJ! Bye JJ’s mom!” Charlie waves enthusiastically.

“Bye bye!” JJ giggles.

🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄

“Hey, Maria,” you say with a grin as you walk into the office.

“Hi, Y/N.”

You settle at your desk and get to work. A few minutes pass in silence before you speak again.

“Maria?”

“Hm?”

“What’s Dina’s deal?”

Maria glances up, one brow raised. A small smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“Why?”

“I met her and her son yesterday at the park,” you say casually.

“Did you now.” Maria’s smirk widens.

“I’ve never seen her before, but I remember some of the guys saying she used to live here. Left for about a year, then came back?”

Maria sighs and sets her pen down.

“Dina was with my niece, Ellie. About a year and a half ago, Joel, Ellie’….dad was murdered by raiders. Right in front of her.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Ellie and Dina wanted revenge. They left one night without saying a word. My ex-husband—”

“Tommy.” You nod, remembering.

“Mmhmm. He went after them with their friend Jesse. But they didn’t realize how big the raider group actually was. They came back empty-handed, PTSD, and Joel’s killer was still out there.”

She pauses, gathering her thoughts.

“Ellie and Dina decided to leave and start fresh somewhere. But Tommy couldn’t let it go. He got obsessed. That… was part of why we split up. According to Dina, Ellie wasn’t doing well mentally. One night, she just left. Went after that last raider. Dina came back to Jackson with JJ.”

“Ellie just left her and JJ?” you ask, your expression tightening.

“Yeah.” Maria sighs, voice softer now.

“What about JJ’s dad?”

“Jesse. He didn’t make it back.”

You sit back, stunned. “Shit.”

“I know. He was a good kid.”

“I’m sorry you went through all that.”

“It’s life,” she says with a shrug, then picks her pen back up.

The room falls quiet again until the door creaks open. Dina steps inside, looking a little frazzled.

“Hey, Maria.” She looks your way. “Hey—”

“Y/N,” you offer with a smile.

“Right. Yeah, of course I knew that.”

Maria tilts her head. “What’s wrong, Dina?”

“Sooo… JJ may or may not have clogged both the toilet and the kitchen sink. With toys. Do you have someone who can help?”

“I got you,” you laugh, standing.

“Oh thank God,” Dina says with a sheepish gulp.

Maria watches the two of you with quiet amusement.

“Lead the way, boss,” you grin.

You walk in step following her lead to her house when she speaks up.

“I didn’t forget your name, by the way.”

“Sure you didn’t,” you tease.

“I swear I didn’t! Just didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” She laughs. “Y/N… and your daughter’s name is Charlie, right?”

“Charlie’s actually my niece.” You flash a quick smile.

“Oh. Do you have family out here?”

You shake your head. “No. It’s just us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How long have you been in Jackson?” Dina asks.

“Uh, probably about a year now.”

You were both down the main road when you both ran into one of the mothers Natalie. You coach her son Jack.

“Hey coach.” Natalie smiled sweetly.

“Hi, Natalie, again you can just call me Y/N.” You grin.

“Right sounds good Y/N, what are you two doing?” Natalie eyes Dina.

“Plumbing issue.” You shrugged.

“You know I’ve been having trouble with some of the windows maybe you can come by and help me grease them?”

“Sure.” You nod with an oblivious smile. It took Dina a lot to not just roll her eyes at the blanant innuendo Natalie threw your way.

”I’ll see you around.” Natalie smirks before continuing on her way.

“Bye.” Dina huffs with a roll of her eyes. “Come on I’m just right around the corner.”

Dina lets you in her house. “Thanks Nancy for watching him for a few.”

“Oh of course you know I love that sweet boy!” Nancy waved her off as she watched you begin to lay under the kitchen sink. “They’re cute!” Nancy whispered gesturing to you.

Dina chuckled awkwardly not missing the smirk on your lips.

“So what brought you here?”

You hesitate.

“Sorry,” she adds quickly. “That was probably a loaded question.”

“No, it’s fine.”

You take a breath.

“My dad was a marine. Big-time hunter. Doomsday prepper, too. When the outbreak happened, he picked me up from school, got my brother and his wife, and we headed to a cabin he’d set up years before. My mom thought he was overreacting. Said it was just another pandemic.”

You glance down.

“Later that day, we heard on the radio: they’d bombed the city.”

Dina goes quiet.

“He always had a line to Jackson. Told us how to get here if everything went to hell. Raiders hit hard. We held them off for a while… but not long enough.”

You pause as you work under the sink.

“Try the faucet now.”

Dina turns it on. The water runs smooth.

You hold up a little toy soldier. “Here’s your culprit.”

She sighs, glancing at JJ. “Yup. That tracks.”

JJ giggles from the living room, chewing on a snack.

“Where’s the toilet?”

Dina leads you down the hall.

“I managed to get the water out already.”

“Good thinking,” you say, kneeling to work.

After a moment, Dina speaks quietly.

“Did your family make it out with you?”

You pause.

”…No. My brother and his wife died during the attack. My parents were wounded. We took out the rest of the raiders, but… they didn’t make it far. A bloater showed up. They told me to run. I grabbed Charlie and didn’t look back.”

“God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

You sit back, wiping sweat from your brow. “Don’t be sorry. It’s done. Charlie and I made it. That’s what matters.”

Dina swallows hard. “She’s lucky to have you.”

You glance at her.

“Honestly? Feels like I’m the lucky one.”

Dina gives a soft nod.

“What about you?” you ask gently. “What’s your story?”

“It’s a long one.”

“I’ve got time.”

She looks at you, a little amused.

“I’m sure you’ve heard what happened to Joel.”

“A little. People talk.”

She sighs her chestnut eyes dimming a little more. “I left partly because of that. But also… I just wanted a farm on a hill. And I had it, for a while.”

“But?”

“But… I didn’t wanna be alone out there. Not with JJ. Everything changes when you have a kid.”

You nod, twisting the final bolt into place.

“Alright. Try it now.”

She flushes the toilet. It works.

You hold up another toy. “And there’s our second victim.”

“Let’s just toss that one,” she grimaces.

You both laugh.

After washing your hands, Dina turns to you.

“Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.”

“It’s lunch time. I was gonna make something. Want to join us? Call it a proper thank you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Plus, JJ won’t stop dribbling that bouncy ball you gave him.” She points to her son, now enthusiastically bouncing it into a toy bin.

You chuckle. “Alright. Lunch sounds nice.”

Dina walks into the kitchen and starts pulling ingredients from a cabinet.

“Can I help?” you offer with a grin.

“Yeah, actually…”

The kitchen smelled faintly of herbs and something sweet as Dina set a pot on the stove.

“You can chop those,” she said, nodding toward a bundle of carrots and a knife on the counter.

“Yes, chef,” you joked, rolling up your sleeves.

Dina cracked a small smile but didn’t say anything. You started chopping. The silence was comfortable…kind of. It wasn’t awkward, just full of things neither of you seemed ready to say out loud.

From the living room, JJ babbled to himself, tiny plastic blocks clacking together as he played. Occasionally he’d shout a sound “Yes!” or “No!” like he was giving orders to imaginary soldiers.

You glance over. “He’s got leadership potential.”

“He gets it from his father. He thinks he runs the place.” Dina’s voice was warm, but a little tired around the edges.

“He kind of does.”

That earned you a real laugh. It was soft and sudden, like it caught her off guard. You filed her laugh away in your mind.

Lunch was simple stew and bread, the kind of meal that fills you up just enough. JJ sat in his booster seat, getting more of the food on his cheeks than in his mouth.

“You like it, little man?” you asked.

JJ gave a crooked grin, slamming his spoon on the tray. “No!”

“He likes saying that even when it’s not true,” Dina said, sipping her water. “He just learned the word.”

“Well, it’s an important one.”

He dropped the spoon and flung a piece of carrot. It hit your shoulder.

“And we’re throwing things now,” you muttered with a grin.

Dina groaned. “JJ…”

“It’s fine,” you said, brushing it off. “I’ve seen worse. I’ve been worse.”

“You a handful growing up?”

“Me? No. Charlie though… she was a menace. Charlie’s dad was just as bad growing up.”

Dina’s face shifted slightly at the mention of your family. You could see it in the way her eyes lowered not pity exactly, but something close to it.

After lunch, you helped clear the dishes. Dina stood at the sink, rinsing while you dried. JJ wandered off toward the living room, humming to himself.

“Thanks again,” Dina said, quietly. “For today. The plumbing stuff, and…”

“The stew was worth it,” you said with a small smile.

She smirked, but her eyes didn’t quite match it. After a second, she leaned against the counter.

“You know, I’m not really good with people anymore.”

“It’s the apocalypse. Who is?”

She let out a dry breath of a laugh, and looked down at her hands.

“I mean it,” she added. “I’ve been on my own for a long time. Even when I wasn’t technically alone.”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t want to press her. But she kept going.

“I’m not looking for anything serious. Not right now. I can’t—”

“You don’t have to explain.”

She looked up at you. Really looked.

“I’m just… tired. Some days it’s easier not to feel anything at all.”

You nodded. You knew exactly what she meant.

There was a long pause. The sound of JJ babbling in the next room was the only thing anchoring the moment.

Then Dina spoke, voice quiet.

“But I still miss being touched.”

You watched her, unsure what to say. This wasn’t a flirtation. It wasn’t a proposition. It was a confession raw and open.

“I get it,” you said softly.

“I’m not offering anything,” she added quickly, looking away. “I just… I wanted you to know where I’m at. In case this starts feeling like something else to you.”

You stood still for a moment. Then nodded.

“Message received.”

She gave you a grateful kind of smile. Not warm, but honest.

You helped wash JJ’s face after lunch. He squealed and kicked his feet as you gently wiped stew off his cheeks.

“You’re a mess, kid.”

“Bahhh!” he yelled in defiance, then giggled.

You looked at Dina.

“He’s good. Happy.”

“Some days.” She shrugged. “Other days he wakes up crying for someone he won’t even remember.”

You felt a sharp ache in your chest at that.

“Same with Charlie,” you said. “Some nights she asks where her mom is. I tell her the truth. But she keeps asking.”

“Maybe one day she won’t.”

“Maybe.”

There was a beat of silence. JJ climbed down from his chair, crawling into Dina’s lap and curling up there, thumb in his mouth.

“I should let you rest,” you said quietly, grabbing your jacket.

Dina nodded but didn’t get up. “Thank you again,” she said.

“Any time.”

You walked to the door and paused, hand on the knob. Turned back.

“If you ever need help again with JJ, the house, whatever… I’m around.”

She didn’t respond right away, but you saw it in her eyes.

“Okay,” she said. “Good to know.”

You stepped out into the afternoon sun, the door closing softly behind you.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves. You pulled your jacket tighter around you and started walking.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

Next Chapter

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

What We Held Onto

Ex-girlfriend!student!Wanda Maximoff x Professor!fem!reader

Summary: You had left your ex in the past when she left without a word, but what happens when she's sitting right here in your class?

Word Count: 12.1K

Warnings: emotional distress, past professor/student relationship (established prior to class), references to an abusive relationship (physical and emotional, off-screen), depictions of injury and trauma recovery, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, and physical touch in a caregiving context.

Authors note: I wrote this like all last week and then proceeded to forget I wrote it cause of the mother's day stuff, but here you go!

You knew teaching at a new university would come with surprises—but nothing could have prepared you for the one that walked in five minutes before your first class of the semester.

Wanda Maximoff.

She wore a green cable-knit sweater too large for her frame, sleeves falling past her wrists. Her hair was longer than you remembered, darker, and her gaze was cool when it met yours—calculated, blank.

You stood frozen at the lectern for a moment, hands tightening around the syllabus. For a second, you wondered if you were hallucinating. But then she took the third seat from the front, cracked open a notebook, and began doodling in the margin like she had in your bed at 2 a.m. two summers ago.

Not a flicker of recognition passed between you.

"Good morning," you finally said, voice steady despite the thunder of your pulse. "This is ENGL 315: Comparative Tragedies. If you're not supposed to be here, now's the time to leave."

She didn't move.

You looked down at your roster and saw it—Maximoff, Wanda.

Of course.

The rest of the lecture passed in a haze. You avoided looking her way, though you could feel her eyes on you. Studying you. Testing you. The same way she used to, right before she'd say something cruel just to watch you flinch and then kiss the apology into your neck like it never happened.

Class ended. You gathered your papers slowly. Students filed out.

Except one.

"Professor," she said behind you, voice like a memory. Soft, but not gentle. "It's nice to see you again. Or... should I pretend we’ve never met?"

You turned to her, every muscle in your body tensed like a loaded spring.

"You're my student now," you said quietly. "That's all."

Wanda tilted her head, lips curving in a knowing smirk. "Sure, professor. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Then she left—her perfume trailing behind like the scent of regret.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

You shut the classroom door behind you and exhaled like you'd been holding your breath for the entire hour.

She was here.

Wanda.

After two years of silence.

You sank into your office chair and stared blankly at your desk, but your mind was already gone, back to the first night you met her.

Flashback: Two Years Ago

You were grading midterms at the campus café. It was late. Quiet. You didn’t usually come here, but your apartment had a leaking ceiling and the landlord hadn’t fixed it in weeks.

Wanda had slid into the seat across from you without asking, clutching a cup of chamomile tea and a crumpled copy of Wuthering Heights.

“You look like you’re going to cry,” she said casually, peering at your red ink-stained papers.

You frowned. “That’s a weird opener.”

She smiled. “I’m Wanda.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And yet, here we are.” She set the book down. “Your pen’s bleeding all over that one, by the way.”

You looked down. She was right.

She laughed softly, a low melodic sound that burrowed into your chest. “Let me guess—you’re a TA with a martyr complex?”

“Adjunct professor,” you corrected before you could stop yourself.

Her eyes gleamed. “Hot.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said hot. Don’t worry, I’m not in any of your classes.” She sipped her tea, then leaned forward, elbows on the table like she already knew she had you. “Yet.”

Present

You pressed your fingers into your temples, trying to force the memory back where it belonged.

You should’ve known it was a mistake the first time she showed up outside your apartment with flowers she stole from the campus greenhouse.

But you didn’t send her away.

You let her curl up in your bed like she belonged there. Let her trace poetry onto your skin with her fingertips. Let her call you “professor” in a voice that made your knees weak.

Until she left. No warning. No note.

Just... gone.

And now she was back. In your classroom. With a smug little smirk and a seat three rows from the front.

You reached for your syllabus, but your hand shook. You weren’t ready. Not for this.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

A knock at your door jolted you upright.

Wanda again.

You didn’t need to look to know it was her.

“Got a minute?” she asked through the door.

Your mouth was dry. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

There was a pause. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, whether you like it or not.”

You hesitated. Then opened the door.

She stood there, calm and unreadable. But there was something soft in her eyes. Something uncertain.

“You shouldn’t be in my class,” you said.

She leaned against the doorframe. “Maybe. But I am.”

Her voice lowered. “I’m not here to ruin your life, you know.”

“You already did,” you whispered.

Silence.

Then Wanda looked at you—really looked—and said, “Then let me try to fix it.”

“You can’t fix this, Wanda. Just leave.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out so quietly, but it did. Fragile. Final.

Wanda’s expression didn’t change right away. She just blinked, lips parting slightly like she hadn’t expected you to use her name like that—like it still meant something. Like it still hurt.

“I’m not the same girl you remember,” she said after a long beat.

You gave a bitter laugh. “Good. Because the one I remember didn’t say goodbye.”

She flinched. Just barely. But you caught it.

“I told myself I was doing you a favor,” she said, stepping into your office now, slow and careful, like you were a frightened animal she didn’t want to spook. “That I wasn’t good for you. That you’d move on.”

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest, “you were right. You’re not good for me.”

Wanda nodded, eyes downcast. “You’re allowed to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you snapped, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? You didn’t hate her. You should. You wanted to. But your heart still clenched at the sight of her, still knew her voice like a favorite song.

You turned away, gripping the edge of your desk until your knuckles whitened. “But I can’t go back. I’m your professor now. You’re a student. It’s done.”

Behind you, Wanda’s voice was quieter. “I didn’t come back to start anything. I didn’t even know you taught here until I walked in today.”

You looked over your shoulder. “You expect me to believe that?”

She met your eyes. “I didn’t expect to feel like this when I saw you again.”

You wanted to tell her to stop. That it wasn’t fair. That the little pieces you’d glued yourself back together with were shaking loose again just from her voice.

“I have to go,” you said, brushing past her and opening your door.

Wanda hesitated. Her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for you. But instead, she just stepped out into the hallway.

She turned once, halfway down the corridor. “I’ll drop the class, if that’s what you want.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know what you wanted anymore.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

The cafeteria was loud, buzzing with midday chatter and the clatter of trays. You usually avoided it, preferring the quiet of your office or the bookstore café around the corner. But today, you were too tired, too hungry, and too distracted to care.

You barely noticed her at first.

You were halfway through scanning the lunch line, internally debating between the overpriced salad or something hot, when her laugh reached you.

That laugh.

The same one that used to erupt at 1 a.m. when you read her pretentious poetry in a dramatic voice. The one you missed more than you’d ever admit.

You looked up.

There she was. Wanda.

Sitting at a table near the back with three others. Her twin, Pietro—you’d met him a few times, always too charming for his own good. Across from him sat a redhead you recognized from photos on Wanda’s old social media. Natasha, the best friend. The one you always felt second to, though Wanda swore she wasn’t her type.

And then… him.

Tall, blonde, fit. He looked older than the others, like he could blend into the faculty lounge without anyone blinking. One arm rested casually around Wanda’s shoulders as he leaned in to say something.

She laughed again, a little more subdued this time.

And then she looked up.

Right at you.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run.

But the tray in your hands suddenly felt ten times heavier.

Wanda’s smile vanished. Her spine straightened. Her eyes went wide—apologetic, almost. Like she knew exactly what this looked like. What it would feel like. Like a slow knife between your ribs.

Because you were good at hiding it. The hurt. The longing. The silent ache you carried with you every class period she sat three rows from the front and acted like she hadn’t once fallen asleep curled into your side.

But today? Today, it cracked.

Just enough.

You held her gaze for three long seconds.

Then you turned away, pretending your appetite hadn’t just vanished with the sound of her laughter.

Flashback

It was just past 1 a.m., and the only light in your apartment came from the small lamp on your nightstand, casting a soft glow across the crumpled sheets and the half-full tea mugs on the floor.

Wanda was curled against your side, her bare legs tangled with yours, one arm lazily draped over your stomach. Her head rested on your chest, and you could feel her eyelashes flutter against your skin every time she blinked.

She always talked more at night. When the world went quiet and the performance dropped. No sarcasm. No flirtation. Just her.

“Do you think your students ever suspect?” she murmured, fingers tracing gentle shapes on your ribcage beneath your shirt.

You let out a quiet breath, your hand threading through her hair. “Not unless they have very vivid imaginations and absolutely no respect for boundaries.”

She chuckled softly. “They probably think you go home to a cat and a very sad Netflix queue.”

You smiled. “And yet here I am. With a girl who keeps stealing all my hoodies.”

Wanda smirked into your skin. “You like when I wear them.”

“I like you,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

She looked up at that, green eyes soft in the dim light. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She shifted up slightly to press her lips to yours, slow and unhurried. The kind of kiss that felt more like a promise than a temptation.

When she pulled back, she laid her head beside yours on the pillow, her voice barely a whisper. “You’d like my brother, you know. Pietro.”

You glanced over at her. “The fast-talking one with a motorcycle and a hundred bad decisions?”

“That’s the one.” She smiled. “He’s protective. He’d hate you.”

You laughed. “So, why are you telling me this?”

Wanda hesitated. Then: “Because I want you to meet him anyway.”

Your breath caught. It was the first time she’d hinted at anything more than late nights and stolen hoodies.

She looked nervous now, almost like she regretted saying it. “Unless… you don’t want to?”

You reached for her hand beneath the covers and gave it a light squeeze. “I’d like that.”

She smiled again, softer this time. And just before drifting off, she whispered, “I think he’d like you too. If he saw you the way I do.”

Present Day

Your office door creaked open slowly.

You didn’t look up—you didn’t need to.

Her perfume gave her away before she even spoke. Warm vanilla, faint and familiar. A scent that had clung to your pillows for weeks after she left. You hated how much comfort it still gave you.

“Can we talk?” Wanda’s voice was soft. Cautious.

You stared down at the stack of ungraded essays on your desk. “Class hours are over.”

There was a pause, and then the door shut gently behind her.

“I saw your face at lunch,” she said. “I—I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You exhaled through your nose, still refusing to look up. “Didn’t expect me to eat? I’m a professor, Wanda. I work here.”

“I know, I just—Vis was only—he’s not—he’s not what you think.”

That name—Vis—hit like a bruise being pressed too hard.

You finally looked up. “So what is he?”

“He’s Pietro’s friend,” she said quickly. “He’s in a few of my classes, we study together, that’s it. He’s not my boyfriend. I swear.”

Your lips twisted. “Didn’t look like ‘just a friend’ when he had his arm around you.”

Wanda stepped closer, wringing her hands. “He’s like that with everyone. He’s a flirt. But I didn’t realize how it would look—I didn’t even know you’d be there.”

“And if I hadn’t been?” you asked, bitter creeping in despite your best efforts. “Would you have laughed a little louder? Let him kiss you next?”

“No!” Her voice cracked. “God, no. I wouldn’t. I haven’t—I’m not with anyone. I haven’t been with anyone. Not since you.”

You stood then, unable to sit with all of it buzzing in your chest. “You left, Wanda. No text. No call. You just ghosted me like I meant nothing.”

“I didn’t know how to explain it,” she said, her voice wobbling. “You scared me. We scared me. You were older, smarter, so sure of what you wanted. I kept waiting for the moment you’d see how not enough I was and walk away, so I beat you to it.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came.

She looked up at you with wet eyes, her voice barely above a whisper now. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Every time I laughed too loud or stayed up too late, I wished it was with you. I still wear that stupid hoodie you left at my place.”

Your heart clenched at that. You remembered the hoodie. Gray, worn, still faintly smelled like your body wash the last time she wore it to bed.

“You don’t get to come in here and say all this like it didn’t hurt,” you whispered. “Like you didn’t shatter me.”

“I know,” Wanda said, taking a step closer. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. Just… a chance. To make things right. Even if it takes time. Even if we just talk. Even if you never let me touch you again. I just… I miss you.”

You stayed silent for a long moment. Watching her. Measuring her sincerity. Feeling the old ache mix with something even more dangerous—hope.

“Start by sitting down,” you said finally. “We’ll talk.”

And she did—quietly, carefully. Like she knew what was at stake.

Flashback

Two years ago – Your Apartment

The room was quiet, lit only by the soft flicker of a candle on your nightstand and the muted glow from the city beyond the window. It was past midnight. Neither of you had class the next day, and time had stretched lazy and warm between tangled limbs and shared whispers.

Wanda lay curled into your side, her head resting on your chest, her fingers lazily tracing shapes over the fabric of your hoodie—the one she always stole when she stayed over. The sleeves were too long for her, so she rolled them up, always pushing them to her elbows like a child in borrowed clothes.

You glanced down at her. “You know that’s mine, right?”

“Mhm,” she hummed. “It smells like you.”

“I do have a drawer here, you know. Full of your clothes.”

She smirked sleepily. “This one’s better. It’s like wearing you.”

You reached down, brushing your fingertips through her hair. “You’re unbelievably sappy when you’re tired.”

Wanda nuzzled closer, her voice muffled. “And you love it.”

God, you did.

A long pause settled. Her fingers kept moving, slow and repetitive, almost like she was working up to something.

