darkwaveho - Tumblr blog

darkwaveho · 3 months ago

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sweet like the thunder on my tongue - w.maximoff

director!wanda maximoff x fem!actor!reader

・❥・summary: You thought Wanda was out to get you, but maybe she just wants to get you off…

・❥・warnings: smut ‼️ minors, look away; implied power imbalance, sexual tension, public sex/private room, fingering (r receiving), top!wanda, clothed sex, technically? [aka underwear stays on], lap riding, r having mild anxiety

・❥・word count: 3.5k

・❥・a/n: my first wanda fic! idk yet if this is gonna become the norm—me writing for wanda, but this was definitely a fun start, and i hope you enjoy! <3

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You knew that acting could be quite strenuous sometimes. Long hours, many takes, and in some cases, bending to the will of a power-tripping director. And while you’ve had some pretty proud directors in control of you during the expanse of your acting career that’s now spanned a decade, you’ve never had a director quite like Wanda Maximoff.

Obviously best case scenario is for directors to build a rapport with their actors, but sometimes, they don’t always hit it off, and that’s okay. But there’s simply not clicking and then there’s a director with a clear vendetta—and the latter is where Wanda is concerned. At least from your point of view.

You knew about Wanda’s no-nonsense attitude when it came to her directorial prowess. It was highlighted to you before you’d even signed onto her movie, yes. But what wasn’t pointed out (and what you think your agent deliberately forgot to mention) was the way that Wanda would just choose someone to pick on for the day, and that person had no choice but to be her whipping boy. And for the past few weeks, that scapegoat had been you.

You weren’t sure what you’d done to earn her spite. For the most part, you kept your head down and did what you were told. But her director’s notes were becoming more and more petty and you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

It finally comes to a head one day when Wanda makes you change your line delivery for the eighth time, saying what she always says—that she just doesn’t believe the chemistry.

This time, you’re not able to hold your tongue, despite what your agent keeps telling you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re saying, “Yeah, or maybe it’s just me you don’t believe in,”

“Or maybe it’s just that I expect more from you,” Wanda counters. “You’ve got potential, y/n, but it takes more than that to create believable chemistry. What I think is that you don’t believe in yourself,”

You scoff. “I believed it seven takes ago,”

Wanda tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at you. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m the director and you’re not,” she fires back.

Your jaw sets as you glare at Wanda, but she only smirks back, clearly undeterred by your defiance. No one says a word as the two of you face off. Normally, you weren’t the type to dig your heels in this intensely. Especially not when you’d been given specific instructions to not defy, but Wanda was infuriating. And she had to know it.

It’s finally the co-director Sammie, ever the mediator, who pulls you aside to talk to you in private. She succeeds in helping you tamp down your nerves, and encourages you to do another take. All the while, you studiously avoid Wanda’s smug smirk, and the conflicting feelings it stirs inside you.

You give the next series of scene run-throughs your all, as if you hadn’t already been doing so all day. And the whole time, Wanda sits in her little director’s chair and watches you. You pretend not to notice her scrutinizing gaze, but it sends an unsolicited tingle down your spine, the heat brewing in your lower belly. You tell yourself it’s just you getting into character, since the current scene required a lot of intimacy coordination between you and your costar. But you don’t think that’s all it was.

You’re relieved when the cast and crew breaks for lunch, and you don’t waste any time escaping back to the confines of your trailer. There, you sit down at your vanity table, your eyes on your tired reflection. You would need another session with the makeup artist since the concealer applied earlier was starting to wear away from your under eyes. But that was the least of your worries right now.

You sigh, dropping your head between your hands. You needed a day off. Or a stiff drink. Or both.

A knock on your trailer door pulls you away from your thoughts and you groan. Lunch time meant getting to be alone, right? So who in the world was bothering you. Figuring it’s your co-star, whom you’ve really hit it off with, and whom you could probably use a gossip session with right about now, you call out, “It’s open,”

You look up, expecting to see the bright eyes and pretty freckled face of your co-star, but your heart drops to your stomach when your ginger-haired director walks through the door instead, shutting it behind her.

“Can I help you?” You sigh, not bothering to turn around to face her.

“Yes,” Wanda answers curtly. “I wanna talk about the whispers I’ve been hearing around set,”

“What whispers?” You reply.

“This nonsense about me being out to get you,” Wanda says with a scoff, crossing her arms over her chest. You had never used those words specifically. And you had really only talked about it with Mindy the makeup artist, but you were on a huge movie set and people talk. So you weren’t surprised that it had gotten back to Wanda. But you also weren’t going to apologize for it either.

“You act like I’ve got nothing better to do than target some mediocre actress for no reason,” Wanda goes on.

A flicker of hurt crosses your face at the dig, but you quickly school your features. You weren’t about to give this haughty woman the satisfaction of bullying you. “If I’m such a mediocre actress, then why did you sign off on me being cast into your precious movie?”