“I get scared sometimes,” she murmured.

You frowned softly, instinctively holding her a little tighter. “Of what?”

Her voice was even quieter now. “That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m just a stupid, confused girl who has no idea what she’s doing—and that you deserve someone older, someone less messy.”

Your chest tightened. “Wanda…”

She looked up at you then, eyes glossy with the kind of vulnerability she rarely showed in daylight.

“I’ve never felt this way before. And it’s amazing, but it’s also terrifying. You’re this… fully-formed person. You have a career. You read Russian literature for fun,” she half-laughed. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just playing dress-up in your world.”

You cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye.

“You’re not playing at anything,” you said softly. “You belong here—with me. I don’t care if you’re still figuring things out. I want all of it. The messy parts, the unsure parts. Just… stay.”

She leaned into your touch, closing her eyes like your words had physically settled something inside her.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be brave enough,” she whispered.

You kissed her forehead, not knowing then how prophetic her words would be.

“I’ll be brave enough for both of us,” you promised.

But sometimes promises aren’t enough.

Present Day

The silence after the flashback was deafening. You blinked, trying to shove the memory back into the place you’d buried it.

Wanda sat in the chair across from your desk, hands folded in her lap, her knees bouncing slightly like she was trying not to fall apart.

You leaned back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, a shaky breath caught in your throat.

“You remember that night?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “The one where you wore my hoodie and told me you were scared?”

She looked up at you slowly. “Of course I remember.”

“I meant it, you know,” you continued, your gaze fixed just past her, like looking at her too long would crack something open. “When I told you I’d be brave enough for both of us. I wasn’t just saying it.”

“I know.” Her voice wavered. “You always meant what you said. That’s what made it so hard to leave.”

You finally looked at her again. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she wasn’t crying. Not yet.

“You could’ve told me,” you said. “You could’ve said anything. Instead, you left me to wake up and wonder what I did wrong.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I kept checking my phone like an idiot. I thought you got hurt, Wanda. Or maybe you changed your mind and just… didn’t know how to say it.”

“I didn’t,” she said quickly. “I didn’t change my mind. I was just… so afraid of getting more attached. Of being too much. Or not enough. And the closer we got, the louder that voice in my head got. So I ran.”

You sat there for a long moment, staring at the girl—no, the woman—in front of you. Still young, still haunted by the same fears. But older now. And maybe just a little braver.

“Are you here because you want to try again?” you asked, finally. “Or because you feel guilty?”

Wanda didn’t flinch. “I’m here because I never stopped loving you. I just didn’t know how to carry it until now.”

That broke something in you. Not enough to forgive—but enough to feel the warmth under the ashes.

You looked down at your hands.

“I don’t know if I can go through it again,” you admitted. “I don’t know if I can survive it a second time.”

She stood, slowly walking around the desk. She didn’t reach for you, just sat on the edge of your desk beside your chair, close enough to feel the heat of her.

“I’m not asking you to jump back into anything,” she said softly. “But maybe we could… talk. Sometimes. Outside of class. Just as… people.”

You tilted your head up to look at her.

Her expression was cautious hope—an open door, not a demand.

You nodded once. “Okay. We can talk.”

Wanda smiled—small, but real.

“Thank you.”

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

The sun had set, and the light from the lamps inside the quiet campus café cast a soft, intimate glow over the tables. The atmosphere was hushed, the usual hum of students talking and sipping coffee toned down as the day wound down. You sat at a corner table with your papers spread out in front of you, carefully marking through the essays while Wanda sat across from you, a book she wasn’t really reading open in front of her.

You noticed her glancing at you every now and then, as if searching for the right words, but you stayed focused on the papers in front of you—pretending you didn’t feel the weight of her attention, pretending it didn’t make your heart race.

“I was thinking about what you said earlier,” Wanda said, breaking the silence. “About how you always knew you’d have to be brave enough for both of us.”

You looked up briefly, meeting her gaze. “I meant it,” you said quietly. “But bravery isn’t always enough. Sometimes, you need a little bit of everything. And I didn’t have it back then.”

“I get it.” Her voice was soft, almost too gentle, like she was handling a fragile thing between you two.

You sighed, shifting in your seat. “You didn’t need to leave, Wanda. We could’ve figured it out together. You didn’t have to walk away.”

“I know,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. “But I was scared. And scared people don’t make the best decisions.”

A long silence hung between you, broken only by the clink of silverware on plates and distant chatter from other students. The weight of the unspoken—of everything still left between you both—made your stomach twist.

Then, without warning, a shadow loomed over your table.

“Wanda, darling, I wasn’t sure if you were planning on joining us for dinner, or if I’d need to drag you away from studying here,” a deep voice with a British lithe cut through the air, dripping with familiarity.

You looked up and saw Vision standing above the table, wearing a half-smile and a casual but immaculate shirt, his arm reaching for Wanda’s chair as he leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek.

It was a quick, soft gesture, but it was enough. Your heart clenched before you could stop it, and you found yourself taking a sharp breath, unable to look away.

Wanda turned her head slightly, her gaze softening. "Vis," she said, her voice warm with affection.

“I thought you might be here,” he said smoothly, before turning his gaze to you. “Professor.”

The polite acknowledgment stung more than it should have.

You forced a smile, nodding in greeting, but inside you felt the cold weight of jealousy settle like a stone in your chest. The ease between them, the way Wanda’s expression softened in his presence—it was a familiar dynamic you’d seen before, but somehow it was different now. Harder.

Wanda caught the shift in your demeanor immediately, her brow furrowing. “You’re still grading papers?” she asked, her voice softer now, apologetic.

You waved her off. “I’m fine. Just finishing up.” You tried to sound unaffected, but it came out strained.

Vis looked at you, taking the opportunity to lean down and pull Wanda up gently. “We were going to grab dinner,” he said, his tone friendly but final, as though his presence was the polite end to their conversation. “Don’t let me interrupt, though.”

Wanda looked at you, uncertainty flickering across her face, but before she could say anything, Vis placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the exit.

“Thank you for the coffee, Professor,” Wanda said over her shoulder as she followed him, her voice small, almost like she wasn’t sure how to balance these worlds anymore.

You watched them walk away, your chest tight, the words stuck behind the sudden ache of it all.

“Professor,” Vis had called you. That wasn’t you anymore, not in her eyes. And you couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever be.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

The knock came at your door just as you were finishing your dinner, the quiet hum of the city settling outside. You didn’t have to look through the peephole to know who it was. You hadn’t expected her to come tonight, but there she was. You didn’t know if you were relieved or angry.

You let out a sharp breath, standing up from the table, not bothering to adjust anything. You didn’t care if she saw how rattled you were. You swung the door open before she could knock again.

Wanda stood there, looking like she didn’t know whether to smile or frown. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, her jacket zipped up, hands tucked into the pockets. She looked like she was still figuring out how to approach this, how to fix things that might’ve been unfixable. But the sadness in her eyes made your heart ache despite the storm inside.

"Can we talk?" she asked, her voice quiet, unsure. "Please."

You stared at her for a long moment, biting your lip to keep your temper in check.

“I don't know why you think we need to,” you said coldly, your hands gripping the doorframe as you kept yourself steady. “You made your choice, Wanda. You made it clear a long time ago.”

Her lips trembled, and you saw the way she seemed to recoil, but she didn’t step back.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “I was—”

“Stop,” you interrupted, stepping back to let her in, not because you wanted her there, but because you needed to say what you’d been holding back for so long. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean to hurt me, Wanda. You didn’t just hurt me, you shattered me.”

Wanda’s face fell, and she took a careful step inside, looking at you like she was afraid of your next words. You both stood there for a moment, a chasm of years between you now.

“Why did you leave?” you asked, your voice tight, almost strangled with the emotion you’d been trying to keep in check. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were scared? You could’ve come to me. We could’ve figured it out, but instead, you ran. And you left me, Wanda.”

She flinched as if the words physically struck her, but she didn’t step back. She only stared at you, searching your face as if she could find the right words to undo the damage.

“You didn’t care about what you left behind, did you? About how I was just left to pick up the pieces of something I thought I knew. I waited for you to come back, waited for a sign, for an explanation… and then I saw you with him, with Vis, and it was like you were never mine to begin with.”

Wanda opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. She was looking at you now with so much pain in her eyes that it made your chest tighten.

"You don’t get to do this to me, Wanda!" you snapped suddenly, the anger finally spilling over. You turned toward your bedroom, hands shaking as you stormed inside, your heart racing as the pain hit full force. You walked straight to the dresser and yanked open the drawer. Her clothes were still there—just as they had been, untouched, left behind as though nothing had changed.

You grabbed a handful of her clothes and stormed back to the living room, throwing them in her direction in frustration.

“You can't act like you want to fix this,” you shouted, voice raw with rage. “And then have him come in, sweeping you off your fucking feet right in front of me!”

Wanda flinched, the pile of clothes falling to the floor between you both. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she took a tentative step forward, but you took another step back, feeling the walls closing in around you.

“Wands…” you whispered, your voice breaking as you realized the depth of your own anger, of the heartbreak you’d kept buried for so long.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Wanda said, her voice trembling as she fought back the tears. “But I was scared, and I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“Fix it?” you snapped, your breath shaky. “You don’t get to fix it by pretending like you didn’t just turn your back on me for him! He’s standing there, and you’re letting him take my place! You can’t just walk back in and pretend everything’s fine!”

She closed her eyes, as if trying to absorb the weight of your words. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm sorry for all of it."

But the damage was done. You felt the years of pain, the distance, all the heartbreak you had carried alone. And no apology felt like it was ever going to be enough.

With a final glance at her, you walked to the door, your throat tight with emotions you couldn’t control anymore.

“I need you to leave,” you said, your voice steady, though the tears you refused to shed were burning behind your eyes.

Wanda stood there, her gaze filled with regret. But you didn’t want to see that anymore—not tonight. You couldn’t handle it.

She nodded, backing away slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. But you couldn’t hold it together anymore. The door slammed shut behind her, and you collapsed on the couch, breathing hard, heart heavy, feeling the absence of her presence like a gaping wound in your chest.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

The days since Wanda left you had been a blur. You’d kept your distance from her, not out of cruelty but because you didn’t know how to feel anymore. She had become a presence you avoided, a phantom of your past. Every time she walked into your classroom, you’d force yourself to focus on the papers, the lesson, anything but her eyes that seemed to haunt you. You graded her assignments as fairly as you could, making sure to keep your interactions professional, keeping the space between you both as wide as possible.

You'd leave as soon as the class ended, the quiet buzz of students gathering their things nothing more than background noise as you hurried out. But today was different.

The knock at your door startled you, coming so suddenly, so urgently. You weren’t expecting anyone, let alone Wanda. Your heart skipped a beat, nerves and adrenaline stirring together.

You opened the door, expecting to see a normal version of her—the Wanda you had been seeing in class lately, still trying to maintain some kind of distant civility. But the sight that greeted you made your blood run cold.

Wanda stood in front of you, her face a mess. There was a bruise around her left eye, a swollen lip, and tear stains that had streaked down her cheeks. Her posture was crumpled, as though she was physically carrying the weight of whatever had happened.

"Wanda..." The nickname slipped out before you could stop it, a soft, aching sound. You didn’t even think before you pulled her inside, your hands shaky as you guided her to the couch. The door clicked shut behind you, and she sat there, still trembling.

Her voice cracked when she spoke, each word heavy with the emotions she could no longer hold back.

"I… I broke up with Vis..." she stuttered, her hands wringing together in her lap. "I wasn't happy… I wasn't happy with him." Her voice trembled so violently, it was as if she were trying to hold herself together by sheer force of will, but everything was falling apart around her.

You stood there, staring at her, completely at a loss for what to say. Your mind was racing, processing the words that were barely registering. The woman who had walked away from you, who had left you shattered and broken, was standing here, a mess of pain and regret.

"What happened, Wanda?" Your voice was soft, almost cautious. You didn’t know if you could handle what she was about to say, but she needed someone to listen.

Her lip quivered, and she pressed her hands against her face, trying to steady herself. “It was never… it was never right with him. I thought I could make it work, but I couldn’t. Not after…” She broke off, unable to finish the thought, tears slipping down her cheeks again. “Not after how I left you. After how I hurt you. I—God, I was so stupid. I don’t even know what the hell I was thinking."

The pain in her voice hit you like a physical force, and for a moment, you could almost forget the pain she'd caused you. You could almost forget the jagged edges of the life you’d tried to rebuild without her.

But the truth of it all—the way she left, the way she tried to just walk away from everything you had together—still felt like a wound you hadn’t had the chance to fully heal. And now, here she was, looking like she had been broken open in the exact same way you had been.

You exhaled sharply, your gaze softening despite everything.

“I’m not gonna pretend like I’m fine, Wanda,” you murmured. “You can’t just walk back in here and expect everything to be alright. You can’t undo what you did, what we went through.”

She nodded, wiping at her eyes desperately, her body wracked with sobs that she couldn’t control. "I know... I know I can't. But please, I don't know where else to go. I don’t know what to do. I—"

You cut her off gently, sitting next to her on the couch. You weren’t sure why you were still trying to comfort her after everything, but you couldn’t leave her like this. Not when she looked so lost, so broken. Maybe you weren’t ready to forgive her, not yet. But right now, she wasn’t the same woman who had walked out the door.

You watched Wanda closely as she sat on your couch, the tremors in her hands still visible despite the fact that she was trying to regain some composure. She was a mess—physically and emotionally—but you could tell she was fighting to keep it together. Your heart twisted at the sight of her, the woman you once loved, broken and bruised, and it took everything in you not to pull her into your arms. But this wasn’t just a physical injury. There were deeper wounds that needed tending to, wounds that couldn’t be healed by comfort alone.

Her swollen lip was an obvious sign of the violence she had just endured, but there was more to it. The bruise on her eye was darkening, and you could see the subtle way her body stiffened whenever she moved, as though she were bracing for more hurt.

"Do you want to talk to campus police about this?" you asked softly, your voice calm and measured, though you could feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface at the thought of someone hurting her.

Wanda shook her head immediately, a quick, desperate motion. "No. No, I don’t want anyone to know. Please… please don’t make me go through that." She wiped her eyes again, the shame and fear in her gaze only deepening.

You nodded, swallowing the urge to scream. You knew Wanda was stubborn, but you could see how much this hurt her—how much Vis had hurt her. You weren’t going to push her into something she wasn’t ready for. But you weren’t going to let her walk out of here like this either.

"Alright," you said quietly, your voice softening even further. You stepped closer to her, your hands trembling slightly as you gently cupped her chin. "Stay still so I can fix your lip, sweetie." The word slipped out without thinking, and you instantly regretted it, but the way her eyes softened at the nickname made your heart ache.

She let out a shaky breath, nodding as her face crumpled into a new wave of emotion. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I—I just wanted to fix everything and I... I messed it up."

You took a deep breath, not wanting to let your own emotions overwhelm you. This wasn’t about you right now. It was about Wanda, and she needed you. You reached for a small first aid kit that you kept in the kitchen, moving quickly but carefully, your hands steadying as you returned to her side.

"Let me help you, Wanda," you said gently as you worked on cleaning up the cut on her lip. "You don't need to apologize for needing help. You never have."

She winced slightly as you dabbed a cotton swab against her swollen lip, but she didn't pull away. You worked silently for a moment, the tension between you thick, neither of you daring to speak too much. You couldn’t say anything that would make the situation right; all you could do was help her heal.

When the pain in her lip seemed to ease, you glanced up at her, your eyes meeting hers. "Vis… he did this?" You had to ask. There was so much anger inside you at the thought of him putting his hands on her.

Wanda nodded slowly, her breath shaky. "I didn’t see it coming. It wasn’t the first time he got upset, but… I didn’t think he’d actually hurt me." She winced, looking down, her voice barely a whisper. "I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I could make it work with him, but I couldn’t."

You paused for a moment, your hands stilling as you looked at her. "You didn’t deserve that, Wanda," you said firmly, your voice low but clear. "No one deserves to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone."

Her eyes welled with tears again, and she quickly wiped them away, embarrassed by how weak she felt. "I just… I just wanted to fix everything, to make it right, but I made so many mistakes. I hurt you and I hurt myself…"

You finished with her lip and sat back, taking her hands gently in yours. "You can’t fix everything in one go, Wanda," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "But right now, you don’t have to do this alone. You’re here with me, and I’m not going anywhere."

She sniffled, looking up at you with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. "I don’t know what I’m doing anymore," she admitted, her voice small and broken. "I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel like I lost myself."

You squeezed her hands, your eyes softening. "It’s okay to be lost sometimes," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "It’s okay to not have all the answers. But I’m here, and we’ll figure this out. Together."

Wanda let out a shuddering breath, and for the first time since she’d walked through the door, she didn’t look like she was about to crumble under the weight of everything. She looked like—maybe for the first time—she was allowing herself to feel safe, even if only for a moment.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you."

"Yes, you do," you said, your thumb gently brushing across her hand. "You deserve peace. You deserve to feel loved, to feel safe."

You both stayed like that for a while, the room quiet except for her occasional sniffles, the weight of everything hanging in the air. You weren’t sure where this was going, or what you were supposed to do next. But you knew one thing for certain—you couldn’t just let her go. Not now. Not when she needed you, even if she wasn’t sure of it herself.

You helped Wanda move toward the small bathroom you kept tucked away in your apartment, not sure if you should offer any further assistance or just let her have the space she needed. The air between you was thick with unspoken things, but for now, you just let her move in the silence, letting her take the lead.

But when she passed you to rummage through your drawers, you couldn't help but watch. You had a fleeting moment where everything seemed to freeze—the familiar way she moved around your room, as if she still knew it all so well. It was hard not to feel a pang of something, a quiet ache in your chest, seeing her searching through your things with such familiarity. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to make you realize how much you missed this, missed her.

She reached for the same old sweatshirt of yours, the gray one you never quite got rid of, its edges frayed and the fabric thinning. You didn't even think about it anymore; you just let her take what she wanted, because that’s what she always did. That’s what you always let her do.

"I want these," she said, her voice a little cracked, and for the briefest second, it felt like nothing had changed. You smiled softly, trying to push down the hurt, the sharp edges of memories that still lingered.

"Of course you want to steal my clothes, what else is new?" you chuckled, your voice carrying the smallest bit of warmth despite everything. You needed this. You needed to pretend, just for tonight, that things were okay again.

But as you helped her out of the clothes she had been wearing, your smile faltered. The more you uncovered, the more you realized how deeply he’d hurt her. Your fingers trembled when you gently brushed the hem of her shirt over her shoulders, revealing the bruises across her arms and back. The sight of them made your stomach lurch, your chest tightening, the anger you’d felt earlier rushing back, threatening to spill over.

Wanda winced as you helped her remove the fabric that had been pressed against the tender areas. "It’s fine," she whispered, trying to reassure you, but you could see the strain in her eyes, the subtle way her breath hitched.

Your heart clenched in your chest as you took a deep breath, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Wanda… Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice was tight, a whisper of disbelief and frustration.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she answered softly, almost like she was ashamed, and it nearly broke you. “I didn’t want you to look at me and think I’m just weak.”

You shook your head fiercely, refusing to let the words she had spoken sink in. You were so angry you couldn’t speak for a moment, just looking at the bruises that marked her body, the way they stained her skin, leaving their proof behind. "You are not weak, Wanda," you finally said, your words coming out too harsh, too fast. "And you don’t have to hide from me. I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? I am not going anywhere."

She met your eyes then, and for the first time since she had entered your apartment, you saw a flicker of something in her gaze—a glimmer of relief, of gratitude. "I just… I was trying to hold it all in. I thought if I could just push through… maybe it would get better."

You helped her into your old sweatshirt, tugging the sleeves up over her hands like you used to, tucking the fabric around her like it was your way of protecting her, even when you couldn’t protect her from him. “I know you, Wanda. You don’t have to keep pushing through alone,” you said softly as you pulled her close again, this time not thinking twice about it.

And for a moment, just a moment, you both stood there, wrapped up in the warmth of that simple gesture. You were still mad, you still felt all the things you hadn’t been able to express—but you would help her, like you always had.

She let out a shaky breath as she finally leaned against you, the weight of everything seeming to catch up with her. You weren’t sure what came next, but you didn’t care. Not tonight. Tonight, you could hold her, help her heal, even if it was just for now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice small, vulnerable. "For everything."

You didn’t have the words to tell her how much you hurt, how much you missed her, but you just nodded, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. You didn’t need her to apologize anymore. You didn’t need anything except for her to feel safe again. "It’s okay," you whispered back, more to yourself than to her. "We’ll figure this out. Just... rest now, okay?"

You stayed with her for as long as she needed, helping her the way you once did. There was no way to fix everything in one night, no way to heal the broken parts of her heart that Vis had left behind. But you could help her through this moment, and that was all that mattered.

The weight of Wanda in your arms felt natural, like the most instinctual thing in the world. She curled into you, her body fitting perfectly against yours, as if she hadn’t left at all. It was a strange, bittersweet comfort. You had missed her—more than you were willing to admit—and as she settled in, her breath warm against your chest, you let yourself sink into it. The quiet hum of the room, the soft glow of the string lights, was like a fleeting moment of peace, a brief pause in the chaos of everything that had come before.

Her fingers found your arm, and before you could even register what she was doing, you felt the familiar pressure of her touch. The soft, almost absent-minded tracing that always made you feel like she was trying to speak without words. It was her own kind of poetry, the way she let her fingers dance along your skin like she used to, crafting silent verses of connection, of memories too deep to articulate. The feeling of her fingertips moving in such a familiar rhythm, tracing the same lines she’d traced so many times before, tugged at your heartstrings in a way you didn’t know you still had the capacity for.

You stayed still, not wanting to disturb her, but also wanting to feel every inch of her—the way she fit against you, the way she held on just a little too tightly. Your fingers moved almost reflexively to rest on her back, your hand splayed against her spine as if you were trying to memorize the sensation of her, trying to hold onto her in a way that felt like it could last.

She sighed softly, her breath warm against your chest, the sound of it gentle and full of unspoken emotion. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your mind racing with all the things you still wanted to say, but the silence between you felt more right than anything else.

You could feel her body relaxing against you, the tension of the day slowly melting away in the safe confines of your embrace. It was familiar, comforting, and yet it was a reminder of everything that had happened—the love, the hurt, the distance between you two that had taken so long to build up.

Her fingers paused for a moment, and you held your breath, wondering if she was going to speak, but she didn’t. Instead, she pressed her head against your chest a little more firmly, the weight of it making your heart ache.

“I missed this,” she whispered, the words so quiet that you almost didn’t hear them. "I missed you."

Your chest tightened. You wanted to say so many things—ask why she left, why she hadn’t come back sooner, why she thought she could fix things with someone else when you had always been here. But you didn’t. You didn’t want to ruin this moment, the softness of her voice, the way she held onto you like she hadn’t wanted to let go.

Instead, you tightened your hold on her, just enough to remind her that you were still here. "I missed you too, Wanda," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "But you can't keep doing this to yourself."

Her fingers resumed their delicate tracing on your skin, almost like she was trying to say something else, something she couldn’t quite find the words for.

You let her, silently begging the universe to give you both the time and space to heal, to fix what had been broken between you. For now, it was just the two of you, tangled in memories and hope, tracing the invisible threads that still connected you.

It didn’t take long for your hand to find her hair.

Your fingers moved slowly, slipping into those auburn strands that still smelled faintly like her favorite shampoo—lavender and vanilla, sweet and soft. She let out a tiny noise, the kind that used to make you smile into her neck during quiet mornings. Now it cut through you, delicate and wounded. A small, contented sigh slipped from her lips, followed by a sound almost like a purr—soft, kitten-like, aching with familiarity.

She was melting under your touch, her bruises forgotten for the moment as you gently scratched her scalp, each movement careful, feather-light, like she might break if you pressed too hard. You used to touch her like this after long days, when she’d curl into you exhausted, mumbling about classes or stress or nothing at all.

And then suddenly—

Flashback

You were sitting on your couch, the end of a long week pressing into your bones. Papers were spread out on the coffee table, your red pen abandoned somewhere under a pile of essays. Wanda was curled up at the opposite end, legs stretched across your lap, head tipped over the arm of the couch as she flipped through a poetry book you’d recommended to her weeks ago.

“You always smell like paper and coffee,” she said without looking up.

“And you always smell like lavender,” you’d teased, nudging her ankle.

She turned the page with a slow finger. “Is that why you always put your face in my hair like a weirdo?”

“Maybe.”

She grinned, closing the book and tossing it onto the table with a soft thump. “Come here.”

You didn’t need asking twice. You shifted and pulled her fully into your arms, letting her settle against you. Her fingers found the collar of your sweater, playing absently with the edge. You’d buried your face in her hair then, breathing her in.

“I like it when you touch my hair,” she whispered. “Makes me feel like you’re painting something soft into me.”

You’d kissed the top of her head. “That’s because I am.”

Present

Your throat tightened as the memory faded, replaced with the weight of Wanda’s bruised cheek against your chest. She hadn’t said anything else, but her body did. The way she leaned into you, the way her fingers had stilled their tracing so she could hold you tighter—it was her way of saying she remembered too.

Your hand moved gently, slowly, giving her the only comfort you could right now. You didn’t know where things would go from here. You didn’t know if healing was even possible.

But in this moment, she was safe. In your arms. Wrapped in your sweatshirt. Breathing softly like she used to.

And maybe—for tonight—that was enough.

You're warm beneath the covers, body heavy with sleep but mind still caught somewhere in the quiet in-between. Wanda's breath is soft against your skin, your fingers still gently tangled in her hair though they’ve gone still, resting rather than caressing now.

Your eyes are closed, too close to sleep to reopen them.

Then you feel it—

The lightest press of lips against your chest, right over your heart. A flutter, like a memory brought to life.

You don't move. You barely breathe.

She shifts slightly against you, and for a moment you think this is it—that she’s about to pull away like she did once before. That she’ll slip out of your bed and out of your life all over again.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, her body curls tighter around you, seeking your warmth like a habit she never truly broke. Her lips press into your neck next, slower this time. Lingering. Gentle. Familiar.

Then you hear it.

Barely more than a whisper. Mumbled into your skin like a secret she can’t bear to speak too loudly.

"You still smell like paper and coffee..."

A pause, her breath warm where her words settle into your skin.

"...My favorite scents."

Your heart stutters.

You don’t answer—can’t, not really—but your hand finds her hair again, burying itself there like it never forgot the shape of her.

You hold her just a little tighter.

Because maybe… just maybe… she means it this time.

You shift with care, slow and deliberate, like the wrong move might break the fragile peace settling over the two of you.

Your body turns just enough to face her more fully, your arm pulling her close—closer than before. She lets you, melting against your chest with a quiet sigh like she’s been waiting for this, needing it just as much.

Your lips find the crown of her head, pressing there like a seal, and you breathe her in.

Lavender. Warm skin. Her.

“Lavender was always my favorite…” you murmur, your voice hushed and low, almost lost in the quiet hum of the night.

You feel her hand curl gently into your shirt, her fingertips clutching at you like she’s anchoring herself there. The same way she used to when her world felt too big.

Your next words catch in your throat. They feel too raw. Too real. But they press forward anyway, trembling as they fall from your lips.

“I can’t lose you again, Wands…”

The silence that follows is thick, aching. Your heart pounds against her chest, a nervous rhythm. You don’t know what you expect—reassurance, distance, silence.

But then you feel her nod.

Just once. Tiny. Barely there.

Then her arm around your waist tightens, holding you like a lifeline, like she heard every broken thing beneath your voice and accepted it as her own.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers. “Not this time.”

And just like that, the crack inside you begins to mend. Not healed. Not yet.

But maybe, finally, beginning.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

Morning sunlight spills through the curtains, golden and soft, painting everything in quiet stillness. The room smells like warmth—linen and lavender and something faintly nostalgic. For a while, you’d just watched her sleep, her features soft and peaceful in a way they hadn't been in a long time.

But now, she’s in front of the mirror, silent as she dabs concealer over the bruise near her eye. Her motions are methodical, but not without a tremble.

You’re behind her, pulling on a cardigan over the tank top you slept in, watching her with an ache in your chest. She’s too practiced at this. Too quick.

You step forward slowly, offering your hand.

“Let me help.”

She hesitates but nods, and you take the small makeup sponge from her fingers, gentle as you touch it to her skin. The quiet between you is close—tense, but intimate. You smooth the edge of the concealer, your free hand feather-light beneath her jaw to steady her.

“Are you sure you don’t—”

“Don’t.”

It cuts through the room. Not loud. Not cruel. Just... final.

You freeze, hand still hovering near her cheek.

Wanda meets your gaze in the mirror. Her eyes are tired. Sad. But not cold.

“I know you want to help,” she says, voice quieter now. “But if I say it out loud, it’s real. And right now, I just... I can’t.”

You nod slowly, swallowing hard as you lower your hand.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay, Wands.”

She gives you a soft, grateful look and then turns slightly, her fingertips brushing your wrist before she leans into your touch. And you let her. You hold her there, gently, like she’s made of glass.

She wears your sweatshirt still. And she smells like lavender.

The moment stretches, soft and slow, like the air between you both is wrapped in wool—muted, warm, heavy with everything unspoken. Wanda doesn't pull away right away. She lingers against your hand for just a second longer, then turns and brushes her knuckles along your arm before heading to the kitchen without a word.

You follow her, your socked feet quiet against the worn hardwood floors.

She moves like she remembers where everything is. Opens the right drawer without looking. Reaches for the mug she always used—white with a chipped corner near the handle. You never had the heart to throw it out.

You take it from her gently.

“I’ll make it.”

She nods and steps back, leaning against the counter as you set about it, pulling the grounds from the same tin, filling the kettle to the same line. The routine calms you—your hands know the motions even if your heart is unsteady.

Wanda watches you.

You feel it before you see it—those green eyes trailing your every step, a silent hunger behind them that has nothing to do with caffeine. But she says nothing. Just lets the moment wrap around the both of you like fog.

When you hand her the cup, she smiles. It’s small. The same soft-lipped smile she used to give you in the mornings, when your bed was still warm and her hair still smelled like your shampoo.

“Still make it perfect,” she murmurs, fingers curling around the warmth of the mug.

You shrug lightly, trying not to let it hit you too hard. “Muscle memory.”

She doesn’t reply, just sips and closes her eyes. You sit down across from her at the little table by the window—two chairs, still. Hers never moved.

Breakfast is simple. Toast. Fruit. You crack two eggs into a pan without asking. She doesn’t stop you.

There’s a quiet domesticity to it. Comfortable. Dangerous.

You let yourself enjoy it for just a little longer than you should.

When she’s rinsing her dish, setting it in the sink like she always used to, she hesitates. You watch her from the table, her back to you, her hand resting on the counter like she’s holding herself in place.

“I should go,” she says softly. “If anyone saw me come in... or leave... it’s too soon.”

You nod even though she can’t see you.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’re right.”

She doesn’t move right away. Then turns and looks at you, hesitant, like she wants to say something but isn’t sure you’ll be able to take it.

You don’t press.

Instead, you stand and walk her to the door, both pretending this is just polite, that it doesn’t ache.

She opens the door. Hesitates.

Then, so quietly it might not even be real: “Thank you.”

And then she’s gone, hoodie pulled up, slipping into the morning like smoke.

You're left standing in the doorway, her coffee mug still warm in your hand.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

The sun had climbed higher by the time you made your way across campus, but the chill in the air hadn’t quite given up its grip. You wrapped your coat a little tighter around yourself, the warmth of the morning already fading in more ways than one.

Your office hours were quiet. A few questions about an upcoming essay, a couple half-hearted discussions from students trying to secure some last-minute clarity before the next exam. But you weren't really present for any of it. Your mind was back at the apartment—her lips on your skin, her whispered scent-memory, the way her fingers had curled in your shirt like she was trying to anchor herself.

The ache in your chest hadn't left.

It was late afternoon when you saw her.

You were crossing the quad, papers tucked under your arm, heading for the faculty building when you spotted Wanda sitting on one of the stone benches tucked under the trees near the library. Hood up. Backpack at her feet. She was watching the fountain in front of her but not really seeing it.

Your breath caught, and you almost kept walking.

But then she turned slightly, and even from the distance, you could see it—the way her shoulders slumped, how her arms were wrapped around herself like armor.

You adjusted course.

“Hey,” you said softly as you approached.

She looked up. Her lips parted for a moment like she hadn’t expected to see you—like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to—but then her mouth pulled into the faintest shape of relief.

“Hey,” she echoed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. You saw the edge of the bruise still lingering on her cheek despite the makeup. Your jaw clenched.

“Mind if I sit?”

She shook her head, scooting over just enough. You lowered yourself beside her, close enough for warmth but not too close. Not yet.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The campus noise buzzed around you—students on bikes, snippets of conversation, the fountain’s trickling water.

“Was it bad today?” you finally asked, careful.

She nodded slowly. “People looked. I think someone knows.”

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye. “You don’t have to come to class if it’s too much, Wanda.”

She turned toward you fully. “I want to. I want to prove I can do this. That I’m not… that he didn’t…” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, jaw tight.

You didn’t push. Instead, you reached out, your fingers grazing her knee gently—grounding.

“Okay,” you murmured. “I just wanted you to know you have the choice.”

She looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze.

Then: “Would you walk with me to the library?”

Your brows lifted slightly, surprised by the request.

“You’re not worried someone will see?”

She gave a faint shrug, pulling her sleeves over her hands. “Let them.”

And for once, you didn’t overthink it. You just nodded and stood, and when she fell into step beside you, a little closer than necessary, you didn’t move away.

✮📓✐𖦹˖⋆

She came back like gravity.

You weren’t expecting the knock, not really—but part of you had been listening for it all evening. The moment you opened the door, she was there, wrapping herself around you like she'd never left. Arms around your shoulders, her face tucked into the crook of your neck.

No hesitation. No words.

Just need.

Your arms found her waist automatically, pulling her in—not too tight, not enough to risk pressing into anything still sore. But firm enough that she’d feel it. That she’d know you were there. She exhaled shakily against your skin.

And then you did what you always used to do.

You picked her up.

A startled little squeak slipped from her lips as you lifted her into your arms, and she blinked at you in surprise—but there was no protest, no retreat. Only a soft look in her eyes and a hand gripping the fabric at your shoulder.

You carried her straight to the bathroom.

The light was warm and soft, golden like late afternoon even though the sun had already gone. You set her down with practiced care, then reached for the faucet, adjusting the temperature until it was just right. The bubble bath you used to buy for her—lavender and eucalyptus—still sat on the edge of the tub, the bottle untouched but not thrown away. You poured it in.

She said nothing as you helped her out of her hoodie and shorts, letting the fabric fall silently to the tile. She stood quietly, arms across her chest—not hiding, just watching you with those eyes that still made your heart ache and swell all at once.

You undressed too, but slower, letting her see each familiar motion.

When the bath was full and foaming, you stepped in first, sitting back against the curve of the tub. Then you reached out a hand. She took it.

Wanda sank into the water between your legs, back pressing to your chest, her soft sigh barely audible over the sound of water lapping against porcelain. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her in—close, but gentle. Her head rested against your shoulder, your cheek brushing the crown of her damp hair.

It was intimate. But not sexual.

It was sacred.

You let your hands roam gently over her arms, over her ribs. Over bruises she didn’t want to talk about yet. And when she shivered, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of her head.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing that needed to be said just yet.

Just the steady rhythm of breath. The warm water. The weight of her in your arms. The safety in silence.

The sheets smelled the same.

That was the first thing Wanda said, whispered almost inaudibly against your collarbone as she curled in beside you beneath the covers. You didn’t answer at first—just ran your fingers slowly through her damp hair, the soft strands catching against your knuckles. She was lying half on top of you, leg draped over your thigh, her hand resting flat against your stomach like she needed to anchor herself.

She hadn’t spoken much after the bath. She didn’t need to. The way she clung to you, the way her fingers lingered on your skin, the way she curled closer every time you breathed in—it all said enough.

You turned your head slightly, lips brushing the top of her hair. “You okay?”

A nod. Then, after a long pause, a breathy, “I missed this.”

You swallowed.

So had you.

Your hand came to rest on her back, your thumb tracing the slope of her spine under the oversized sweatshirt she still wore. The same one she’d stolen countless times before. The one she said made her feel safe.

“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered suddenly. Not broken, not begging. Just truth, bare and quiet.

You closed your eyes for a moment.

“Wanda…” Her name left you like a prayer.

She lifted her head then, leaning on her elbow as she looked down at you in the dim light. Her hair framed her face, still a little damp, still wild from your pillow. Her lip was healing, but split enough that her smile was crooked.

“I know I messed up,” she murmured, “I know I ran. I thought—” She broke off, eyes dipping down to your chest. “I thought I had to. But I didn’t want to.”

Your hand came up to her face. Fingertips brushing her cheek, gentle along the bruise there. She leaned into your palm.

You didn’t mean to tilt forward. You didn’t plan the way your noses brushed or how your lips hovered just a breath apart.

But she didn’t move away.

And then you kissed her.

Soft. Barely there. But everything.

You felt her tremble—like the moment your lips met was the moment everything she’d been holding in finally melted. She sighed into your mouth, her fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt. She kissed you like she’d been starving for it, like she’d dreamed of it for the past two years. And you let her have it.

Slow. Tender. Deepening by degrees as you tilted her chin and let your lips part hers.

When you finally pulled away, foreheads pressed together, you whispered the words against her mouth.

“I love you too.”

She didn’t say anything right away.

She just breathed, a soft, shaky inhale that warmed your lips. Her forehead stayed pressed against yours, noses brushing in the space where your mouths had just been. Her hand was still curled in your shirt, her thumb rubbing slow, absent circles like she couldn’t stop touching you.

You watched her—eyes half-lidded, lashes damp at the tips, cheeks flushed with more than just leftover emotion. She looked like she had something to say, something she was still working up the nerve to give voice to.

You didn’t push her.

Your other hand had found her waist, holding her there. Not gripping, not demanding—just there. Present. Letting her feel you. Your pulse was loud in your ears, but beneath it all was a quiet calm. You had her here, in your arms again, and for the first time in so long, it didn’t feel like she’d disappear when the sun rose.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this again,” she whispered finally.

You felt your throat tighten, your fingers flexing gently at her side. “Neither did I.”

Wanda’s head shifted slightly, brushing her nose against your cheek before she nestled her face into the crook of your neck. She fit there like she never left. Like your body had waited, the same way your heart had.

You closed your eyes as her breath fanned across your skin. She was trembling again, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“I should’ve come back sooner,” she murmured. “I was scared. Of what I did. Of seeing you move on. Of not being worth another chance.”

You pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and lingering.

“I never stopped setting out the extra mug,” you said quietly. “Never stopped checking for your name on rosters. I think…I was always waiting.”

She exhaled shakily, her hand moving from your shirt to your chest, fingers splaying out like she could hold your heart through your skin.

“I wanna stay,” she said, voice muffled against your neck. “Not just tonight. Not just because I’m hurt. I wanna try again. I want to come home.”

You held her tighter, turning your head to press your lips to her hair.

“Then come home, baby.”

And in that soft, silver hour between heartbreak and healing, she finally did.

One Year Later

The morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting slow golden stripes across the hardwood floor. The quiet was broken only by the occasional soft thump of little paws as one of the cats—Fig and Fern, you’d named them—leapt up onto the kitchen counter despite knowing they weren’t supposed to.

“Fig,” you called gently without looking up from the coffee you were pouring. “Off.”

A lazy mrrp of defiance, but then the thud of a retreat. You smiled to yourself. The cats were as stubborn as their other mom.

Wanda padded in barefoot a moment later, wearing one of your sweatshirts again—this one new, not as ratty as the one she used to steal, though you still found that one balled up in her side of the closet. Her freshly-earned diploma was tucked neatly on the wall behind her, framed in walnut and pride.

“You made coffee,” she mumbled as she came over, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and resting her chin between your shoulder blades.

“You say that like I didn’t make it every morning for the past year,” you teased, turning slightly to press a kiss to her temple.

She shrugged, all sleepy smiles and affection. “Still nice.”

You set the mugs down on the table beside the little vase of sunflowers she’d brought home the day before and pulled her down to sit with you. Outside the wide kitchen window, the yard stretched out in spring green, the wind gently rustling the wind chimes she insisted on buying at that roadside market on your trip to Maine.

Wanda curled up into you as you sipped your coffee, her head resting on your shoulder, legs tangled with yours under the table.

“Did you think we’d get here?” she asked quietly.

You were quiet for a moment before answering. “Sometimes I did. Most of the time I was too scared to imagine it. But I always hoped.”

She looked up at you then, her eyes softer than anything the sun could paint.

“I’m glad you waited,” she said.

“I’d wait again,” you replied. “A hundred times over.”

Fern jumped up onto the table, brushing her tail over Wanda’s face and making her scrunch her nose. You both laughed as you shooed her down, then Wanda leaned in and kissed you—easy and slow, like morning, like forever.

Home wasn’t just the house. It never was.

It was the coffee.

It was the cats.

It was every quiet I love you whispered without needing to say the words.

It was her.

And now you had her. Always.

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

I’ve written you a couple times but can I be 🚀 anon :)

thinking abt sub!milf!wanda that’s a little inexperienced and repressed with a more sexually confident reader…

Yes, you can! Also I kinda got carried away with this one so enjoy!

I love this idea, Wanda being inexperienced because the only person she’s slept with was the father of her children and the sex with him wasn’t even good most of the time. She has no idea what it feels like to really be taken care of by someone else, until she meets you.

She’s so sweet and innocent when the two of you start sleeping together, she’s definitely not used to her partner wanting to please her so badly. She’s shy at first, her useless ex-husband never making her feel beautiful or desired during sex. You encourage her to let you see all of her and she blushes when you tell her she’s gorgeous everywhere.

What really gets her is the dirty talk. No one has ever spoken to her like that before and here you are, telling her what a pretty pussy she has and how badly you want her to cum in your mouth. You bring her to orgasm with your fingers first and she’s surprised when you want her to go again, barely having been given one orgasm by her ex, let alone two.

By the end of your first time together, Wanda has cum at least four times and she’s shocked that she’s the one stopping you from continuing, her oversensitive pussy begging for a break. She admits she’s never been taken care of like this and you promise to always make her feel good whenever she wants.

Wanda’s also super embarrassed about masturbation, despite having to do it so often in her marriage just to get off at all. When you catch her in the act one day, she’s blushing profusely and apologizing, wishing the ground beneath her would swallow her whole.

What she isn’t expecting, however, is for you to pull up a chair and tell her to keep going. “I- really?” She asks, blushing even more at the thought of you watching her. You nod, getting comfortable, and she hesitates at first. “Go on baby, touch your pretty pussy for me. Show me how to make you feel good.” Your words go straight to her core and despite how embarrassed she feels, she can’t deny that the whole thing is turning her on.

With shaky fingers, she obeys, rubbing circles over her clit while you watch, eyes glued to her wet center. “Fuck, you look so pretty like this,” you say breathily, giving her the confidence to pick up her pace and slide a finger inside. She fucks herself under your lustful gaze, her shyness dissipating with every thrust of her fingers. The wet sounds of her pussy make you moan and she comes undone at the sound, trembling as she arches off the bed.

You praise her after and tell her how good she was for you, then reward her with your mouth. You make her tell you what she was thinking about and heat flushes through her body when she responds. Describing her fantasies to you feels slightly humiliating but it only makes her wetter under your touch.

I’m up and barking for repressed milf!Wanda ❤️

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

The Darkhold

Summary: Ever wonder how Steve, Bucky, Thor, and Sam would take care of you after a breakup leaves you an uptight workaholic? If your answer is a secret underground brothel, you would be correct. Becoming the Darkhold's newest victim is the least of your worries when the most divine woman in the world is your reward.

Or

SexWorker Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Top!Reader, Bottom!Wanda, GN!Reader, Reader Has A Penis, Smut, Marking, Scarring, Knife Usage For Initiation Ritual, Underground Brothel, Sex Worker Wanda Maximoff, Sex Worker Natasha Romanov, Breeding, Multiple Orgasms, Glory Hole, Sex Club, Oral Sex, Safe Words, Unsafe Sex (wrap it up peeps), Drinking, Marvel AU (let me know if I missed any)

A/N: DO NOT COPY ANY OF MY WORKS! I WILL HAUNT YOU

Word Count: 4669

Read on AO3 here :)

“Bro you need to lighten up a little bit,” Bucky says as he grips both of your shoulders from behind. A heavy sigh leaves your body as you spin around in your office chair to face him.

“I can’t, Stark will have my head if these aren’t done by Friday,”

“I know- but that doesn’t mean you gotta go all Quasimodo on us and be stuck here all night,”

“What does that mean?”

“Shit, we really do gotta get you outta here,” Bucky looks over your shoulder and at the spreadsheets you had created for Mr. Stark.

“You are much further along on this report than Sam, Thor, or Steve. Come on, let’s go out tonight, and I promise we can all go into the meeting room tomorrow and collab,”

You turn to look back at the reports stacked high on your desk and the 33 unread email notification on your screen. You desperately want to say no, but you also know that being stuck here isn’t going to do you much good. With life going the way that it was, you decided to throw yourself into work to distract yourself. The guys at the office must have noticed.

“Alright - but I want to be home by 2 am at the very latest,”

“That’s it! Let's gooo,” Bucky tries to hype you up. Sam now owed him $30, believing no one could get you away from the office.

“Go home, change into something a little more comfortable, then meet us back at the high rise around 8 pm,” Bucky says before taking off. You give him a weak smile and a wave before wrapping up your tasks.

Working for Stark had many benefits, but it also took a huge toll on you and your personal life. Your girlfriend of 3 years finally had enough and left you almost 2 months ago. The high demand, stress, and constant travel were too much for her, and she no longer wanted to support you. You understood, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt or cause you to reevaluate working for the man.

By the time you left the office, it was already 6:30 pm. All you really want to do is take a shower and slip into bed, but you stop yourself and opt for the shower and putting on a fresh outfit. As you look into the mirror, you can’t help but feel a little silly. The clothes you put on felt looser and heavier than before.

“I guess I need to hit the gym again…” you sigh. The realization that the breakup was affecting more than just your mental health.

As you pull up to the high rise, Bucky, Sam, and Steve are all standing outside the doors. They all give you an enthusiastic wave.

“Alright champ, let’s go,” Steve says while handing you a flask.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing like what Thor brought to the Christmas party last year. Just a little whisky is all,” Sam laughs. A smile creeps onto your face as your brain pieces together the memories of the Christmas party. No one truly knows what happened other than Pepper ended up pregnant, Steve and Bucky found themselves naked in the lobby fountain, Sam had photocopied his ass and put them up all over the office, and you and Thor somehow ended up on the roof with a cat that he ended up taking home.

You throw your head back, downing the amber liquid in hopes that it will give you strength and courage for whatever is about to come next.

After a 10-minute walk, the men all stop in front of a club called “The Witches Road” and pull out a blue card. The woman at the door nods and lets them in, but stops you with her cane.