Wanda’s jaw clenches at your retort. It was a valid point, one she couldn’t exactly refute, but of course she was too proud to admit it. “The producers insisted on you,” she admits grudgingly. “Oscar-nominated actress was a phrase that I’ve heard in association with your name so many times, that I wanted to rip my hair out. And yes, your audition tape had promise, so this isn’t about a personal vendetta. But your performance out there was giving elementary school play,”

You scoff, rising to your feet to meet Wanda’s gaze. “I’ve done eight flawless takes for you. Nine, actually,” you argue. “So if this is how you treat someone you’ve got no personal vendetta against, than I’d hate to see what you do when you actually like someone,”

Wanda chuckles drily. “Flawless? Hardly. I’ve seen far better performances from novice actors. But you’re so full of yourself that you can’t even consider the possibility that that you might be the problem here. And let me make one thing clear: I don’t have to like you to work with you,”

“I could say the same thing when it comes to you,” you respond, arms folded across your chest.

Wanda observes your defiance with a cold glare, her green eyes squinting for a fraction of a second. “If only you’d put as much effort into your performance as you do into being difficult,” she mutters, her tone edged with disdain.

“If only you’d pull the stick out of your ass before coming to set. I’m sure people would find you a lot more appealing,” you fire back. You’re fully aware of the line you’re toeing right now. But you’re in too deep to quit, and the look on Wanda’s face when you say it is worth being burned at the stake for standing up to one of the most successful directors in the States.

You watch Wanda bristle at the insult, her hands balling into fists. “I’m not here to be appealing, I’m here to make a movie. If you can’t handle a little constructive criticism, then maybe you’re in the wrong business,” she says.

Anyone else would be smart enough to cower in fear right now, bend to the will of this self-righteous woman, but that’s your very motivation to keep pushing. You take a step closer, crowding her space, your gaze level with hers. “Or maybe I’m under the wrong director,” you challenge.

Wanda’s expression darkens just the way you assumed it would. But what you weren’t expecting was for her to close the space between you. She’s so close now that her nose almost brushes yours, her breath fanning over your face. Her green eyes sear and burn your own, and your heart kicks up in your chest from fear or adrenaline or both. You’re way past the point of saving face now, having successfully poked the bear.

“I’ve made countless movies with rave reviews and box office success,” Wanda says. “And you’re talking a lot for an easily replaceable actress with a forgettable face,”

Your jaw tenses and you stand there silently fuming as Wanda continues. Wanda’s gaze, hard and calculating, roams over your features. “You wanna believe that you have what it takes, and that you’re a one-take-and-go kind of girl,” she says, her tone mocking. “But you can’t even get through one scene without me having to call for retakes. It’s pathetic. Kind of makes me think they replaced you with a deep-fake in all your supposed “hit” movies,”

“Screw you,” you respond icily.

Wanda tilts her head. “Sorry?”

You don’t back down. “I said screw you,”

She smirks, one perfectly sculpted brow arching. “You seem pretty confident that you wont be blackballed for this,”

“I thought I was mediocre?” you say, searching Wanda’s eyes.

You wait for Wanda to scrutinize some more, but are startled to feel soft lips crash against your own.

Wanda presses you back against the nearest wall, her arms encircling your waist with surprising gentleness. She deepens the kiss with a heady mix of frustration and desire, fingers thread into your hair as she dominates, and you can’t resist whimpering against her. She nips at your lower lip in turn, a possessive growl rising from her throat. And then her hands are everywhere, blazing a trail of fire up and down your curves.

You gain your voice back, if only barely as Wanda breaks away to trail fiery kisses down your neck. “Wanda—“ you try.

“What, y/n?” Her voice is a husky whisper against your neck.

“What…what made you….why are…” your mind scrambles as you struggle to string a sentence together, too wrapped up in the way Wanda feels against you to speak in plain English.

You feel Wanda smile against your skin as her hands continue to glide along your body. “Sounds like I’ve finally silenced that clever tongue of yours,” she replies. And then her lips reach the base of your throat for her to suck hickeys into your skin, leaving you shuddering against her.

Her hands are greedy as they reach for the button of your jeans. She glances back up at you for the briefest of moments, a silent ask for permission, which you grant with a nod of your head, your voice still nowhere to be found. And Wanda beams before flicking open the button and sliding the zipper all the way to the bottom. Your jeans come off next, and you feel them pool around your ankles. And then, Wanda’s long fingers expertly locate your button through the fabric of your underwear.

You jolt against her, but she gently holds you steady with one hand on your waist. “Are you new to this?” She murmurs against your shoulder before kissing it.

“No,” you breathe. “But…it has been awhile,”

“Glad to get your engine revving after the hiatus, then,” Wanda quips.