“Oh, they’re with us, Monica,” Thor smiles. Monica’s bright blue eyes pierce you as she looks you up and down with a curious look. Her all-leather body suit accentuated her figure in the most delicious way.

“They still need to be vetted God of Thunder,” Monica says as she pushes the end of the cane into your chest. You back up against the wall and put your hands up. Monica pats you down for any weapons and takes your wallet out of your pocket. She looks over your ID and laughs.

“You sure you’re ready for this cowboy?” Monica smirks.

“I-I think so,”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh um-”

“Not the one on the ID, I can read. I mean, you have to have a name when you go down there. Your boys already have God of Thunder, White Wolf, Falcon and Captain.” You look at each of the men as she calls out their nicknames. You can’t help but laugh a little as you hear them. They all fit so well.

“Badger,” you say confidently. The group looks at each other and then back at you.

“I think it fits,” Sam says.

“Badger it is,” Monica says as she gives you the same card with your new name on it.

“Have fun kids,” Monica teases and lets you all through the doors.

As you step over the threshold, you are transported into a whole new world. If Bucky’s hand wasn’t on your shoulder, you would have put money on this being a hallucination.

“Where are we, Narnia?” you mumble.

“Kind of feels like that for sure,” Sam laughs. Your eyes lock onto the bioluminescent leaves on the ground that seem to have a heartbeat of their own. They flash between blue, orange, and light purple. Fog and smoke hung in the air, covering the dark and twisted trees that held the roof above their heads. The only light that came from above was a giant orb that replicated the full moon and a few twinkling lights as stars. The music playing ties it all together. 

Bucky guides you through a maze of people over to the bar. As you approach, a woman with bright blue hair with a purple stripe down the middle and a maroon tech-like lingerie set meets you at the counter with 5 drinks.

“You always take such good care of us Suger,” Bucky flirts. The woman just gives him a wink and then looks over at you.

“Who’s this fresh face White Wolf?” she says as she licks her lips.

“Badger, they work with us too,”

“Oh, you must be the one they’ve been talking about. It’s nice to finally put a face to all the stories,” she says as she offers her hand out.

“It’s nice to meet you too, though I can’t say they have said anything about knowing someone as beautiful as you,” You bow your head and kiss her hand.

“The ladies are going to love them,” the woman giggles. “The name is Nebula. My sister Gamora works here too.” She nods in the direction of a woman with dark hair and a matching lingerie set, except hers is green.

“We would like to order the Darkhold!” Thor says as he slams his empty glass on the table.

“Coming up yall,” Darcy pulls out 5 red and black little booklets and hands them to each of you. You down the drink as you look it over. The others have their names etched into the leather cover. Flipping through the pages, you notice the first few pages are full of rules, accommodations, a map, and the rest look similar to journal entries.

“Give that to Lady Death and she’ll put your name on it. When you’re done, you just come back and give these to me,” Nebula smiles. You nod and put it into your back pocket.

“Do they even know what they’re getting into boys?” Gamora asks as she peeks her head out from behind Nebula.

“What’s the fun in that love?” Sam teases. The women both laugh and shake their heads.

“Good luck Badger,” Nebula smiles at you before starting to help other customers at the bar. You follow your coworkers to a hidden door where a passcode lock is hidden behind a painting of a Jackalope in Victorian garb.

“You do the honors Badge,” Thor says and points to his book. You grab the booklet out of your pocket and start to read the first page.

“Welcome to the Darkhold. All users agree to all the terms and rules laid out in this booklet. Should any rules be broken, you will be under review and your membership may be suspended or terminated. Should you be found negligent or a danger to others, your membership will be terminated, and lawful actions will be taken. Everything goes, but everyone has their limits, and those must be respected. Please review the rules below.

RESPECT AND CONSENT are everything. If you don’t have that you don’t have anything. Be respectful and discuss your safeword and what you are looking for beforehand. If you or your partner aren’t respectful actions will be taken.

Know the color system. Green = good/continue/go. Yellow = caution/ask questions. Red =  immediately stop.

What happens in the Darkhold stays in the Darkhold. Secrets keep you safe.

Code names only. Do not under any circumstances give out any personal information.

Do not seek anyone outside of these doors unless you know them beforehand or an arrangement has been made.

 No judgment or shaming of others.

Most importantly- have fun.

Passcode: 1750

You enter the passcode on the number pad and the door sinks into the floor, startling you. Thor just laughs and pushes you through while the rest follow. The room is only illuminated by a small red light that hangs above you all.

“Take off your coat,” Sam says. The rest of them put their coats in the arms of a skeleton hanging from the wall. As you take your coat off, you see a figure take shape before you. The men all bow their heads toward it.

A woman with a skull mask covering the bottom half of her face, wearing a floral lingerie set, stands behind a podium.

“Lady Death, this is Badger, our newest member,” Bucky says as he bows. The woman looks you over with scrutinous eyes.

“Hand over your booklet,” Lady Death demands. You quickly pull it out of your pocket and hand it to her. She grabs your wrist and takes out a knife.

“Woah!” Before you can react, the rest of the men are holding you still. Thor lifts the sleeve of your shirt, exposing your skin to the cold tip of her blade.

“Do you, Badger, promise to uphold all the standards and conduct yourself in a respectful manner? Promise to never disobey the laws set forth in this booklet? Promise to treat the men and women that you meet here with dignity and honor?”

“Yes! Yes!” The knife carves a crescent moon into your deltoid.

“You are now one of us- you show this mark to no one. If you break any rules or bring dishonor to your name or our establishment, you will face severe consequences.” Lady Death blows a cool substance on your fresh wound, closing it immediately. “And we will take this mark back.” The tip of the knife is now right under your chin.

“I understand ma’am,” you say confidently.

“Good, already has manners,” Lady Death teases.

“So what are you into?” Lady Death asks.

“Umm.. like kinks or like..?” you stutter. No one had ever been this forward with you about sex.  

“Well do you like dick, pussy, ass, boobs, both, all of the above? Older or younger? Saved or not? Curvy, thick, skinny, muscular?”

“He can try all those out later, he’s coming with us Miss Death,” Bucky says as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. The woman follows you all down the hall and to the red door. Bucky opens it up and you all shuffle in.

“Welcome to the Red Room Badger- whatever you can dream up, these beautiful people can create. The world is yours,” Lady Death says.

The room is a deep crimson red with black accents, all the furniture you can think of is here in this front room, placed strategically- chaises, couches, bean bags, and there is even a conversation pit covered with pillows and blankets. To your surprise, the room isn’t super busy. There are three couples spread out around the place, and a few men on their own jerking off to the view.

“Come on, we’re going to the glory holes,” Bucky says as he pulls you away from the scene. You follow your colleagues down a hallway and into another room. This room has the same theming, except instead of couches or other furniture, there is a wall with half-circle cutouts with the lower half of women’s bodies evenly spread out. The women are lying down on some sort of massage table, their butts at the end of it and legs hanging down.

Your boys' pants are around their ankles before you even undo your button. You slowly push down your briefs and jeans to your thighs so your junk is free, but mostly everything else is covered. You’re nervous, shy even. The others walk up to a body and immediately start. You walk up to the glory hole wall where the most gorgeous body is laid out for you. Unfortunately you can only see from their belly button down. Even in the dim light of the neon glow, she’s still stunning.

You walk up to her and introduce yourself. A small giggle can be heard from behind the half-wall.

“Hi, I’m the Scarlet Witch,”

“Can I touch you?” The giggle this time is a bit louder.

“My job would be very difficult if you couldn't touch me,”

“Well you know… consent and all,”

“I think it’s sweet. Yes, you can touch me,”

The woman behind the wall was expecting you to touch her ass or pussy but your hands found her thighs first. Then they wander up her sides and onto her stomach. Her porcelain skin is the best thing your fingers have ever had the pleasure of feeling.

“You’re even softer than I imagined.” The words come out almost like a moan.

The giggle now was almost a laugh.

“Sorry I didn't  mean to say that out loud,”

“S’okay honey bee,”

Your head whips around as you hear a woman scream out. Bucky is fucking the girl next to you so rough that the half wall that they all share is starting to shake.

“Don’t mind him darlin. He does this every other week,” Now it was your turn to laugh.

“What’s so funny? We don’t shame here,”

“Oh no, no please. That’s my buddy. He brought me here,”

“Oh” the Scarlet Witch laughs too. “He’s a regular here. He’s known as the White Wolf or Winter Soldier, depending on what mood he’s in,”

You watch him manhandle the woman he’s using. His long, deep strokes coupled with the pace he’s going is impressive.  “Has he ever…?” Most of you didn’t want the answer because you were afraid but the part of you who asked wanted to be prepared to be disappointed in yourself that you could never give her what he had.

“No honey. The woman he’s with is his favorite. Her name is Black Widow. He has a type and I don’t fit it. That’s okay though, because there’s someone here for everyone,” You let out a sigh of relief. You turn your attention back to the woman in front of you. You wish you could see her top half, you would have bet your whole life that it was even more beautiful.

“Can I eat you out?” you ask as you rub your hand over her pussy.

“Umm..” she hesitates

“Sorry can I not do that?”

“No no you can- it’s just- I have never had anyone ask to do that before?”

“Like ask permission or do it to you?”

“Do it to me. Most people just put their dicks in and go at it..” a small humorless laugh.

“Oh, well, they are missing out. I really want to taste you if that’s okay,”

“Be my guest Honey Bee,”

“Safe word?” you ask as you fall to your knees and slowly start kissing your stomach and pelvic area.

“Magic, what’s yours?”

“Uh- Chaos,”

Your lips graze across over to her thighs, nipping at the soft and supple skin. The hips before you buck up making you chuckle.

“Someone’s impatient,” you tease.

“Shut up and keep going,”

You nod and get back to work. You start to suck on the inside of her thigh but get quickly shot down.

“No marks.”

“Sorry…”

You redeem yourself by kissing her clit- beginning the start of your new addiction. As you inhale her scent, you can feel the snap of the world finally falling into place. Time stops for just a second as a new found clarity lifts the heavy fog that had been plaguing you since the breakup. Waves of pleasure and need flood your system as the synapses in your brain start rapid firing.  

You then lick her clit and wrap your lips around her bud. Her taste is somewhere between heaven and sin- you want to bask in the feeling forever. 

“Oh fuck,” Scarlet Witch moans loudly.

You hum against her clit and start devouring her. Exploring every nook and cranny, leaving nothing untouched. Her lips are so smooth… You want it all, everything and anything she was willing to give you would take. An all-consuming need takes over.

“Please,” her voice almost a whimper.

You look up at her for a second. Her back is arching off the table she’s lying on, causing her stomach to be fully pressed against the wall that exposes her and hides her all at the same time. You reach under and grip her ass and pull so her pussy is right against your face. You probe your tongue inside her as you tease the rim of her entrance. The loud moan that follows tells you all you need to know.

After coating her in your saliva and her own juices, your tongue disconnects from her hole. A loud whimper escapes her lips, but just as quickly as your tongue left your fingers replace it.

“You’re so wet love, so soft and warm. I would live here if I could,”

All your tongues attention focuses on her clit. You swipe up and down, long and pressured licks from the bottom to the very top. As a surprise you wrap your lips around her clit and suck at random times, sometimes even nip to get her to let out louder noises. Despite all the fucking around you, all you can hear is her. It’s as if all your senses were tuned into her radio station.

“I-I’m close,” she says as your tongue swirls around her clit. You smirk and dive deeper into her ocean. You didn’t even realize you were stroking yourself until you felt that tight coil in your stomach. You look down for a brief second to see your cock rock hard, tip red and oozing precum.

“Hey don’t stop!”

“Sorry love,” you mumble before getting back to the task at hand. Her sweet moans egg you on as you try to get her back to where she was. Whatever you’re doing seems to be working, as the woman is a moaning mess. She may even be louder than the the woman Bucky is fucking. Her movements are iratic as she chases her high, trying to fuck herself on your mouth and on your fingers, not knowing which to commit to.

“I’m going to cum, please.. Oh fuck,” Scarlet Witch moans out as her orgasm washes over her. Her hole clenches around your fingers, giving you a sweet little preview as to what’s to come next. Your fingers and tongue work her through her high.

You are nervous to look down, half expecting your cum to be all over the wall. Instead, your tip is cherry red, shaft harder than rock, and balls bluer than 

You slowly stand up and push your pants down, letting them fall to your ankles.

“Are you ready for me?”

“So ready,”

You lift her legs up so they are leaning against your chest and shoulders. You line yourself up with her entrance and drag the tip along her strip teasingly before tapping the head of of your cock aginst her pussy.

“Please darlin,” Scarlet Witch whimpers.

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” you say as you start to enter her.

“Holy shit,” both of your moans sync as you connect as one. You start to move, eager to chase your high, when you feel her walls clench tightly around you, not allowing you to move further.

“Wait just a second there cowboy.. I need to adjust,” Scarlet Witch says nervously.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but that isn’t even half of it…”

“Then I really don’t think you would have fit if you hadn’t just eaten me out. To be honest, I think you’re the biggest I’ve ever had.” You feel your cheeks warm up and your chest puff out as her praise sings in your ears.

“Keep talking like that and you might not be able to walk after I’m through with you,” you say with a new found confidence.

“Promise or threat,”

“Both.”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish Badge,”

“I promise we’ll both be finishing multiple times,” you tease. You rock your hips slowly, working her through the new stretch. You can’t see it, but you can hear her nails scraping across the table as you push yourself further into her.

“You’re doing so well baby. You’re almost there, just a little bit more,” 

You can feel her muscles start to relax a little more, allowing you to be fully sheathed inside her.

“F-fuck, I swear this is the best pussy I’ve ever felt.” Scarlet Witch lets out a small giggle.

“It’s fucking true,” you say as you start to move inside her. Her core is as warm as a summer’s day and softer than freshly dried flannel sheets. You fit perfectly inside her, like you were molded just to please her and she to please you. Soft little moans escape her mouth, matching the rhythm you set. Your hips snap against hers as you slide in and out of her over and over again, sometimes almost pulling all the way out just to slam back into her. The table shakes as your pace starts to quicken and your thrusts become harder. Damn, you bet her boobs look absolutely incredible bouncing as you fuck her.

“Don’t stop…” her voice somewhere between a whisper and a whimper. You bite your lip to muffle the little groans and moans that are desperately trying to escape. Despite being lost in the most delicious pussy you’ve ever had, the small piece of you remembers that your coworkers are all around you. Her moans pull you back into the haze.

You watch as your cock gets engulfed by her, taking every inch of you. The noises your fluids make mixed could be sold as some sort of porn ASMR. You think you’re in love. You place your hand on the bulge on her stomach.

“Feel that little witch? That’s me. Fucking and filling you so well,”

“I’m close, please,” she begs.

“Where do you want me? I don’t think I’m going to last much longer after you cum.” You press your head against the only thing dividing you from everything you’ve ever dreamed of. You wish it was her; her stomach, her forehead, her chest, anything other than this damn wall.

“Cum inside me,”

Now you know you’re in love.

You grab her hips to keep her in place as you thrust into her, harder and harder. You were going to give Bucky a run for his money for who makes the wall shake more. 

The light illuminates the glossy shine from the sweat that covers both of your bodies. You’ve never fucked a girl like this before and you don’t think you could ever replicate this with anyone else. Everything about her makes you feel like you’re going insane. 

“Fuck, little witch I’m going to cum,” you groan. Your movement becomes more erratic than your breathing as you feel the all-too-familiar feeling.

“Please, I need it. I need you to fill me up. Mark me. Claim me.”

Those words break all resolve and release you from the shackles holding you back. With one final thrust, you bury yourself completely inside her as you paint her walls white with your release. Without warning you feel her walls consulse around your cock, causing you to cum even more. Both of you let out throaty moans. Her walls clench around you, locking you in place as the waves of her orgasm wash over her. Every movement and sound she makes can be felt by you. You could see the stars and every galaxy that ever was.

You don’t think you have any cum left inside you by the time she’s done. Like a dog, you’re panting, sweat dripping off your face onto her soft stomach.

“That was…”

“The best I’ve ever had,” she whispers. The smile on your face is large enough to be seen from outer space.

As you stand back up,  you feel yourself slipping out of her. Your eyes hypnotised by the sight of cum dripping out of her. You feel yourself twitch again at the sight. You pull yourself fully from her and scoop up whatever cum you can onto your tip and push it back into her. Another moan escapes from both of you.

“Easy there, tiger,” her laugh breathy and tired.

“How can I keep you the whole night?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like… I want to be with you all night or however long your shift is,”

“I work 4 hours tonight, and your buddy over there only paid for an hour… so you’d have to pay for 3 more,”

“Done,”

“I don’t think you understand-”

“I don’t care. I got the money if that’s what’s holding you back. I know it isn’t the sex,”

“Then I’m all yours tonight.” The smile quickly turned into a smirk. Round 2 of as many as you could fit into the remaining hours was about to start.

One by one, your friends leave, giving you a salute as they bid you farewell. You barely register their gestures and just wave them off. Thor and Steve say something, but again, you don’t care. Nothing in this world is worth your attention when you have the Scarlet Witch wrapped around your cock.

By the end of your time, she had come at least 10 times and you close to 6. You had tried as many positions as the wall would allow and switched between eating her out, fucking her, and fingering her. Nothing was enough for your insatiable appetite. She is more potent than heroin, leaving you bound to spend forever chasing an impossible high.

Before leaving the Darkhold, you set up another appointment with her 2 weeks from now. The first note page in your little booklet is dedicated to her. In between orgasms, you got to know her better, learning that she worked a full-time job and Black Widow was the one who suggested she make some extra cash working here. You were able to coax out her birth month and favorite color color too. If it weren’t for the rules, you would’ve spent the rest of the night learning everything you could. 

Now, as you walked back to the office building, the outside world felt dark and cruel compared to the warmth and comfort of the last 4 hours. The cool temperatures did nothing to dampen the fire engulfing you. This experience is the closest thing you could compare to what people describe when speaking about nirvana. If she truly is a witch, you'd happily stay under her spell for the rest of your life.

Helloooooooo…. so I stepped out of my comfort zone a little and wrote in second person while in present tense. I am not very good at that so if there are any tense switches I apologize. We may go back in and change it all to past. Okiiie byeee

Have a great night/day whenever you're reading this! xoxo

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

Genuinely hope "JD Vance killed the pope" becomes a legit, widespread rumor. I hope the whitehouse has to make a statement, thus only adding fuel to the fire about it.

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

sitting through a meeting with jd couch on easter killed the fucking pope

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

Romance Dialogue Starters

Tender / Confessional Moments

"Come here. Just for a minute."

"You don’t have to be strong all the time."

"Stay. Please, just stay."

"You make me feel safe. That’s terrifying."

"I missed you so much it hurt."

"When I’m with you, I forget to be afraid."

"Is it okay if I hold your hand?"

"You’re not a burden. You never were."

"I wish I’d met you sooner."

"You’re my favorite ‘what if.’"

Protective/Overprotective Behavior

"Where were you? I’ve been calling for hours."

"You could’ve died, you idiot."

"Don’t ever scare me like that again."

"Next time, I’m going with you. No arguments."

"You’re hurt. Let me see."

"I’m not letting you do this alone."

"Overreacting? You bled through your shirt!"

"You think I care what they say? I care about you."

"If anything happens to you, I’ll burn the whole damn world down."

Conflicted Longing

"If I kiss you now, I won’t be able to stop."

"We can’t do this." – "Then don’t look at me like that."

"You’re the last person I should want."

"Tell me to go, and I will."

"I want to hate you. But I don’t."

"This changes everything."

"Just tonight. Just this once."

"You’re always in my head. I hate it."

"You deserve better. But I’m selfish."

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

sitting through a meeting with jd couch on easter killed the fucking pope

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐭.𝟐

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: as requested, part 2 :) not sure if this is what you had in mind, but i think i like how this turned out

summary: masc rich lawyer!reader, (former) bartender-turned-trophy-wife!nat

warnings: smut (fingering, oral, penetration/strap in v), alcohol/being drunk, reckless driving (is that a warning? idk), angst

word count: 11.7k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— NEW YORK, USA —

Dinner's been ready for almost three hours, yet you're still in the office.

It's not entirely your fault. You're currently working on a big case — some corporate war between two giants. Your client got sued for billions because of a fraud scandal, and since you're known for handling high-stakes cases, you got the job.

Losing this could mean either bankruptcy or a stock market crash — both, probably —, so you've been working overtime for weeks. No missteps allowed for you. All eyes are on you, always, but especially when handling things that others deem to be out of your league.

The problem? You promised Natasha to be on time. Just tonight, since it's Friday, and Fridays are date nights. You're not allowed to spend them in the office. You're supposed to spend them at home, with your wife, and not with a ton of contracts and emails you still need to comb through.

Outside, the sky is dark. No stars are visible. The glittering city beneath it, alive with lights and vibrant neon signs, makes up for that. Everything looks small from up here. Manageable. The mess on your desk, however, seems to only be getting bigger.

You squint your eyes when your vision goes blurry. Too focused on the email you're reading, you don't notice how your phone vibrates again.

When you don't pick up, Natasha slams her phone down on the table and crosses her arms. The lobster in front of her: cold. The mashed potatoes: having formed a crust. The asparagus: soaking up lemon juice and oil and turning limp.

The big penthouse, once so appealing, is nothing but a big empty shell. It's silent, lifeless, lonely. So much so that Linda, your private chef and maid, even offered to stay and keep her company. Of course, Natasha had turned down the offer. It's not that she doesn't enjoy the woman's company, but come on — having an employee stay overtime just because her own wife won't come home from work is just embarrassing.

She exhales, slowly, twisting the wedding ring on her finger. One leg crossed over the other, she stares into the adjacent kitchen. She's still hoping you'll show up soon, but it doesn't seem likely. Eventually, she gets up. Bare feet pad over the woolen rug and carry her all the way into the hallway.

She pauses, but only to slip into a coat. She picks out a pair of high heels and takes the elevator downstairs.

You're immersed in a thick financial contract when the door opens. Any normal human being would jump up immediately — but Natasha's found you have the survival skills of a rock, at least compared to her, so you keep your head in your hand and your eyes on the paper you're holding.

Natasha pauses for a second, just taking you in. Messy, tousled hair, soft to the touch and smelling like the guava shampoo you love. A suit, ironed and fitted. Shoes you got in Italy.

It's the little things she notices about the idiot sitting in front of her. Because that's what you are — an idiot. An idiot she loves, though. Her idiot.

She's already decided you're done working. You shoot out of your chair when the contract is suddenly plucked from your fingers.

"Jesus fucking- oh, it's you!"

Natasha slams the contract down on the desk, glaring at you. You feel your insides shrivel up with shame.

"Yes, it's me", she says, keeping her hand pressed on the stack of papers. "And, oh!, it's you. Still not at home."

You rub the back of your neck, shifting. You're tired. You're overworked. And now, you're also feeling guilty.

"Sorry", you start, cringing at yourself. "The case, it just...it's a big deal. There's a lot to go through. It's important, and-"

"And I'm not?"

Your eyes widen and you nearly start sputtering. Admittedly not the smartest move, but again: you're tired. Overworked, in fact. Hopefully she'll forgive you for being a bit of a dumbass at the moment.

"Come on", she challenges. "Say it. Say it's more important."

"What?? Of course it's not! But it- it's a case, you know, and I'm a lawyer, so I kinda sorta gotta..." You gesture awkwardly and she rolls her eyes. "I'm sorry, love. You know how it is."

"One night, Y/N", she says, stepping closer. "One night. I don't ask for anything else."

"I know, baby", you quickly say, voice desperate. God, you really fucked up. "I'll make it up to you."

Natasha sighs. She lifts her hands and runs them through your hair, ruffling it up further. You crack a hesitant smile and wrap your arms around her waist. The look on her face is pointed, but she keeps combing her fingers through the unruly strands she loves so much, so you know she can't be too mad.

She grabs your tie and yanks you closer. You let out a wheeze, but she's unfazed.

"Listen, honey", she says, tugging at the tie a few times. "We'll go home. We'll have dinner. Tomorrow, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Deal", you immediately say.

"No more nights at the office."

Your mouth opens, but she presses her index finger against your lips.

"Don't even try to argue", she says firmly.

If she lets loose now, this will never end. You've already spent a few nights too many asleep at your desk. Your bottom lip pokes out, just barely, and she pinches it.

"Sorry", you mumble, looking like a kicked puppy.

Gone is the lawyer-level damage control, the confidence with which you carry yourself. You've spent hundreds of hours standing in front of judges and other lawyers, yelling at people, repeating your points and finding new arguments and letting others yell back at you as well.

But this is your wife. When you're with Natasha, that facade you built so meticulously just crumbles. Which, despite the fact that she's bossing you around, is actually a good thing.

Her thumb brushes over your bottom lip, then she lets go of your tie and smoothens it out. You exhale, leaning in and catching her mouth in a kiss. She makes a soft noise, but then wraps her arms around your neck.

Hands run up and down her sides, around to her back. You pull away and study her. Green eyes, plush lips, a face so pretty it hurts.

The case you're working on may be out of your league, but Natasha definitely is. You have no idea how you got her to marry you.

"I'm sorry", you repeat, massaging her back through the fabric of her coat. "Let's go home."

Natasha softens. She squeezes the back of your neck and leads you out into the hallway. The rest of the building is dead silent, except for the soft hum of the a/c's. All your employees have gone home.

You blink, a little disoriented, and run your hand through your hair. Spending nearly 16 hours at your desk, even having lunch there, took a toll on your brain.

You enter the elevator and lean against the wall. Natasha notices your tired eyes and tuts. You look at her, see her smile, see the worry in her gaze, and recover enough to grab her and spin her around. A soft thud, and she ends up pinned against the wall.

"Oh, now you're awake?"

"No matter how much energy I may spend on work", you mumble, undoing the front of her coat, "I always make sure there's enough left for you."

She hums and sighs, hips buckling forward. You let the coat slide off her shoulders and bite back a grunt, then press your lips to her neck. Your hands roam and squeeze skin, soft as butter and smelling heavenly.

Natasha wore nothing but a tiny piece of lingerie underneath when coming to pick you up from your office. It makes you wonder what she had planned originally. It's not like you haven't made use of your reclinable office chair before.

The elevator dings. You whine softly, trying to stay attached to her, but she's already slipped away and out into the lobby.

"Wait, wait, wait-" You grab her coat and hurry. She's too close to getting outside, into the streets, where anyone could see her. "Fuck!"

You reach her just in time, throwing the coat around her like a shield and pulling her back against you. She stumbles backwards, but you've already got your arms wrapped around her. Before she knows what's happening, the world tilts and you've got her dipped down.

"We've talked about this."

"I like seeing you freak out."

"Obviously", you murmur, kissing her. You kiss her like you don't have time, like you're in a hurry, which is far from the truth. This is your law firm. If you wanted, you could drag her behind the reception desk and let her have her way with you there.

She runs her hands into your hair, slowly tousling it up more and more. She loves the messy look. Adores it. If it was up to her, you wouldn't have access to a hairbrush.

Slick mouths slide against each other, lips kiss bitten and swelling up. You straighten up, still clutching, still kissing her, and walk her backwards until the summer night air envelops you.

Her back against the wall. Her back against the front of your car. It takes all of your strength to let go and get into the driver's seat.

"Fuck", you mutter, glancing at her. Lips red and still slick, cheeks flushed. A dream to kiss, a nightmare to sit next to while driving. "Pray we don't get in a car crash."

"You'll do fine", she says.

You won't.

You're driving down the street when she suddenly turns around. She leans in, one hand playing with the hair at the back of your head and the other slowly loosening your tie.

You gulp, and your throat bobs. Natasha smirks faintly and brushes her fingertips over the little hollow base of your throat.

"I have to focus", you say, voice strained, and shift in your seat. You were already worked up, and she's not making it easier on you.

"Focus, then. Focus on me", she mumbles, dragging her finger down to the part where your shirt is buttoned up. "A good driver could do it, you know."

"Nat, baby, I-"

"Come on, hotshot", she whispers, unbuttoning the first button. The car swerves slightly, and she laughs. Laughs. Right in your ear. "We got five more minutes, then we'll be home. Can you last that long?"

Can you? With the way heat is flooding your body, making wetness gather between your thighs? With her lips against your earlobe, her fingers continuing to slowly undo button after button?

No. Not without crashing the car, at least.

You shake your head, gripping the steering wheel desperately. "I'm pulling over", you say, begging. "Please."

"No", she says, hooking her finger into your sports bra. "You made me wait three hours, and you're telling me you can't do five minutes?"

You let out a quiet, frustrated wheeze. That's why she's doing this. To get back at you for working overtime.

"A normal wife would-" You squirm in your seat, her hand sliding down your stomach, "would just make me sleep on the couch."

"Should've married one, then."

"Nat", you whine. "Come on. Get in the back."

She makes a disapproving noise, her fingers trailing back up your chest. Suddenly, she cups your jaw and makes you look at her. The car swerves again, this time so badly it makes your eyes widen.

"Four more minutes", she taunts.

You glance at the road, blinking a few times. Your hands are white-knuckled, your pupils blown. Arousal and panic are flooding your veins and soaking your underwear.

Natasha lets go of your jaw. You turn your head. You hear the rustling of clothes. Dumb as you tend to be when it comes to your wife, you glance at her.

Gone is the coat. She's back to being in just lingerie. Red lace adorning creamy supple skin, showing off every inch of her body. If you could, you’d get on your fucking knees and worship her, but that’s not an option right now. Instead, your brain gets fried by the inability to act on your urges.

Tires screech on asphalt. You curse under your breath.

"Eyes on the road, love."

"Put that back on."

She tilts her head at you. "Put what back on?"

You exhale and grit your teeth, stubbornly staring at the road. So far so good. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe ignoring her will work.

Then, she reaches into your lap and starts fumbling with the zipper of your slacks.

You jump on the gas pedal and make the car accelerate way too rapidly. You slam backwards into the seats, but that's not what you're worried about. Natasha's fingers, deftly undoing the button now, is.

"Do you want us to get into a car crash?!"

"Hush, baby. Focus on the road", she coos, tugging at the waistband of your boxers. "These are my favorites."

You keep going faster and faster until you're well over the speed limit. A bad idea — the faster a car goes, the harder it is to keep it under control. But you're not exactly able to think rationally.

Two minutes, you think, silently begging you'll make it out alive.

You let out a frustrated noise and slow down the car just enough. One hand on the steering wheel, you grab her hand with your free one. She clicks her tongue.

"Awfully feisty tonight. I thought you were tired?"

"Nat", you whine. You recognize one of the stores nearby the building of your penthouse and speed up again. "Give me a minute. Please."

She hums, cupping the side of your head. Suddenly, her lips are all over you. Your neck, your jaw, your ear. You squirm and curse and grip the steering wheel.

The car rockets into the parking lot at such an insane speed you can't slow it down fast enough. It bumps against the wall, but at that point, you don't care. You jump out of the car and hurry to the other side, only to basically throw her over your shoulder.

"You're so dead."

Her arms wrap around your neck, body still half-naked. Grumbling, you grab the coat and kick the car door shut behind you.

"Well done", she says, cupping your face and making you look up as you carry her into the building. Almost midnight, so hopefully you won't run into any neighbors. Your reputation hasn't been exactly flawless since Natasha moved in.

What can you say? You're noisy and shameless.

"I crashed the fucking car", you mutter, lips attaching to her chest before the elevator doors have even closed.

"We made it home, though", she says, her voice shifting into a sigh. You pepper kisses all over her chest, resisting the urge to just slam your fist on the button next to you and make the elevator stop. "My, you're eager."

You don't say anything. You're too distracted by the feeling of her body against yours, soft and warm. Humming against smooth skin, your face nuzzles the spot between her breasts.

The elevator stops and the doors slide open, revealing your living. It was once so cold here, so lifeless. It wasn't a space you lived in; merely one where you existed. Then Natasha moved in, and everything changed.

It's the small things. Her reading glasses on the coffee table, the stack of magazines next to it. Her abandoned cup of coffee. The painting she picked out and hung above the fireplace.

Not that you're paying much attention to it right now. You move to the couch and drop her down on her back. Straightening up, you pull down your pants and boxers and reveal the strap you've got attached to a harness. For the first time that evening, Natasha's speechless.

"You..."

"Date night", you say, kicking off your slacks and unbuttoning your shirt. It falls to the floor. "Wanted to be prepared."

"God", she moans. You crawl on top of her. "You can't just do that."

"No?" You run your hands up her body and hook your thumbs into the sides of her lingerie. You pull it down right as you kiss her neck. "Did it, anyway."

You lean up to kiss her. Your hands slowly part her thighs. You settle between them, but right as the tip pushes in, you nuzzle her cheek.

"Love?"

Natasha bites back a soft sound of frustration. This isn't the right moment to start talking, but you'll do it anyway.

You push in deeper, fingers gripping her skin for stability. You feel her body tremble. Her hips rock against yours, searching for more — more friction, more depth, more you.

You kiss her ear and bottom out. She moans, her head dropping back into the cushion.

"You, me, London. Next week."

"Again?"

You hum, rolling your hips. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, thighs squeezing your middle. You're aware you've been traveling a lot, but most of the time, it's necessary.

"Yeah", you grunt, simultaneously thrusting into her and pulling at her hips. You're fucking her into the couch, you're leaving her head devoid of thoughts, you're literally mid-stroke — yet you're talking to her like this is a completely normal situation. "Got a meeting with an investor. We'll stay in a suite. Have some fun."

"Baby, you..." She makes a useless noise, her hand gripping your tie. "Don't talk."

"Why?", you ask, breathless, and keep pounding into her. She lets out a choked moan. "It's important."

"Sure, but...oh..." Her lips part and her chest heaves. Her hips meet every thrust, and you smile against her neck. "Fuck."

"Close already? I haven't even told you about the new private jet I bought."

Natasha shakes her head, refusing to talk. She's writhing and moaning beneath you, stomachs slick with sweat as they rub together, back arching and thighs clenching. And you're trying to talk business trips with her? Absolutely not.

You decide to have a little mercy on her. You kiss her, deeply, taste her moans as she comes apart and shudders. Every moan is taken like a win.

It takes a moment for her to recover. You smile at her, your fingers brushing sweaty strands of hair away from her forehead. She stares up at you, panting and eyes unfocused, then tilts her head.

"Another jet?"

"New model."

"Dear god", she mutters, wrapping her arms around your neck. "You've got to calm down a little."

"Why?" You lean in, nibbling her earlobe. "You said you liked the seats."

Natasha pauses and lifts her head. You raise your eyebrows.

"That's why we went looking at jets?", she asks, the disbelief written all over her face. "You said it was a gift!"

"For you."

"Well, that wasn't clear."

You snort and kiss her cheek before sitting up. Natasha follows, grabbing the shirt you discarded on the coffee table and putting it on. You pad into the kitchen, her hand in yours.

You turn on the lights and make your way to the fridge. Natasha sits on the counter, bare legs crossed, and accepts the plate you hand her.

"Warm it up?"

"No", she says, grabbing a piece of asparagus and biting into it. "You're returning the jet."

You look up from your own plate. The first thing that Natasha can think is that you should probably get a haircut — the strands in the front are long enough to partially block your vision. But she can't voice that thought. She adores this look a little too much.

"Why?", you ask through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Because it's insane."

"The interior was custom made, though."

"So?"

"Well, I can't return that, can I?"

She frowns, then sighs. You have a point. Returning a multi million dollar aircraft? With a custom made interior? Not happening.

"Okay", she says, thinking. "Donate it."

You give her a deadpan look and set your plate aside. "Love. Baby. You can't be serious."

"I am."

You shake your head and kiss her. She tastes like lobster and lemon juice, but when it's the right person, the fishy taste doesn't throw you off much.

"You're sweet", you mumble, squeezing her waist. Natasha places a dollop of mashed potatoes on your nose, and you scrunch up your face. "Play nice."

"I'm serious", she says, kissing the mashed potatoes off your nose. You grimace and grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Donate it. Someone might need it."

"I think we're both too tired to think straight", you mumble, pecking her lips one last time. You step away and put the half-full plate back into the fridge.

Natasha slides off the counter. Her arms wrap around your middle, her chin comes to rest on your shoulder.

"Finish your dinner", she says, watching you grab a bottle of sparkling water. "You had a long day."

"At this point, all I want is to go to sleep."

"Fair. We're still not keeping the jet."

You turn around, a little disgruntled, and wrap your arm around her. You start your two and a half minute journey into the bedroom.

She pulls you over the threshold, making you stumble right onto the bed with her. Guilt nags at you as you realize it's been a while since you didn't get here only after she'd fallen asleep.

"I love you", you murmur, kissing her. Your fingers brush over clothed and bare skin, the feeling enough to make your heart beat a little faster.

No reply. Natasha deepens the kiss, fingers gripping your face and keeping you close. No way to leave, at least for tonight.

Good. You don't want to leave, either. Because you're right where you want to be, where you're supposed to be. You'd buy her the moon and the stars, fulfill every last one of her wishes.

(You're still not returning the jet, though.)

. . .

— LONDON, UK —

"One more hour", you mumble, typing away on your laptop. Natasha hums, her legs stretched out on the leather sofa.

You're 50 thousand miles in the air. Clouds surround the private jet you're in. You're in slacks and a shirt, the top button undone, your hair damp after you washed it in the bathroom onboard.

There's a platter of fruit on the table you're sitting at. Cubed mangoes, papayas, strawberries. Two champagne flutes, empty now.

You let out a frustrated noise, the click-clack of the keyboard becoming more pronounced. Natasha turns her head, but you don't notice. What a shame — she's wearing that one red dress that'd normally leave you drooling. But you're focused on work, again, so you're not becoming part of the mile high club yet another time.

She watches you for a moment. Her teeth sink into her lip, chewing slowly. You're focused, which is as attractive as it is annoying. Why did you even get her a jet with a hot tub if you don't plan on using it? What's the huge couch for, then?

It's not even sex that she wants. Just a tiny bit of attention would be nice.

Natasha gets up and approaches you. She grabs your arm, ignoring your noise of protest and gently peeling your hand off the keyboard, then slides right into your lap. You adjust her so you can see the screen again and continue working.

The audacity makes her roll her eyes. Subtly, she reaches for the laptop and shuts it. You grunt in surprise.

"Hey, that-"

"You can finish later", she says, turning around enough to undo more buttons, "but first, you let me finish."

Heat shoots into your cheeks. You squirm beneath her and grab the laptop, opening it again. You let out a silent sigh of relief when you see the email you were working on isn't lost.

Natasha frowns, her fingers loosening. She's used to your attention wavering quickly, but this quickly? For god's sake, she's literally in your lap. She's undoing your shirt and offering herself to you like a buffet.

"Love", she mumbles, tracing your jaw. You hum absently, still staring at your screen. Then, the dreaded click-clack continues.

Click-clack, click-clack. Your moans should be filling the air instead of this annoying noise. Your hands should be on her, not on the keyboard.

Maybe Natasha is being selfish. Given the fact that this is one of the rare occasions where you're able to spend a couple hours together, though, she seriously doubts that.

She swallows, trying to ignore the feeling of hurt that's settling in her stomach. Don't take it personally, she tries reminding herself. She works a lot. You knew that when you married her.

It still hurts. It's been hurting for a while.

Finally, she finds her voice again. Her fingers are tugging at the top button of your shirt, tentatively, but the only sign of you noticing is the subtle raise of your eyebrows. The light from the screen in front of you is making your face glow.

"Is it always going to be like this?"

Your head whips around, mouth opening in shock. Now you heard her.

"What do you mean?", you ask, cupping her cheek. She takes your hand and peels it off her face.

"You know what I mean."

"Nat, you..." You exhale slowly, your stomach turning with guilt and mild nausea. The words 'you knew' are on the tip of your tongue.

Because she did. She knew what your life is like when she married you. She knew how much you work. She knew you only spend about a quarter of your week at home. Most of the time even less.

It wouldn't be fair bringing that up, though. Nobody expects the negative things to stay negative when getting married. That little flame of hope usually dies way after.

"I'm sorry", you say quietly. "I'll make it up to you."

This time, it's Natasha's turn to swallow down something she'd regret saying. She just nods, lip balm-soft lips pressing against your temple and slender fingers tousling your hair, then she gets off your lap. You watch her sit back down, staring out the window, her manicured hands twisting in her lap.

Do you get up? Do you continue working?

You exhale, slowly, then quickly finish the email you'd been writing. Just one more email, then you'll hop into the hot tub together. You'll have just enough time to relax a little before arriving in London.

One email turns into four. Four emails turn into you reading through a contract. As you're reading, you conclude that you may as well take notes now.

The click-clack doesn't stop. Natasha sits there, staying silent as to not disturb you.

You're still typing when you reach London.

The silence is suffocating when you enter your suite. You've barely even closed the door, and Natasha has already disappeared in the bathroom. You stand there, suitcase in hand and hair slicked back, a little stunned.

You're aware of where you went wrong. Right in the damn jet, when you couldn't take a ten minute break from your stupid job for once. You should've closed the laptop. It's not like you're behind on anything, anyway.

It's too late now, though. You hear the water run, which probably means she's running herself a bath. You hesitate — is it even worth trying? — but then you go and knock.

Silence. Nothing but the muffled sound of water lapping.

"Nat?", you call. You knock again, then rest your ear against the door. Your hand is flat against the cool surface. "Nat, baby-"

The door opens so suddenly that you nearly tumble over. Natasha crosses her arms, not making a move to steady you.

"What?"

"Uh", you say stupidly, rubbing your neck. "What you doing?"

Her expression doesn't waver. What happened in the jet was enough to make that last string of patience snap. And now? Not yelling, no. Not trying to start a fight. Just giving you that detached coldness.

"The water's running", she says. "I thought you had work to do?"

"Yeah, but-"

The door slams shut. You stare at it, baffled, then the panic sinks in.

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Sweat starts gathering at the back of your neck, your heart begins to race, you blink in disbelief. During your entire relationship, you've never had Natasha slam the door shut on you. Not even during your worst fight.

This, however, has been building up for weeks now. The pot has been bubbling — it was only a question of when it'd boil over. It hasn't boiled over yet, though, not fully at least. Are you going to let it boil over? Oh hell no.

You shake your head and reach for your phone. Meeting? Canceled, done, over. (Actually, postponed. Cancelling a meeting with a potential investor, especially one who's this powerful, wouldn't be the smartest move.)

Then, you start reaching out to a few contracts.

Contact one. Book a castle (the entire thing, of course) for the night. Make sure they have those silk bedsheets Natasha loves. In her favorite color, obviously. Don't forget the little chocolates — she loves those.

Contact two. Find a horse-drawn carriage. White horses too, while you're at it.

Contact three. Private chef, please. Specialized in Italian cuisine.

Contact four. A new dress, tailored if possible so it'll hug her curves perfectly. Of course, you have all her measurements on hand.

Contact five. Jewelry. Necklace, rings, earrings, all matching and all of them with a price tag that'd get the average couple through an entire year.

By the time Natasha's done with her bubble bath, you've got everything planned. She exits the bathroom to find you on one knee, a bouquet of  baby's breaths in your hand. The way you tilt your head is nervous, and she almost feels bad for slamming the door shut on you like that.

"What's that?", she asks, nudging one of the flowers.

"Flowers", you say dumbly, then shake your head. "An apology. A question. Let me take you on a date."

She gives you a wary look, but accepts the bouquet anyway. She takes a tentative whiff of the white flowers. Light, fresh, slightly sweet, but so subtle she can barely smell them.

"You have a meeting tonight", she says.

"I do. No, did. I, uh, I postponed it", you explain, straightening up. "You, me. Tonight at 7. I just...I've been acting like an idiot, and you don't deserve that."

Natasha smiles faintly. She looks at the flowers again, her nose buried in them. They tickle her face. Just watching her like this is enough to make your heartbeat stumble.

"Good thing you're self-aware", she says. "I was close to booking a flight on my own jet and go back home."

You stare at her, doubting both her statement and your interpretation of it. Is she being serious?

She shakes her head at the look on your face. Suddenly, she's on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to yours. Minty and sugary, the bouquet against your chest and the petals brushing your neck.

"Good thing you always know what to do", she mumbles, stepping closer. You let out a breath of relief and wrap your arms around her. "You promise we'll have time for us?"

"Promise", you immediately say, kissing her again. Your hands smooth down her back, the robe she's wearing fluffy beneath your palms. "Just us two."

And this time, you do.

The dress looks stunning on her (obviously — not like you ever doubted that). The carriage makes her laugh (now you're doubting something, though, and that'd be your ability to choose the right form of transportation). The castle leaves her speechless.

You're not sure whether her red dress is giving queen or vampire bride, but either way: it gives you a few dangerous ideas.

"You like the castle?", you ask, leading her up a stone staircase. "How much?"

Natasha pauses, her hand on the railing. "No."

"I wasn't-"

"You were."

Maybe you were. You bring her hand to your mouth and kiss her knuckles.

The dining room is all set when you arrive. A roaring fireplace to your right, a domed ceiling, crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors. Food served on fine bone china, brought to you by staff in uniforms.

Much to your relief, the night has been going well. Good food will always better her mood — that's something you learned a while ago. And not many people can stay mad while getting a taste of carpaccio and handmade black truffle tagliatelle. You're right at dolce when things seem to take a turn for the worse, though.

You're holding her hand over the table. You're talking, laughing quietly, pressing kisses to fingers and sharing a tiramisu al limoncello that's sitting between you.

Then, your phone rings. You pause but ignore it, squeezing her hand. Natasha raises her eyebrows.

It stops. You keep talking. It starts ringing again.

You shift, clearly conflicted. Being called twice in a row when you told your assistant to cancel all meetings and appointments for the night usually means it's important.

Natasha knows that, too. She glances at the table, chewing her lip, her thumb rubbing your fingers like she's bracing herself.

You reach into your pocket and accept the call.

Ten seconds. It's fine. Natasha clears her throat, eats another bite of the tiramisu.

Twenty seconds. She sighs, and you pinch the bridge of your nose. The guy on the phone is still talking rapidly.

Thirty seconds. She puts her fork aside and crosses her arms. You shoot her an apologetic look.

A minute. She exhales, eyes closing, and drums her fingers on the table.

After five more minutes, you finally hang up. The silence between you is far too awkward, far too heavy. You rub your neck and adjust your tie, then get up from your chair. Natasha gives you a look that's both wary and warning — if you leave, you're done for.

But no. You grab her hand and give her a shy nod. She tilts her head but gets up, letting you pull her close.

"That wasn't about work", you start, wrapping your arms around her. She loops her hands around your neck, and you begin swaying slowly. No need for music.

"No?", she mumbles, frowning.

"No", you confirm, lowering your head to press kisses to her jaw. She closes her eyes. "I booked something. Just us two. That was the confirmation."

Natasha sighs. The last time you went on vacation together, you spent 90% of it working. She's grateful, yes, but she'd rather spend time with you at home than watch you overwork yourself in some tropical paradise.

You overwork yourself at home already. You'll step into the living room, spent and exhausted, barely able to talk. She rarely witnesses it, but when she does, it kills her.

"Y/N..."

"Just hear me out", you say, one hand slipping under the fabric of her low back dress. Smooth, warm skin, soft and familiar under your palm. You trace her spine with your thumb. "I know you, baby, and I know London isn't going to cut it. Let me take you to Bora Bora."

She shakes her head, but you shush her with a kiss.

"It'll be different", you assure her. "Just us."

Believing you is hard. Just us — two words she's heard too many times. You rarely ended up keeping that promise.

Natasha tilts her head. You kiss her, again and again, the wind outside howling and the leaves rustling. Candles flicker, the fire in the fireplace bathing you in a slow, lazy heat.

Summer is ending, but the sun is coming up anyway.

. . .

— BORA BORA, FRENCH POLYNESIA —

A white bikini and strawberry lip balm.

The netted hammock swings in the warm breeze, the sun warming your skin and the cocktails your throat. She's draped over you, hands on your sides, lips trailing down your neck.

You turn your head and catch her mouth in a languid kiss. Coconut, salt, expensive perfume. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her bikini bottoms. She hums, sucking your tongue into her mouth.

It's quiet. It's secluded. It's everything you needed and more.

Natasha shifts a little, the hammock swaying in the wind. You smile against her lips and tighten your grip. She's not going to slip away, but you'd rather be safe than sorry.

"What are we doing tonight?", she mumbles, raking her fingers through your short hair and tugging on it. You got a haircut just before you left.

"Dinner", you say, nose nudging hers. You press another kiss to her mouth. "Swim." You tug on her bikini. "No clothes necessary."

Natasha smiles against your mouth, her soft laugh slipping straight to your heart. It's intimacy in its rawest form, and even though you've been married for nearly two years, you feel like you haven't had enough of it so far.

More of this. Less of everything else.

Forget getting up at 5 in the morning. Forget working until a regular teen's bedtime. Forget emails, and contracts, and having to wake her up to kiss her goodnight. Forget the press, who's been after your relationship ever since the public caught wind of it. Forget not being able to want kids because you work so much. Forget it all.

Natasha sits up and straddles your waist, her knees sinking deep into the hammock's net. Fingers trail over skin, find the clasp of her bra, let it pop open. She shrugs the delicate piece of fabric off and you make a noise of appreciation.

You're not sure why you put on clothes in the first place. You're alone out here — when booking this overwater villa, you made sure no one could see you. All the other villas and guests are far away. It's you and the ocean, fishes and other sea creatures included, and nobody else.

Unfortunately, you didn't consider two things: the existence of boats and the fucking audacity of the media.

You slowly pull away, staring in disbelief. An entire boatful of photographers, slowly getting closer to the house. Natasha, confused, turns to look at them, but you quickly pull her down against your chest. She's literally not wearing anything on the top half of her body.

"What the fuck?", she asks, voice muffled against your neck.

You curse quietly and grab your phone. She made you turn it off the night you got here, to avoid distractions. Now, as you're scrolling through messages by your assistant (most of them written in all caps), you realize that may have been a bad idea. Headline after headline, speculating about why you'd go on vacation when your high-profile case isn't finished yet.

You toss your phone aside and grab a towel, wrapping her up in it. You nod at the door.

"Inside. Now."

She doesn't argue. Your wife doesn't want topless pictures of her going viral, and neither do you. You shield her as best as you can, shooing her into the house and locking all the doors and windows. Once the curtains are closed as well, you sit down on the counter to call a few people.

Natasha doesn't need to be told what to do. Unfortunately, she's used to this. It's even worse than that time where paparazzi chased her around the city.

"This is unacceptable", you bark, sliding off the counter. You're too pent up. You need to pace, otherwise you'll explode. "This is a private villa. Nobody should be able to approach it... No, I want you to fucking go outside and get rid of them!"

You scrub a face down your hand as they continue to find excuses.

"No", you say firmly. "Complete privacy was guaranteed, yet you failed to provide it. I can take legal action against you."

Natasha, leaning against the wall in one of your shirts, gives you a tired look. She's not mad at you. She's mad at the fact that, recently, everything seems to be going wrong.

You bite your lip as you look at her, guilt churning in your stomach. Your time here had started well. Ice cream, late night swims, sex in the hammock and privacy. No distractions, no worries. Too good to be true, apparently.

The resort manager apologizes once more, promising to take care of the issue immediately, then hangs up. You're not done there — your PR team and some of the employees at your law firm follow. About half a dozen calls later, you exhale shakily and put your phone aside.

Your eyes meet. It's eerily silent in the way too big villa.

It's just the two of you. Suddenly, you don't get why you had to book this real estate-monster. A nice hotel room would've done the trick. Actually, your penthouse would've done the trick as well.

Natasha doesn't say anything, just clenches her jaw. You rub your neck.

"What do you want?", you ask quietly. She tilts her head. "I've called the shots way too many times. It's not fair."

"I want you."

"You have me."

"Do I?"

You frown, blinking. "Of course you do. You always do."

She bites the insides of her cheeks. You step closer, tentatively. She lets you.

"Tell me", you mumble, grabbing her hand. She glances down at your entwined fingers. "Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

Natasha sighs. She squeezes your fingers.

She knows you're being sincere. Whatever she asks for — she gets it. Vacations, expensive rings, perfumes specifically designed for her. You treat her like royalty, but your time together is limited.

"I told you", she says carefully. "If that's something you can even do."

Your free hand comes up to straighten the collar of the shirt she's wearing. She swallows when your fingertips brush against her neck.

"I can do anything."

"I'll believe it when I see it", she teases, her heart heavy. "Let's just stay here."

You hum, looking up, and take that last step that brings your bodies flush together.

"And the photographers? The paps?"

"Screw them", she says. Her fingers hook into the pockets of your swim trunks, keeping you pressed against her. "Actually, sue them. They'll probably leave us alone."

You hesitate. Now that your location is known, there's the possibility that this will keep happening. The resort manager assured you it wouldn't, that they'd take the necessary steps and guarantee complete privacy and safety everywhere. But they failed to provide it once, and you don't gamble — especially not when it comes to your wife.

"I don't know", you say quietly.

Natasha studies you. Way too many words lie on the tip of her tongue, way too many fears and doubts. She wouldn't be this intent on staying if she didn't think you'll go straight back to work as soon as you arrive home.

You know her, though. You know what she's thinking. You kiss her.

"Okay", you mumble, pecking her lips again. "We'll stay. The full week."

A breath of relief. Arms wrap around your neck. Outside, the photographers find a curtain that's nudged aside just enough to provide a glimpse of you.

. . .

— VIENNA, AUSTRIA —

Your fingers ghost over her arms. You adjust the straps of her dress, then push her hair aside to kiss her shoulder. Perfumed skin, warm and soft to the touch. You look at her in the mirror and press another kiss to her ear.

"You're beautiful."

Natasha turns and brings her hands up to your hair. It's messy, but in a nice way. She brushes her fingers through the gelled strands. "I like this on you."

"I know."

"Mhm?"

"You're not exactly subtle", you reply and quickly kiss her cheek. "I noticed years ago."

Natasha hums, studying you. She smoothes her hands down your front and makes sure everything sits right. The tie, the shirt, the rings on your hands. They match her own jewelry. A small detail, but it's enough. Enough for her to kiss you.

Dark chocolate and vanilla. You deepen the kiss and pull her closer. Your hands toy with the silky fabric of her dress.

"So", she mumbles, briefly pulling away, "business dinner, huh."

"Not exactly." You nuzzle her cheek with your nose, then step away. "Just...dinner. But an exclusive one. I don't know, a bunch of CEO's will be there and I feel like it can't hurt to charm a few of them."

"You?", she teases, turning around to slip her heels on. You watch her, the adoration in your eyes unconcealed and simple. "In your suit and with your short hair? Charm old men?"

A crooked grin tugs at your lips. She has a point. For obvious reasons, you don't seem to check the boxes of what straight old men are attracted to. Not just that — they seem to actually resent you. Probably because, despite it all, you married someone they can only fantasize about.

"Fair", you say. You can't help yourself. You take a few steps closer and wrap your arms around her, feeling her rounded backside press against your crotch. "Good thing I got you."

"I see. I'm the eye candy, huh?"

"Mhm." You kiss her shoulder. Your fingers sneakily nudge aside the strap of her dress. "Eye candy for them."

Natasha laughs quietly. "And you? What about you, hotshot?"

You go quiet, lips lingering on her shoulder. Your hands rest on her stomach, squeezing and rubbing gently.

"Too many words", you mumble, "and not enough time. We gotta leave."

The Palais Coburg. Massive wrought-iron gates, a red carpet rolled over the stairs, marble steps and a white-stone facade. High society and wealth, packed into one restaurant.

You get out of the limousine and round it to get to Natasha's side. You open the door and she puts her hand in yours. Around you, camera lights flash. The smile on her lips is polite and practiced. She's used to this.

You aren't, though. You should be — you're the one with the famous parents, the one who grew up surrounded by cameras, the one who knew how to dodge paparazzi before you knew how to long divide. Yet you're still the one who looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

You fight your way into the restaurant. By the time you get inside, you feel like you're sweating through your suit. Natasha watches you tug at the collar of your shirt a few times, then she leans in and loosens your tie.

"Are you sweaty? I'm sweaty."

"I'm good", she replies, brushing her thumb over the lapel of your suit. She's close, so close you can smell her perfume. It's that special blend you had a luxury perfumer create just for her. "You're good, too."

"I'm not good", you mumble, scanning the room. The people walking past you are exactly the kind you usually surround yourself with — mostly out of obligation —, but you feel like someone who randomly ended up here. "What am I even doing?"

"Hey", she says, tugging you closer by your tie. "None of that, hotshot. You're not alone, are you? So stop acting like you are. Anything goes wrong, I'm getting you out of here."

"But-"

"But no." She presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. She smiles when she sees the smudged lipstick on your skin. "Come on. I'm starving."

There's no point in arguing. You trail after her, grasping her hand, looking a little like a lost puppy that's clinging to the only source of comfort it knows.

Nothing should be able to go wrong in a place like this one. Vaulted ceilings and massive chandeliers, mirrors that reflect suits and form-hugging dresses, arched windows and candlelight. A pianist, not unlike the one who played at your wedding, is sitting in the corner.

Nobody's loud here. The voices are soft, hushed, exchanging secrets that aren't nearly as precious as it's pretended they are. You stare at a group of people, zoning out. Natasha brings you back to reality.

You give her an apologetic look. She nods at the table.

Everything is fine at first. You're served caviar, figs prosciutto, wine. You talk to a few people, introduce Natasha, hold her hand and twist her wedding ring whenever everyone else becomes too much.

You're not sure where you go wrong.

Maybe it's when you let go of her hand. When the closeness, once comforting, suddenly becomes as overwhelming as the dozens of conversations happening around you. When you close your eyes, rub your temple.

No. That's not it. Natasha knows what's going on, and she doesn't blame you. You may be a lawyer, a businesswoman. You may deal with insufferable clients and judges and opponents and employees all the time — but you're used to being on your own. You're used to the silence of your office, to the soft hum and her slow breaths in the darkness of your bedroom. But big events? They still freak you out.

Steak is served next, accompanied by aligot and an array of colorful vegetables. More wine. You down it like it's water.

Once you're right between tipsy and drunk, you're doing better. Much better. It's almost over the top, considering how you were too close to spiraling just moments ago.

A CEO turns to you, introducing himself. He's polite at first. He seems interested, and competent. Everything about him is typical — old-money, rich, well-respected. You should want his approval and, at first, you do.

Then, he starts pointing out things that aren't his to point out. He asks about Natasha — which is good. You like talking about her, being able to introduce her. She's that one part of your life that makes every other part worth it. You once used to do this without her. You're not sure if you could anymore.

Most of his questions are expected. 'You're married?' 'For how long?' 'Where?'

People like him tend to be nosy, though. They thrive on watching others feel uncomfortable, inferior. From the moment he saw you, he recognized you. Best believe he's not a fan.

He takes a long sip of wine, studying Natasha with that kind of look that always makes you wary. Most rich people have no shame. They can buy their way out of almost everything.

"So", he says, swirling the dark red liquid around, "married a bartender, huh?"

Your grip on her hand tightens. He saw the headlines — the ones being released right after your marriage. To this day, you don't know who leaked Natasha's former profession. You don't know why it should be important, either. You do know that everyone expected you to follow in your parents' footsteps and marry someone who's in a similar social class as you (which would already cancel out over 99% of people). Ideally, a man. Ideally, you'd have swapped the suit for a dress and let your hair grow out.

"I did", you reply. Your thumb rubs her knuckles, firmly. A desperate attempt at reigning in your composure. You're too drunk to start arguing. "She makes a mean martini."

"Oh, really?" He nods, looking at her again. Really looking. From head to toe, from her high heels to her makeup. She averts her eyes. "Well, maybe it'll work out."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He raises his eyebrows. You give him a challenging look and ignore Natasha squeezing your hand. Drinking this much wasn't a good idea. You're a little too loose-lipped.

"I'm just saying", he says, leaning back in his chair. His beer belly makes his shirt strain. "When two people — especially with such different life experiences — jump into marriage like that? It doesn't end well. You should've looked for someone who's in your league."

Your hand slips away from hers before she can do anything. Thankfully, she manages to catch your wrists just before your hands twitch toward his collar.

"You take that back now."

The older man stares at you, stunned. "Why are you young people so sensitive these days? Child, I've seen way too many marriages break up over absurd things. There are differences that love just can't overcome."

You try to pull free from her grasp, but Natasha's relentless. "Get yourself together", she whispers.

"You're saying an awful lot for someone who's here without a wife", you snap, still wiggling your wrists. "Nobody could stand being married to you, huh? Have fun dying and leaving that shit ton of money behind for nobody."

"That is unacceptable-"

"It is?" You laugh bitterly and give pulling free one last attempt. Natasha keeps hissing at you to stop, to shut up and go outside with her, but you're drunk and furious and this entitled shit-bag is the perfect target for your anger. "You don't know anything about my marriage. Anything. We're doing perfectly fine! We're happy! Are you happy? You don't seem happy!"

By now, the entire room is staring. Conversations have turned into whispers that are both scandalized and amused. You're still glaring daggers at the man.

"Someone who's happy wouldn't spend this much time defending their happiness", he says, voice curt and cold.

He's right. You know it, and Natasha knows it. That's why you finally break free and grab your wine glass, dumping it right into his face.

Gasps and chairs screeching on marble floors. Natasha jumps up and grabs your arm, pulling you straight toward the exit. You try resisting — you're leaving, which means you'll be alone, which means a conversation you're not ready for.

Natasha? On the verge of tears. On the verge of starting the worst fight you've had so far.

Because it isn't about you defending your marriage. It's about how you did it. About how it seemed like you're trying to prove something. Like overcompensation. Like fearing the truth being said out loud. You were too desperate, too terrified of what he was saying.

If you were confident in what you and her have, you would've laughed it off. But you didn't. You did something that was even worse than what she was fearing.

The car ride is silent. Natasha's behind the wheel this time. If you're drunk enough to cause a scene like that, then you're definitely too drunk to drive.

The hotel appears in front of you. Natasha stops the car, but neither of you get out.

"You want to tell me something?", she finally says.

"No", you mutter, slumped into the seat. You screwed up, and now you'll have to pay for it. "I'm good. We're good."

"Stop lying."

You turn your head, frowning. "Don't tell me you believe what that old bastard said. He's old and unhappy. Probably just pissed he'll have to plan a funeral no one important will attend."

"That's not what this is about!"

"Oh, no?" You sit up and hit your head against the roof of the car. You glower and rub the spot. "What's the issue, then? The whole 'bartender'-thing? 'Cause you know I don't care about that!"

"Can you stop deflecting for just one goddamn minute!", she says, turning in her seat to face you entirely. "Why were you so afraid? Why did you lose it back there?"

You stare at her, breathing heavily. You can't take it. You're drunk, defensive, spiraling. You don't know how to handle this. So you do the only thing you know how to do.

You grab her face and slam your lips against hers. Natasha moans in surprise, her hands flying to your neck. You start tugging her into your lap, and she resists at first. But one soft 'please' is enough for her to break and straddle you.

Clothes barely come off. There's no need to get undressed. You're still in the car, still in front of the hotel. Being caught would be bad enough already — it'd be all over the news, just like those stupid pictures from Bora Bora. So all you can do is bunch up her dress a little and dip your hand underneath it.

She squirms and grinds against your palm. Breathless sounds escape her, her breathing heavy. You trail kisses down her neck and mouth at her shoulder. Your lips brush against the necklace she's wearing. It's the one you got her as an apology for having to work on a holiday.

Your fingers nudge the fabric of her underwear to the side. You rub circles on her clit, then pump your fingers into her. Natasha's back arches.

No 'I love you'. No kisses. No softness. You feel too much to express it.

You thrust your fingers into her, pressing your knuckles in deep. She buries her face in your hair, smelling guava and hair gel. Her fingers toy with your earring.

Tingles shoot up and down her spine. She shivers against you, hips jerking forward and thighs shaking with the effort of keeping herself upright. She comes around your fingers, pulsing and throbbing hotly, and you pull out.

Outside, a car pulls up. You adjust Natasha's dress before getting out of the car with her. You sneak into the hotel using the side entrance that the staff gave you a key for. You're still not talking. Silence fills the vast space between you as you hush through hallways and find the staff-only elevator.

She looks at you. You've got her pushed up against the wall before she can say a word, her butt pressing random buttons on the control panel.

No talking. Gasping into each other's mouths is easier.

It's a game of guessing. You stop at random floors, but don't pay much attention to them. When you hear your floor get announced, you briefly break the kiss only to dive back in.

The elevator door opens and you step out into the hallway, still lost in each other. You fumble with the zipper of her dress before you're even halfway to your suite. Ragged breaths and lips against skin, her fingers unbuttoning your shirt.

Your back is against the door to your suite. You slide the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and the piece of fabric pools at her feet. She steps out of it, one leg between yours. Gripping her thigh and hoisting it up, you pepper kisses along her collarbone.

Her scent is literally just hers. A mix of her special perfume and the scent that always envelops her early in the morning, the one that makes you bury your face in her neck sleepily. You've done that not nearly enough times. You wish you'd set the alarm an hour later more often.

Natasha's hand sneaks past your hip. She unlocks the door and opens it, making you both stumble into the room. You don't even care that you left her expensive dress in the hallway.

More clothes come off. Your tie, shirt, slacks. Her bra and underwear. You make a pleading sound against her neck and press her down into the mattress. Her hand in your hair, you trail kisses all over her body, worship every inch, before parting her thighs and burying your face between them.

She tastes familiar. You spent your first night together doing exactly this. Something cold wraps around your stomach, twisting and squeezing, when an unbidden thought hits you. What if you spend your last night together doing that same thing, too?

Your train of thought is interrupted. It's hard to think straight when you've got her thighs wrapped around your head. Your nose nudges her clit in silent reassurance, then you continue eating her out.

Manicured nails dig into your scalp, massaging lightly. You drink her down, grip her hips, pin them in place. A raw moan, sweet and wrecked. Her thighs are slick with sweat, and she comes for a second time that night.

You swallow and look up, cheeks slick. Natasha's staring at the ceiling, still trying to catch her breath. You hesitate before pressing a kiss to her thigh. She looks at you when you crawl up to face her.

Your index finger tips her chin in your direction. Lips still swollen and tasting like her, you kiss her.

She pulls away after a moment. You lay down and let her curl into you, head on your chest and one leg thrown over yours. You rub her thigh, staring into nothingness, feeling everything hang between you. Her fingers draw circles on your side. The room smells like perfume, candles, faintly like sex.

The memories from earlier sober you right up.

You should feel at peace. Neither of you do. Words tumble out of you, sharp and stabbing at what's left of you.

"You think we rushed it? Marriage, I mean?"

Natasha's hand stills, her entire body seeming to pause. Slowly, she continues tracing your ribcage.

"Where's that coming from?", she asks, turning her head so her nose is pressed against your chest.

"What do you think?", you mumble. "We're a fucking mess."

Natasha exhales, her breath shaky. Her fingers curl into your skin, grasping for something. She's not sure what she's holding onto, but she knows letting go isn't an option.

"You're saying you want a divorce?"

"What?" You almost shoot up and out of bed. Natasha lets out a surprised noise and you quickly wrap your arms around her. "God, no! No. Not a divorce. Just...I don't know. I feel like if we keep going like this, it...it might become an option."

She closes her eyes. The necklace she's wearing doesn't feel as suffocating anymore.

"You want to change something."

Not a question. A statement. You kiss her hair.

"Yeah." You take a breath, smelling her shampoo. "Not just 'something.' More like everything."

"Oh yeah?" She looks up, chin on your chest, eyes both lazy and wary. "Think you can do that, hotshot?"

You hum, studying her. You brush your fingers along her jaw. You're tipsy, but you're genuine.

"For you, I think I can do anything."

Natasha scoffs but smiles. Her hand comes up to your face, squishing your cheeks and making you roll your eyes. You tilt your head and awkwardly kiss her thumb.

"You mean that."

"I do."

"And that thing at dinner?"

You feel your cheeks heat up, a rosy flush creeping into your face. That's what she does to you — she managed to make you forget about the fact that you threw a glass of wine into some CEO's face.

"About that", you mumble, resting your forehead against hers, "what was the guy's name?"

"Gerard Ash-something."

"Ashford??"

"Yeah, that", she says, kissing your chest. You sigh. "You don't sound too happy."

"His business is a fucking empire, babe", you say tiredly. You really screwed up. "He's one of the most successful people of the century. He has connections to literally everyone. How did I not recognize him?"

Natasha shrugs, her hand sliding up and down your side. "Face blindness?"

"You're hilarious", you mutter. You pull her closer until she's basically on top of you. "I think he shaved his beard."

"Well, he should've kept it. Maybe it would've helped with that gush of wine he nearly choked on."

You pinch her side and she flinches. Her hand slaps your arm, lightly, and you laugh into her hair.

"It's fine", you say, then let out a sigh. You embarrassed yourself and your wife. You also probably ruined your career. "At least it'll make selling the company easier for me."

"The company that's lost a bunch of its worth?"

Silence. You exhale.

"That one, yes."

Natasha looks up, and you give her a guilty look. It's out in the open now. You're not sure why you've been hiding it from her. She's your wife, your partner. You should've told her. But how could you? It's not like anyone ever told you wealth or success aren't the keys to love and happiness. Quite the contrary.

Besides, you met her when you were at your peak. When your business was thriving, and your career as a lawyer. When everything seemed perfect. Now, you have to disappoint her. Your business has been failing, and all your attempts at saving it were in vain.

"You should've told me", she says.

"I didn't want to scare you." You pause, closing your eyes. "You noticed?"

"No", she says. "It seems obvious now, though. You were overworking yourself all the time, and there was no real reason for you to do that."

You let out a short, bitter laugh. "Thought I could fix the unfixable."

Natasha smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. You've been keeping secrets from her. She understands why, but does it sting? Does it wound her pride? Yes. In a way, yes.

She stays quiet for a few seconds, her fingers drumming against your side. She's not sure she wants to know the details. She asks, anyway.

"How bad is it?"

"It's still fine", you say vaguely. "Even if I stop working, we're financially sorted for the rest of our lives. It still sucks, though. My family..."

"Honestly, fuck your family."

You crack a smile and kiss her temple. "So charming."

She sits up enough to make you look at her. "I'm serious. Y/N, even if you have to sell the company, we'll do okay. I'll find a job, you can work as a lawyer in some law firm."

"I'll go from CEO to employee. Lovely."

She grasps your chin, eyebrows raised. "Hey."

You lift your hands. "Okay, okay. I get it."

"I'm just saying. As long as you're telling the truth, we'll be alright."

You nod, your throat suddenly feeling tighter. You should've had more faith in her, should've known she'd react like this. You pull her in and kiss her, one hand resting on her lower back.

"I picked the right girl, you know."

"Mhm?"

"Yeah." You smile softly, brushing your thumb over her cheek. She's leans in again, lips grazing yours, hand resting over your heart.

Maybe you will be alright.

. . .

— ŠIBENIK, CROATIA —

The ocean glitters in the sunlight. Birds chirp, cars drive by. A beach, concealed by a bunch of trees and basically empty. It's noon, which means that, at least according to locals, the sun is at its most aggressive — best to stay indoors for the next few hours.

It's not like Natasha cares about that, though. She's perched on the wooden table on the porch, a bowl of figs next to her, hair damp and tousled from the breeze. You join her outside and kiss her forehead.

"Hungry?"

"Filled up on figs", she says, hooking her index finger into the pocket of your shorts and tugging you closer. "What did you have in mind?"

"There's this restaurant in one of the surrounding areas", you say, leaning against the table. "A tiny one, but apparently really good. Freshest fish you'll ever eat."

"I think I've filled up on fish, too", she teases. "But sounds good."

"We don't have to. We can grab a bite at the bakery, if you want. The heat's kinda killing my appetite."

"Sounds even better." She puts her hand on your nape and pulls you into a kiss. Her fingers toy with the short hairs at the back of your neck.

Definitely figs. Their taste is all over her tongue. You step closer, put your hands on her waist, feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her tank top. Gone are the dresses and expensive blouses.

You deepen the kiss. Natasha tugs at you so you're standing between her legs. Her thighs are snug around your hips.

When she pulls away, the redness of your cheeks results from something that definitely isn't a sunburn. You exhale, lips twitching, and steal another kiss before she can notice.

You break the second kiss and cup her cheek. She's warm, and you're not sure if she's already developing a sunburn.

"You should go inside", you say, grabbing one of the figs and peeling it. "You heard our neighbor."

Natasha sighs and leans back on her hands, head lolling back. You bend down and kiss her knee.

"I mean it", you say. "Come on, we'll go swimming later."

Reluctantly, she slides off the table. She'd probably live outside if she could, and you don't blame her. The air is salty from the ocean and sweet from the fig trees, the sun is warm, the world seems at peace. It's so unlike your penthouse in Manhattan, and it only confirms that moving here for a while was a good idea.

Why stay in New York, anyway? Your company has been sold. You're currently unemployed, for the first time since you were 16. Staying in the US didn't make any sense. You don't regret coming here — you only regret not coming here sooner.

It's healing, that's what it is. You're not just married, but actually in a marriage now. She's not your wife, but your partner. Whatever you'd been doing wrong before has been fixed. And for the first time, there's no hurry. You're allowed to exist with her, in the same space, and don't have to worry about anything but the two of you anymore.

Inside, it's cold from the air conditioning. After being outside for over an hour, it's enough to give Natasha whiplash. You pull her into your side.

"Told you not to stay outside. It's too hot."

"And I told you to get sunshades."

Smiling faintly, you roll your eyes and let go once you reach the kitchen. You grab the empty bowl from her and watch the sticky residue of the figs away. You only notice how she's gotten closer when she wraps her arms around your middle, her front pressed against your back.

"I don't want to leave, you know."

"Mhm?"

"It's nice here. Nicer than New York." She kisses your shoulder, lips lingering. "Maybe we could stay a little longer."

You hum. You did buy the house for this specific reason — so you can stay as long as you please to, return whenever you like. You have the necessary money, too. And if Natasha wants to stay? You're staying.

"I like that", you say. Her hand slides under your shirt and splays out on your abs. "We'll stay, then. How long did you have in mind?"

"I don't know." Lips press against your neck, again and again, covering your skin in kisses. She nuzzles your shoulder. "Maybe until we get started on our family."

'Family' could mean anything. You don't need the specifics — you feel like you'll be happy with anything.

You're in this together, after all.

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

The Maid - Part 4

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 2245

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: Thank you for the continued support! You all make my day with your comments and theories. :)

Read part 3 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

You sit at the kitchen table nervously, drumming your fingers on the wood. You knew Wanda would be home late–she never had the respect to give you a proper timeline for her outings. The clock tells you that it’s a little past midnight, and sleepiness burns in the corners of your eyes, but you told yourself you aren’t going to bed until this is all over. 

You run the lines over in your head. What you want to say to her exactly, what you’ll counter with if she reacts well or poorly. You’ve waited long enough to have this conversation, perhaps too long, but Natasha finally gave you the push you needed.

“Do you still love her?” Natasha asks softly after you tell her the whole story of your wife’s philandering. 

You don’t answer. Deep down, you know your love for her was being tested to its breaking point, and you weren’t so sure it would survive after this. “I’ll talk to her tonight, when she comes home,” you say. “You should probably go home. I can’t imagine it’ll be a pretty conversation.”

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Natasha insists. “You shouldn’t be alone to do something like that.” Your heart melts, and for a moment you want to get up and kiss her. Not that you wanted to pull a Wanda, but you couldn’t ignore how beautiful and generous your maid was. She was excellent at her job; never complained and went above and beyond, even when your wife was being a total bitch. She treated you with the respect and kindness you deserved. She was everything you wanted in a partner and more. 

But you were stuck with Wanda. For now, at least.

“Are you sure? Wanda might be home late and I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay just for me,” you say. 

“It’s fine. She won’t even know I’m here. I can leave out the back door,” Natasha says.

“Thank you, Natasha.” Her support means more to you than you’re allowed to express. 

“You’re welcome.”

Now, with Natasha hiding in the kitchen, the two of you wait.

***********************************************************************

You accidentally doze off and wake with a start when you hear the garage door open. For a moment, you don’t even remember where you are or why.

“Natasha? Are you still here?” you whisper as loud as you dare.

“Yes.” Her head pokes out from around the corner of the kitchen.

Relief fills you. You were worried she would ditch you after all, not that you would’ve blamed her in the slightest. “Wanda’s home,” you tell her, and she nods and disappears again. At least you didn’t have to face your wife entirely alone.

You sit rigidly still on the couch until your wife walks in, almost passing you at first. 

“You’re back,” you say, and she jumps, reaching for the light switch and revealing you on the couch.

“I said I’d be back tonight,” she says.

“Who were you out with?”

“My girlfriends.”

“No.” You stand up and walk over to her. You are a great deal taller than her and for once she looks like she feels her size around you. “Who did you go out with tonight?”

Wanda doesn’t make eye contact with you. “You know…Carol, Darcy–”

“Are you fucking them too?”

“Excuse me?” Wanda draws back from you until she bumps into the bookshelf.

“You heard me,” you say through clenched teeth. “Were you fucking them too?”

“No. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because I know you spend all your free time fucking anything that moves behind my back.”

The silence in the air is electric. Your heart is thundering in your chest so hard you wonder if Natasha can hear it. Wanda’s eyes widen. 

“I...I’ve never done that,” she says, but her falter shows her lie. “How dare you suggest–”

You take your phone out and show Wanda the screen. She squints at it in confusion at first, then a shadow of horror passes over her face when she realizes it’s the camera view from the little ceramic turtle you planted in the china cabinet, now showing the two of you standing there.

“You hid a camera in my own home–” Wanda starts.

“I hid a shit ton of cameras in our home,” you say. 

“So this is why your business is failing,” she cackles, and the switch in topic throws you for a loop. “You spend all day watching and stalking me in our home when you’re supposed to be working. No wonder you don’t bring home any money. Not only are you a shitty spouse, you’re also a shitty worker.”

Anger explodes inside of you, and for a moment your control slips. You lunge for Wanda, not even sure what you’ll do once you grab her, but she slams her palms to your chest and sends you staggering back. She turns and yanks a book off the shelf, removing a revolver from the pages and pointing it towards you with trembling hands.

“Don’t get any closer to me, you fucking creep!” she yells.

Your anger dissolves into concern. “Put the gun down, Wanda. Please. Let’s just talk about this like adults–”

“Oh, now you want to talk like adults?” Wanda laughs manically. “Where was this before you started illegally recording me in my own home?”

“You’re fucking cheating on me!” you scream, losing your composure again. “I moved us into this big house, in this nice neighborhood, and you’re just so fucking ungrateful for any of it!”

“I didn’t want any of it to begin with!” Wanda returns.

“Why not? Because you had to leave behind your fuck buddies in our old neighborhood?”

“You’re the exact same person here as you were over there. A self-righteous piece of shit,” she seethes.

“If you’re so sick of me, why don’t you divorce me?” you ask. “Oh wait.” You snap your fingers. “I bet no one would want to sleep with a washed-up divorcee. Because where’s the fun in that?”

Wanda turns the gun around and points it at her temple. “I’ll kill myself if you divorce me,” she says, then shifts the gun to point towards her chest, “But I’ll make it look like you did it.”

The blood in your veins chills at the thought. “Give me the gun, Wanda.”

“Take it from me,” she goads.

While you have very little confidence in your disarming tactics, you do know you’re stronger and faster than Wanda. You also don’t fully believe that she’ll kill herself right here, so that gives you an advantage of time. 

Before a plan even forms in your head, you reach out with your arm and slap Wanda’s hand away from her head. She startles and drops the gun; you expect her to dive after it but instead she whirls around and punches you in the face. Despite all of her faults, she’s never outright hit you before, and your vision swims as your head whiplashes against the bookshelf. 

“You crazy motherfucker,” Wanda screeches, punching you again and you fall to the floor, instinctively curling into a ball to protect yourself. Her foot slams into your ribs and for a second, you can’t believe you’re getting the beating of a lifetime from your own wife.

Meanwhile, Natasha is in utter shock at the events unfolding in front of her. She feels like she’s overstepping some serious boundaries, but she can’t leave you now, especially with Wanda having the upper hand. 

“Wanda, stop!” she hears you gasp as Wanda grabs hold of Crime and Punishment uses it like a weapon, raising it behind her head and smashing it against your body over and over. Natasha can’t bear to stand there anymore. She has to protect you from your insane, deranged wife.

Natasha crosses the living room in four leaping strides and picks up the revolver. Wanda looks shocked more by her presence than the fact that she’s now staring down the barrel of her own gun. 

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Wanda says.

“Get away from Y/N,” Natasha says, holding the gun in both hands. The weight feels disconcertingly familiar, and despite her nerves, she isn’t shaking.

“Are you fucking her?” Wanda suddenly turns to you. “You’ve got some nerve watching me get it on with the neighbors when you’ve been fucking our maid–”

“Shut up!” Natasha yells. “I’m not doing anything with Y/N!” she says, although she wishes that wasn’t the truth.

“I don’t believe that.” Wanda marches over to Natasha, leaving you unraveling on the floor. Blood drips from your nose and mouth, and Natasha can see the purpling bruise on your cheek. “Vision told me Y/N took you to see Wicked on my anniversary–”

“Because you couldn’t be bothered to remember and go yourself!” Natasha says.

Wanda is too enraged to quiet. “How dare you enter my house, take advantage of my kindness, and take my partner to bed–���

“Back off!” Natasha says, raising the gun until it’s almost level with Wanda’s eyes. “Not everyone is a cheating whore like you.”

Both Wanda and Natasha seem shocked by her choice of words. Natasha’s arms shake as they drop a few inches. She won’t hold back anymore–but neither will Wanda.

“You little bitch.” Wanda draws her arm back. Natasha flinches and squeezes the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot is much, much louder in an enclosed space, and Natasha’s ears ring so hard they hurt. Wanda stands before her, her jaw dropped in shock. A stain of blood grows on her shirt, centered over her bellybutton. 

“Oh my God. Wanda, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Natasha gasps, unable to wrap her head around her own actions. 

“You…You shot me,” Wanda says, grabbing her stomach as she falls. Natasha tries to catch her but misses; you appear behind Wanda and lower her slowly to the floor. “How is that possible?” She looks up at you and your face is pale with shock. “You fucking shot me!”

“Nat,” you whisper. “Nat, give me the gun.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Natasha cries, handing you the weapon and backing away from the two of you. “I thought she was going to hit me and–”

“It’s okay.” You stand up, wobbling a little, and rush to her side. “Go home Nat, okay? Go through the back door and jump the fences if you have to. And if anyone asks where you were tonight, you weren’t here.”

“No, no.” Natasha fights the tears threatening to spill out. “That’s wrong. I did this, I want to take responsibility for it–”

“No,” you say. “With your background, you’ll be locked in prison the rest of your life, if you don’t get deported first.”

“M-My background?” Natasha stammers. “How do you know about–”

You shake your head, indicating now is not the time to have this discussion. “For the record, it never made me trust you any less.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” You reach out and grab her hand. It calms Natasha instantly. “Go now. Let me handle this. I’ll come find you when this is all over.”

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha sobs.

“It wasn’t your fault. Now get out of here, please!”

Natasha doesn’t wait to hear you instruct her again. She looks at you, her savior, one last time, completely ignoring Wanda laying on the floor, before dashing off towards the garage. It’s pitch-black, but she doesn’t dare turn on a light, and fumbles for the back door. Outside, the air is nippy and her breath clouds in front of her face. She takes a deep breath to orient herself, then runs headfirst towards the neighbor’s fence, hauling herself over it as quietly as she can, crossing their yard, and leaping over the next fence. 

She has to jump over two more yards before she gets to the street, racing to her Nissan and peeling away down the street. In the safety of her car, the realization crashes over her and she can’t stop the waterworks. 

She can’t believe she shot your wife. She can’t believe you knew her background. Clint had told her no one would find out what she had done in Russia after she assumed a new identity, but you had found out somehow. And yet, you were still okay hiring her even after you knew she had killed her former boss. 

The sounds of sirens pierce her thoughts and Natasha seizes up. A black-and-white police car races by. Either you had called them, or a neighbor had heard the shouting and gunshot. Natasha prays her presence had gone undetected. She had never been more thankful Wanda forced her to park down the street, where her car was less likely to be seen. 

She wonders if she’ll ever get to see you again.

***********************************************************************

After Natasha leaves, you take a moment to absorb your surroundings. Wanda is gurgling and crying on the floor, pressing her palms against her stomach, blood spilling through her fingers and on the tiles Natasha had mopped earlier that day.

Your grip tightens on the gun as you move to stand over Wanda, where she can fully see you. Your body throbs where she hit you, and you know you don’t look much better than her. Blood bubbles out of her mouth. She can’t speak anymore, but her eyes are fiery and pleading.

You lift the gun, which feels like a thousand pounds in your hand.

“Someone should’ve done this a long time ago.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Welp, that escalated quickly. Will Wanda live? Should she?? 👀

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

- dirty girl -

natasha romanoff x reader - 18+ - smut - reader has a penis - 1.7k

“This is the best idea you’ve had…” You moan as Natasha pulls you into her bedroom, pushing you up against the door and pressing hard kisses into your neck. Your hands comb through her hair to get a firm hold of her, pushing her harder into you, her hands moving to unbutton your shirt. 

“Don’t know how your ex-girlfriend would feel about it though…” You groan after she scratches her nails down your chest towards your trousers.

“How about we don’t talk about my ex while we do this? Huh?” Natasha mumbles back against your lips her hands finally undoing your trousers and pulling them off of your hips, watching them fall to the ground. 

“Now, you either fuck me or you can go back to the party, your choice. I know which one I’d prefer…” Natasha says as she takes a step back, pulling her dress off of herself and leaving her standing in white lacy lingerie. 

You don't bother answering, you simply take a step forward, your hands falling on her waist as you pull her into yourself and meet her lips.

Both of your hands roam each other's bodies, your hands squeezing her breasts while hers go for your crotch. 

“Fuck, you're so beautiful.” You moan as you start moving your hands south, the wetness already clinging to her panties. Your underwear becomes tighter having to accommodate your length. 

Natasha makes quick work pulling your boxers down, your member standing at attention as she takes off her lingerie at record speed. Pulling you down onto the bed leaving you to lay on top of her, her legs instantly surrounding your waist as your member rubs against her wet, slick folds. You both can't stop the moans falling from your lips.

“Now fuck me…” Natasha smirks, her legs tightening around you as you waste no time entering her.

“Shit!” You practically shout, her wet walls tightly contracting around you to accommodate your length. You press your hips slowly against her own, letting her get used to your size before she whimpers and nods her head for you to finally move. 

Natasha’s moans drown out your own, pure pornographic screams falling from her lips as your hips move at an animalistic pace. You’ve wanted this since the moment you laid eyes on her but she had been taken, but now your time is finally here after her breakup only two weeks ago. You should feel guilty, but with the moans falling from her lips, her nails scratching down your back and the way she clenches around you so hard that you can hardly pull out, the guilt leaves you as you completely become focused on her. 

“FUCK-ing hell, you feel so good!” Natasha screams, her body stilling before she falls over the edge, her body then convulsing as she lets go. You slow your thrusts letting her ride her high before you pull out and sit on your heels, watching her cum drip down herself. 

Your member throbs, begging for release. You need to cum. 

Natasha’s eyes meet yours before she smirks, rolling over onto her stomach, and moving to arch her back while on her knees and turning her head to you. 

“What are you waiting for?” She husks, arousal swirling in her eyes as she wiggles her ass towards you. You jump on her instantly. Filling her whole while grabbing her hips and pulling her down hard onto yourself over and over to meet your thrusts. You won't last long, not with this view. Not with your hands gripping her hips so tightly you're sure that you're going to leave bruises. Her curves perfect as you get lost in them. 

One of your hands leaves her hip, grabbing her hair to pull her back flush against your chest. Your hand moves to her neck to hold her against you securely. Her head leans against your neck, her mouth right next to your ear, moans and gasps leaving her lips only driving you crazy. 

“Natasha?” Someone speaks through the door, your thrusts stopping for a second before you recognize the voice. Her ex. 

“Answer her.” You whisper to her, your hips starting to move again as she shakes her head no.

“Answer her, or I stop.” Your hand tightens around her neck, her eyes bore into yours as she clenches around you over the threat. 

“Yeah?” Natasha says shakily, her mouth opening in a silent moan as your hips start moving again. 

“Good girl.” You whisper. Her eyes roll into the back of her head in response.

“Can we talk? Please?” Natasha's head lulls to the side, her teeth biting into your neck to hide another moan from a hard thrust she is given. 

“Now isn’t a good time!” She shouts back. A moan slips through as she speaks. 

“Natasha, are you okay?” Her ex says again, but Natasha can’t respond, too lost in the pleasure she is receiving when your hand leaves her neck and moves to her clit, rubbing hard circles onto her as you finally near your own orgasm, wanting her to fall apart with you. 

“Ugh, Fuckkkk, I’m-I’m fine!” Natasha moans, no longer caring about being heard through the door. 

“You dirty fucking girl. You want her to know someone else is in here fucking you, don't you? I bet she never made you feel like this, huh? Couldn't fuck you as well as I am?” You moan against her neck, letting your teeth sink into her and sucking, making sure to leave your mark.

“No, she didn’t! Shit! I’m gonna cum!” Natasha breathes into the room, your thumb speeding up on her clit as you somehow get your thrusts to speed up even more as you near the edge yourself.

“Natasha! I’m coming in!” The door bursts open. 

Natasha’s head turns towards the door, her body convulsing as you meet her hips a final time, your own orgasm flashing through you as you paint her walls white, your cock throbbing inside her, her cunt squeezing you for every last drop as her ex stands at the door staring at Natasha falling apart for you. 

You blink and her ex is gone, door wide open as your body falls back against your heels, Natasha's body moving with yours as she sits comfortably on your cock as she continues to squeeze you tightly, making your dick hard all over again. A groan falls from both of your lips as you pant into the room. 

“Well, that was…HA, well.” You mumble. Your breathing all over the place over what just happened. 

“That, that was…wow…” Natasha whispers against your neck.

You go to move her off you, worried about how she might be feeling over everything that has just happened. But you stop when Natasha turns her head, her mouth moving over yours as she slips her tongue into your mouth, one of her hands resting on the back of your head to hold you against her, while her hips slowly start to grind down on you.

“Oh, no, no, no. I’m definitely not done with you yet.”

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

My Soul Aches For Your Touch

Natasha Romanoff x GN!Reader

Summary: Reconnecting with a spouse can be challenging, especially when children and mundane tasks take up so much of the day. Sometimes you have to do something drastic in order to shake things up.

warnings: 18+, minor DNI, Reader has a penis, smut.

A/N: This one is a labor of love, nervous to release it into the world but happy it's complete. First time writing anything like this. I tried my best.

Natasha stared at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her had softened quite significantly with the domestic life she has been leading. Long gone were the days of powerful thighs and toned arms from countless hours spent in the training room. She knows she still looks beautiful, shapely even but she can’t help scrutinizing the ways in which she has changed. Not just physical changes but the emotional ones as well. The once unphased Black Widow now a mother and wife who wears her heart on her sleeve. She was barely on the cusp of 35 yet she sometimes felt like a has-been stuck in the same boring routine; having traded in saving the world for morning school drop offs. 

Don’t get her wrong, she loves her life. She has everything she had ever dreamed of and never truly dared to hope for. The most amazing spouse and two children who mean the absolute world to her. The changes that have been made to her mind and body over time are a testament to them. And the prolonged feeling of being loved and safe; they have instilled within her. But there was something missing in this wonderful life that left her feeling unfulfilled. A silent yearning to feel desirable again.

She needed a change of pace, desperately. Nothing too drastic, just something to knock her out of the rut she’s been in. If she is honest with herself, she wants to feel like her younger self used to; powerful and untouchable. A world renowned spy with a sexual prowess that rivaled none; making men and women alike beg for a chance to warm her bed.

Which is why despite her nerves she has decided to go through with this tonight. 

She finishes styling her signature auburn curls, the soft waves cascade down her back and shoulders, framing her face in a way that brings attention to supple lips coated in a subtle pink lipstick. She went a bit lighter on the mascara and eyeliner as well, wanting her natural features to shine through, and the green of her eyes had definitely become the star of the show. She smirks, trying to emulate the confidence that used to be second nature to her. 

Before the feelings of embarrassment could take root and she lost the will to continue this facade, she turned on her heels and strode into her closet, determined to find an outfit that would turn heads tonight. She wanted something that showed off her sex appeal; which she knew she still possessed. It just wasn’t something she flaunted anymore. 

She wanted something that was sexy yet sophisticated, settling on an understated black dress and a pair of matching pumps. The light pink lingerie set she had underneath would be quite the surprise for whoever would be finding themselves in her bed. She hopes the discovery makes their heart race. 

She felt a flicker of guilt twist in her stomach at the sensual thought, or perhaps just her nerves continuing to act up. Natasha compartmentalizes those thoughts away as she dresses quickly. It was sister’s night this evening and Yelena’s girlfriend’s family was hosting a bit of a soiree. And her goal for the evening was quite different to her baby sisters.

She took one last glance at herself, making sure she looked put together. She smirked again, this time she truly felt like her old self. For the first time in a long time she felt sexy and emboldened; it was a nice feeling. She turned to leave the walk-in closet, pausing at the entryway, her eyes briefly catching sight of her spouse's dirty boxers haphazardly thrown into their laundry basket. They’re covered in crocodiles with little sunglasses on them. The sight makes her heart pang with sorrow as she fiddles with her wedding ring, taking a deep breath she wiggles the ring until it slides off her finger, before placing it in her jewelry box.   

The front gate alarm pings, signaling that Yelena and Kate have arrived. She shakes the anxious thoughts from her mind not wanting to think about this any longer; steeling her resolve she makes her way out to her ride.

xXx  

You were in desperate need of a thrill. The life you had was one you coveted but the mundane activities that were expected of you everyday had grown rather dull. You knew that doing the same old things wouldn’t get you the results you wanted so you decided to shake things up. Instead of heading straight home after a long day of work, you decided to take up your client's invitation to her fancy soiree. 

After greeting Eleanor Bishop with a warm hello, you head straight toward the bar, asking for an old fashioned with an orange twist. You take a slow deep drink, enjoying the first initial burning sensation that hits the back of your throat. Gently, leaning against the bar you allow the alcohol to settle into your system and just bask in the ease at which it puts your mind. 

You let your eyes sweep across the room looking for a woman that peaks your interest. You knew you weren’t going home alone tonight; a beautiful woman warming your bed may just be the key to shaking up the monotony. You take note of several gorgeous women, some twirling around the dance floor and some chatting amongst peers, when a shimmering waterfall of red caught your eye. 

Your eyes zero in on her, she’s mingling with a group of socialites, an heiress in her own right perhaps. Not an outlandish guess with how she carries herself and the beauty that radiates from her. She’s made to be the center of attention and you can tell she revels in it. It’s not long before the belle of the ball is asked to dance. Some tall aristocrat; he’s handsome you suppose if you're into that sort of thing.  

You take another swig of your drink, allowing yourself to watch her move across the ballroom. The embodiment of grace as she dances.

You were mesmerized by the woman, and there was no way that pretentious asshole was going to be the one taking her home. Her fiery mane shimmered underneath the ballroom lights, the soft curls bouncing with every graceful movement. The black dress she was wearing had your mouth watering; every movement allowed you to see delicious amounts of ivory skin. Her curves were on full display; the thought of sinking your teeth into that voluptuous backside had you weak in the knees. And that damn smirk she’s wearing almost does you in; you swear she’s taunting you.

You want to worship every inch of her. It’s what she deserves being that damn fine. And you know for a fact that this yuppie won’t get on his knees for her.

You shoot back the rest of your drink, before setting down the empty glass, and making your way towards them.

“Excuse me, sweetheart, would you mind if I cut in?” You say almost breathless.

She’s even more gorgeous up close. 

xXx

She had seen you walk in a while ago, the warm greetings exchanged with Eleanor Bishop and the casual way you were leaning against the bar aroused her curiosity. And the form fitted black suit you were wearing aroused more than that. You looked dashing to say the least. 

She felt your gaze linger on her as she socialized, it exhilarated her to be watched in such a shameless manner. You did nothing to hide the desire, lighting up your eyes, your intentions quite clear. 

She smirked before accepting an invitation to dance from a rather stiff businessman, wondering just how far she would have to push you for you to be the one asking. Never taking into account that you would interrupt them. It was bold of you and she was pleased with your actions. 

With your offer accepted the nameless man left without making a scene; just slight disappointment in his eyes. She didn’t even feel a hint of remorse as you took her in your arms. 

She felt a shiver run up her spine as you took command of the dance. Leading her around the ballroom with a finesse that comes with years of practice. 

The two of you moved through the dance with a sensual grace, your bodies flowing together seamlessly, the passionate embrace amplifying the flirtatious atmosphere.

The warmth of your body, the smell of your cologne, and your hungry gaze had Natasha burning with desire. She hadn’t been this turned on in quite some time. 

As the dance was coming to a close she decided she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of your company any longer. 

“Do you want to get out of here?”

You nodded without hesitation, grabbing her hand with tenderness as you led her out of the ballroom. She waved to Yelena before they got too far away, letting her sister know where she was headed. The blonde was grinning ear to ear. 

xXx

The car ride to their final destination was taking entirely too long. She was enchanted by the way your tongue darted out to lick your lips and the subtle bouncing of your left leg. It was one of the only indications she had that you were just as impatient as she was. The other clue she had to go off of was the generous outline of a semi-erect penis making itself visible in those deliciously tight pants of yours. She needed the fire burning between her legs to be satiated this instant. The hand caressing Natasha’s inner thigh was not helping matters.

“Pull over.”

“Sweetheart, we’re almost there.”

She didn’t care. All she cared about was the deep ache she knew could only be satisfied by your cock. As need and lust consumed her; every rational thought left her mind. 

She grabbed the hand resting on her thigh, slowly dragging it up to stroke against soft pink panties, the groan you released let her know you could feel how wet she was. 

“Pull the damn car over, now”

“Fucking hell, you’re already so worked up babe.” You husk, as you pull over onto the side of the road, safely parking. 

Natasha slides into your lap in a hast, “You have no idea.” 

xXx

You situate the seat so she’s comfortable, before pulling that tantalizing mouth of hers into an earth shattering kiss. She whimpers as your assault on her mouth turns frantic; wanting nothing more than to consume her. Delicate hands weave their fingers through your hair, as you work to undo the zipper on the back of her dress. You break away from the kiss briefly to peel it down Natasha’s arms, and to pull the black material down her body to pool around her waist. Fuck, the lacey pink bra covering her breasts makes your cock throb with need. 

Your eyes watch goosebumps erupt on Natasha’s heaving chest; as her flushed skin adjusts to the cool air. She tilts your head up, kissing you hard and desperate. Your tongues massaging one anothers in tandem, every once in a while pausing to suck and swirl your tongues into the caverns of each other's mouths.  

Your arms slip around her sides, fingers caressing the smooth skin of Natasha’s back before unclasping her bra and shimming it down her arms. Discarding it without care as your lips leave that additive mouth of hers to kiss along her jaw. She squirms in your lap, as you nip and lick your way down the line of her throat, leaving a trail of red marks in your wake. 

You pull back and admire the intoxicating woman before you. Those gorgeous emerald eyes that bewitched you from across the ballroom are now blown black with a carnal hunger and her lips are kiss swollen. That lovely shade of pink lipstick is smeared down her chin. And her neck is painted in your love-bites and saliva. She looks wrecked. You could come at the sight alone. 

“Are you going to stare at me all night or are you finally going to touch me?” 

She looks pleased by your admiration, despite what her words may otherwise imply.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been touching you but I promise you’re going to be able to feel me everywhere in a second.”

The pair of soft full breasts attached to this divine being are too tempting to ignore any longer. Your lips descend on her right breast with utter devotion, your tongue flicking over a pretty pink peak; coaxing it taut. Before pulling her nipple into your mouth and suckling. 

She arches into you with a breathless moan, offering more of herself up to you with fervor. As you show equal amounts of attention to each breast your hands caress Natasha’s sides, slowly making their way to her backside. You drag the dress up her hips and expose her center, sliding her panties to the side, your fingers slip through damp curls with ease to massage her clit. 

Natasha shudders from the contact, intuitively grinding her hips into your fingers. She revels in the friction for a little while, feeling the pressure begin to build, and knowing that she needs you inside of her right now. Her hands slide down to your belt buckle, yanking it open, you lift your hips up allowing her to drag your slacks and boxers down in one foul swoop. Her fingers wrap around your thickness with enthusiasm; her hand stroking in a firm but gentle caress.

“Hmm, fuck. I need you so bad.” You groan, thrusting into her hand. 

“Me too, baby. I need you inside me.” Natasha mewls.

Natasha slows her movements, grabbing your tie pulling you into a passionate kiss, her hips lifting up and with your guidance sinks down onto your cock. 

Her back grows taut, needing to take a minute to adjust to the feeling of being so full, before she starts rolling her hips. You grip her backside and begin to thrust up into her. She chants your name as you pick up the pace. Natasha matches your rhythm with vigor, her breath labored as she slams down onto you.

Natasha’s hands find purchase on your shoulders, her fingers crumpling the fabric of your suit jacket as she slides up and down against you. You can’t believe you bothered to get it pressed when this is the only way it should be worn; rumpled and covered in her slick. She rests her forehead against yours, panting into your mouth as your lower halves move in tandem. 

She is so tight and so incredibly warm. You continue to pump into her, her slick wet heat engulfing you as you feel the walls of her core beginning to flutter. With determination, you shove your hand between your gyrating bodies, your thumb sliding through soaked folds to massage her clit. 

You feel her inner walls clamp around you before she lets out a cry of your name, her nails sink into the back of your head and neck as she comes hard against you. The intense stimulation is too much for you to bear as you follow her over the edge with a grunt. 

She continues to keep you close as her breathing begins to mellow out, you sprinkle every inch of bare skin available to you with kisses as she begins to untangle herself from you. Natasha chuckles as she takes in your appearance, your expensive suit is wrinkled beyond repair and your skin is coated in a sheen of sweat. It fills her with a deep sense of satisfaction to have done such a number on you. 

Her eyes flick down between her legs, catching sight of the barely visible waistband of your black boxers, straining against your muscular thighs. They are too dull for her taste. 

“You know the suit was so sexy on you but I have to say I am not a fan of these underwear.” Natasha says, gaze returning to you and it’s full of mischief. 

You look up at her and grin, “Well the next time we fulfill one of our fantasies I promise I’ll buy a new pair of quirky animal boxers. Maybe some polar bears or something.”

She laughed and bit her lip, “Oh, I appreciate the consideration, Detka…” she trails off, lost in thought for a second, “Now tell me more about these fantasies of yours.”

You reach down grasping her left arm, pulling her hand up landing playful nips to the tips of her fingers. “Oh sweetheart, I’ve got so many fantasies revolving around you. Some new ones involving that damn lingerie set. You look so fucking sexy in pink.”

You note the subtle mood shift, the sadness and vulnerability now in Natasha’s eyes, it makes your heart weep.

“Yeah?” She asks tone so hopeful

You knew that the two of you had been stuck in a rut as of late, the monotony of family life not leaving much room for the two of you to nurture your relationship; emotional or sexual. There was a strict schedule for everything concerning the kids and with the long hours you worked, it left a lot of your marriage up in the air. Only really having time for quickies in the shower or watching a movie together at the end of the day. That is if your kids didn’t interrupt the two of you. 

When you were young the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off each other and you know that love changes over time. This however was different and unacceptable to you. Natasha was the love of your life, the sexiest woman in the world in your eyes and the fact that she no longer knew that was gut wrenching. As you look up into her eyes, seeing all the love, hope and desire for you there, you know from this moment on you would do anything to make her feel like the strong, sexy and courageous woman you know her to be.

And after tonight, you know that the fire that burns between you two is still there. All it needs is a little coaxing to ignite it and you were damn sure going to keep that fire fed from now on.

You lift your hand up to caress her cheek, “Natasha, I know our relationship has fallen to the wayside a bit since the kids were born but sweetheart you are still so damn sexy to me. I love you so fucking much. And I am so sorry for letting it get this bad.” 

“I love you too, baby. Please don’t put all of this on you. I know I haven’t been making our marriage a priority either…I’m sorry for that.” Natasha kisses the corner of your mouth. “It’s a relief that after all this time you still think I’m sexy.” She chuckles, gesturing to herself with contempt. “I know I don’t look like I used too.”

“The fact that you don’t believe that your fucking gorgeous and that I crave you like a person in hell craves ice water is on me.” You implore her to see the truth in your words. “I am going to do everything I can to make us a priority again. I'm done always putting the kids first. You deserve to be loved and fucked to your hearts content.” Your voice holds conviction. 

Natasha yanks on your tie pulling you in for a passionate kiss. “Well in that case…maybe we can take advantage of the kids staying with your mom tonight. You can show me just how much you crave me, baby.” 

“That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.” You help Natasha slide back over into the passenger seat, and get your clothes in order. “That being said, when we get home Mrs. Y/L you're putting your wedding ring back on.” You send her a playful glare, as you restart the car. “If I ever see that finger bare again…there will be consequences.”

Natasha giggles, “Consequences huh?...mhmm.. I’d like to experience that but…” She winks at you. “It was definitely a bit of a risk I took, I'll admit. I won’t be taking it again. Now drive, baby.”

It was an exhilarating night for the both of you. And as you head down the road toward your shared home, it feels like the beginning of a brand new adventure. 

[aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh]

15 Minutes

Natasha Romanoff x Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 2430

Requested by abyss anon (and other anons): here me out. i've been listening to 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter and the lyrics “i can do a lot with fifteen minutes, only gonna take two to make you finish” is stuck in my head.

what if masc!r with innocent!shy!nat who is completely and utterly inlove with reader but too afraid to make a move? and when she finally does... *wink* but we all know baby natty is going to make up for it all night.

AN: This basically became pure filth with like a sprinkle of plot so...enjoy!

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

The first time Natasha met you, she knew she was in love with you. Which really sucked for her because you were the type of person who didn’t look at her twice. You were constantly surrounded by people who were prettier, better, and more important than her. Natasha felt so insignificant around you, and whenever she tried to make her presence known, it always ended in a colossal and embarrassing failure.

She had exactly three conversations with you. The first was just an exchange of names, so she didn’t count that. But it was the first time she got to touch your hand and look into your eyes, and she almost physically fell for you right there.

The second conversation was at the dining hall’s salad bar, where the two of you had reached for the tongs to the romaine at the same time. You had insisted she go first, and Natasha had tried to make a joke about lettuce that fell so short it kept her up for three nights. 

The third conversation took place on a basketball court, where you were playing a scrimmage with a few friends. Natasha emboldened herself to approach, which she immediately regretted when you passed her the ball and asked if she could sink a shot from the three-point line. She stumbled through a pickup line about if you could show her, but you and your friends had only laughed. Naturally, she had missed, and she went home in shame, promising to never speak to you in front of others again.

She always told herself that if she had 15 minutes alone with you, she could get you to give her a chance. But getting those 15 minutes was an impossible task in itself.

Or so she thought.

She finds you sitting alone in the common room, staring at the television, but you hardly look interested in the James Bond movie playing.

Fifteen.

“Y/N?” Natasha whispers. Your head shifts in her direction, but you don’t say anything to acknowledge her. “Is anyone sitting with you?” You grunt, which Natasha cannot determine as a definitive yes or no. “Can I sit with you?” She holds her breath, surprised by her own confidence but fully expecting a denial.

“Sure,” you say, to her shock.

Natasha rounds the couch. You make no effort to move and she settles on the cushion next to you.

Fourteen.

She isn’t sure what to say next. You seem incredibly absorbed in the movie, and she’s nervous to break your focus.

“Natasha,” you say, still not looking at her. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a pretty name. For a pretty woman.”

Natasha’s heart thunders in her chest. Did she hear you correctly? “You think I’m pretty?” she asks.

“I think you’re beautiful.” You look her in the eye now, and Natasha has to catch herself before she falls off the couch.

“I…Um…Wow. Thank you. That’s…really nice of you to say,” she stammers.

“I’m not just saying it. I mean it.”

Thirteen.

Natasha stares at you, trying to read your passive expression. Maybe you were just messing with her, or took a bet from your friends to flirt with her. No one–not even Bruce–wanted her. So why would you? 

“You’re especially cute when you’re nervous,” you say.

“Nervous? I’m not–”

You chuckle. “I know the effect I have on you. And most people. But I hardly notice any of them when you’re around me.”

Natasha feels like she’s in a dream. Are you really saying these words to her? And you mean every one of them? She pinches her thigh, but the sting doesn’t do much to clear her head. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” she admits in a rush.

“Is that so?” Your right eyebrow lifts and Natasha squeezes her thighs together subtly. “I never approached you first because…well, I didn’t think you’d be able to handle me.”

Twelve.

Natasha leans forward, resting her hand lightly on your upper thigh. She’s determined to prove you wrong if that’s the only thing she succeeds in tonight. “And what makes you think that?”

Your expression changes to one of surprise. “You’re cute, but way too innocent–” The words die in your throat when her hand slides up to cup the bulge in your sweatpants. 

“You were saying?” she says, turning her voice into a huskier tone. 

“Natasha,” you grunt, and she can tell you’re fighting to keep your hips pinned to the couch, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I don’t plan on it.” She grips onto you and wonders if the fabric is thin enough for you to feel the heat of your palm. 

“Someone can walk in at any moment,” you warn her.

“Good. Then they can see you’ve always been mine the whole time.” She feels you twitch and start to harden. She wonders if she can get you off with her words alone, but quickly decides she’d much rather have you inside her instead. 

Eleven.

“I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist,” you comment. 

“What do you know about me? Besides my name,” she counters.

“That you’re awful at flirting–oh shit.” Natasha pushes her hand past the waistband of your sweatpants and it closes around your hot and hard flesh. She rubs you up and down, her thumb brushing the underside of your tip with every stroke and she grins when she starts to see your thighs tremble. “You ever done this before?” you gasp, your hips rocking off the couch to push yourself through her hand. 

“You tell me, baby.” 

You grunt at the term of endearment. “Not quite what I expected from you,” you say. 

“In a good or bad way?”

“Hmm, well…” You look down at your crotch, frowning because you can’t see any of the action under your sweatpants. Natasha uses her free hand and tugs them down, and you lift your butt up to slide them to your knees. Your cock bobs out and Natasha subconsciously licks her lips, knowing she is that much closer to having you the way she always dreamed of. “Are you gonna keep staring at it or do something with it?” you ask suddenly.

Ten.

“I don’t want you finishing too early,” Natasha says, right as a bead of pre-cum leaks out of your dick.  

“I won’t,” you say, although for once, your voice lacks confidence.

“I bet you can’t last two minutes in me.”

Your eyes narrow at the challenge. “And what if I can?”

“Then I’ll let you take me back to your room and fuck me any way you want.”

You inhale sharply at the filthy thoughts her words inspire. 

“But if you can’t…” Natasha squeezes your cock for emphasis, “Then I get take you to my room and fuck you any way I want.”

You snort. “That’s not really a bad deal either way.”

“You’ve hardly seen what I can do,” Natasha warns.

“So show me more.”

Nine.

“Be careful what you wish for.” Natasha leans over and takes the head of your cock in her mouth.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, pumping your hips up into the new heat of her mouth. You had severely misjudged Natasha in her innocence, but you weren’t upset to be wrong. Her tongue flicks against your tip and you’re practically squirming in your seat when she presses down and takes you into her throat.  

“Fuck, your mouth feels good,” you pant, your hands coming to the back of Natasha’s head and gently pushing on it to keep her in place. “This is hardly fair,” you whine.

Natasha releases your cock and it slaps against your stomach, glistening with her saliva and your pre-cum. “You want me to stop?” she asks.

“Not really.”

Eight.

“Then be quiet,” she says, and her dominance surprises you. It also makes you even harder, which you didn’t know was possible at this stage anymore. “Besides, we aren’t even at the main event yet.”

“Main event?” You have to bite your lip to distract yourself as her mouth descends on you again. You squeeze the muscles in your thighs to keep them grounded, not wanting to show her how close you are. 

“Mhmm,” she mumbles around your cock, and the vibrations have you holding on the couch cushions for dear life. The pounding between your legs heightens, spurred on by the fact that the prettiest girl around has her head in your lap, her mouth bobbing frantically up and down your dick. 

Seven.

“You’re cheating,” you whine, but you totally love it as you jog your hips up a few times. 

“I’m what?” Natasha draws back fully and the cold air that hits your cock makes it visibly twitch. 

“Ugh, fuck,” you mutter. “Never mind, baby. Just put your mouth back and–”

“No,” Natasha says, and you shrink back into the cushions just a little. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut like she said. “I can tell you’re about to cum, and I don’t want you finishing in my mouth.”

“Oh.” Somehow, despite every skill she’s just showed you, you’re surprised she won’t swallow. But you won’t hold it against her. She’s already doing better than most of the girls that sleep with you.

Six.

Natasha leans towards your face, her lips brushing your cheek on her way to your ear. “I want you to finish in my pussy,” she whispers, and the words alone nearly send you over the edge. 

“Oh.” You don’t even realize you’ve reached down to grip the base of your cock, squeezing hard to quite literally prevent yourself from finishing all over your sweatpants. 

“But…I don’t know if you can last that much longer,” Natasha says, pulling away from you. 

“Yes, yes, I can,” you plead. You would do everything in your power to please and if you couldn’t…what was really the worst that could happen? 

“Hmm.” Natasha tilts her head, as if seriously contemplating ending things with you right here.

Five.

“You started this,” you protest. “You can’t leave me hanging.” Literally.

“I didn’t expect you to be so whiny,” she says.

“I didn’t expect you to be this mean,” you counter.

Natasha chuckles. “And you’re the one who said I couldn’t handle you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, happy to eat your words if she’ll ride you. Natasha stands up, and for a moment you think she’s going to walk out on you, but she shimmies down her jeans and you drool at the sight of her lacey red panties. You drop your sweatpants to your ankles so you have more room to move as Natasha swings her leg over your waist.

Four.

You can see the damp patch of her arousal and it hardens you further to see she’s just as excited as you are. 

“Two minutes,” she says, humping you slowly. 

“Easy,” you promise, but you already know you’re going to lose. You reach for her hips, happy that she doesn’t swat you away, and pull her towards yourself until her stomach presses against your cock.

At first, you had been genuinely concerned that someone would walk in on the two of you, but now you couldn’t care less. You were about to get with the Natasha Romanoff, someone your friends had told you would be untouchable. 

Your hands wrap around to her butt and squeeze teasingly. “I’m ready for you,” you remind her, as if she forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

Three.

“I can see that.” She reaches down to grab your cock and drags it along the wet patch of her panties. You groan and dig your fingers harder into her butt. She was far more of a tease than you had ever imagined.

“Come on, baby,” you beg as your cock rubs against the smooth fabric of her panties.

Natasha pulls her panties to the side to reveal her glistening center. Your eyes widen and your hips jerk up to brush through her wetness. She puts one hand on her shoulder to steady herself and uses the other to finger herself. The slick noises she makes are downright sinful and you’re practically vibrating with excitement.

“Let me,” you say, eager to get any part of you inside her and trying to replace her fingers with your own. 

“I think I’m ready,” she says, lifting herself up high enough to position the head of your cock with her opening.

Two. 

Both of you inhale sharply at the first contact. You’re certain you’ve left your marks on Natasha’s butt as she slowly sinks down, taking your entire length in her molten heat.

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” you gasp as you feel yourself twitching inside of her. Natasha rests on your thighs and rocks back and forth. A moan rips out of your throat and your head falls back on the couch. The tightness surrounding your cock is too much. 

“Don’t let me down,” Natasha teases, raising a few inches and falling back down again. Her hand slips around your throat possessively, but even that isn’t enough to bring you back from the brink.

Your bodies move together in a calm rhythm that does not match the emotions racing inside of you. While part of you wants to jackhammer into her like an animal, part of you also wants this feeling to last as long as possible.

Which, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t going to be more than another minute. 

“Do I feel good?” Natasha whispers, threading her fingers in your hair and pulling your head back so you have to look her in the eye as she fucks you.

“You feel perfect,” you grunt, your lower body starting to shake, but you give up trying to fight it off.

One.

“You’re lasting longer than I thought,” she hums, clenching around you with the tightness of a vice and you arch your chest into her, slipping your hands under her shirt to clutch at the warmth of her skin.

“Not for much longer,” you admit, feeling a thin layer of sweat forming on your forehead. The band in your stomach finally snaps and your thighs lock in place as you spill your seed into her, but hardly feeling relieved. Natasha circles her hips to coax out every last drop, leaving you shaking and begging her to stop. 

“I think I won our bet,” she says, finally climbing off your cock. 

“Whatever,” you mutter, your cheeks tinged red. 

“I want to claim my prize now,” she continues, pulling her jeans back on and offering you her hand.

You don’t protest and go to follow her back to her room.

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AN: Thanks for ideas, anons! Hope you liked it. :)

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