You would’ve responded by telling her to shut up, but then her fingers press harder against your clit through the fabric, and all words of logic fly right out of your head again. Wanda watches your face as she touches you, working tight little circles and you struggle to keep your moans at bay.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” she says. “No one can really hear us. But I do really wanna hear you,”

You can’t imagine ever defying this mystifying woman, so you let yourself moan for her as she touches you. And when she eases your underwear to the side to slot her fingers into your warmth directly, you cry out before you can stop yourself.

“That’s it,” she says as her fingers curl inside you, deeper than you’ve ever even touched yourself. “Speak to me, baby. Let me know you like it,”

“Wanda…oh god…” you moan, your eyes rolling and then closing as you rock against her fingers. “Oh yes…”

She works you higher and higher, up and up before letting you crash over that edge. You grip her shoulders for purchase, moaning loud and long as your climax hits. But it’s very apparent that Wanda’s not done with you.

You’ve barely reset from your first orgasm before she’s taking you into her arms, leading you toward the couch that’s tucked into the wall in the far corner. And she sits down, pulling you into her lap. You straddle Wanda’s lap, your thighs framing the older woman’s hips. You’re so close now that you can see the little flecks of gold in her eyes, feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest, and note the way her lips part in anticipation.

“Let’s get this off of you,” she says as she reaches for the hem of your shirt. You lift your arms and let her slide it over your head, and then do the same to her, your heart beating against your ribcage as you pull her shirt over her head.

Your breath hitches as you take in the way she looks in just her bra. Gorgeous. And she seems swept away with you too, the way her hands slide up from your hips to your shoulders, sliding one of your bra straps down before snapping it back into place.

She lifts her hips for you, letting you slide her jeans down her legs and discard them onto the floor. When you take your position on her lap again, your hands find the waistband of your panties on instinct, but she stills your hands.

You look up at her, a question in your eyes, but she merely smirks at you and whispers, “Leave them on,”

You nod, your cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson as you let yourself be ogled. There’s something wickedly exciting about being nearly naked and in Wanda’s possession, with only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from exposure.

Wanda’s hands trace your skin, kindling a fire in your bones all over again, and when she pulls your body flush against her own, you gasp. She brushes a kiss against the side of your neck before whispering in your ear, “Ride me,”

Your breath hitches at the frank command. And with the help of Wanda’s hands, you sink down. Her hands remain on your hips, steadying you as you find your balance. “That’s it,” she says, her voice ragged. “Just like that, darling,”

The friction has you biting your lip. And though it’s fabric on fabric, you don’t even care. The job is still getting done. Sufficiently, you might add.

When she doesn’t think you still need her guidance, her hands slide away from your hips, letting you rock on your own. And her own hips join in as she reaches up to cup your face, pulling you in for one heated kiss after another. “You like it like this, don’t you?” She whispers against your lips, and though it was standard pillow talk, it sounds like pure filth the way she says it. And you love that. “Like the way I slide against you like this?”

“God, yeah,” you moan. “Yes, oh god!”

The layers of fabric between you does little to dull the friction, the sensation as your bodies grind together. Sparks ignite everywhere underneath your skin as you cling to Wanda tighter than you’ve ever clung to anything in your life.

You’ve lost count of how many times Wanda’s kissed you, her tongue grazing the seam of your lips before sliding into your mouth. She savors the taste of you, even as her lungs burn for air. Her hands leave a blazing trail wherever they touch. And when her fingers find your hips again, guiding you to rock faster, you respond well to that guidance, writhing with increased intensity.

You can feel the pleasure creeping in on you, threatening to take over and spin you into oblivion. You let one hand tangle into Wanda’s hair while the other grips her shoulder tight. Your nails bite into her flesh, but she doesn’t seem to care. Not about anything that doesn’t involve bringing you closer and closer to climax.

“Fuck…fuck…fuck,” you moan against her shoulder, your mouth closing around the peak to muffle the sound.

Wanda feels the edge of her own pleasure nearing too, but she holds it off, focusing on you. “That’s it,” she repeats. “Get there, baby, get there,” she shifts the angle, just slightly to better meet you, and draw you closer to the edge.

You’re breathless at this point, your grip on Wanda tight enough to bruise. The residual heat in your lower abdomen has graduated to a full on forest fire. And Wanda’s breath in your ear, and on your skin only makes it worse. You’re teetering, waiting for one last push, one last command to push you over, your gaze meeting Wanda’s and waiting for further instruction. She was the director after all.

“Do it,” she says. “Come for me,”

That’s all it takes to finally send you over the edge. The climax hits like a freight train, drowning you in a sea of sensations. Your orgasm triggers her own and she moans against you as she comes as well.

And she doesn’t let you go, holding you as you ride out your high against her. And even as you’ve stopped moving, going slack and boneless against her, she still holds you, her head buried in your neck.

You don’t know how long the two of you sit like that, just holding each other. But part of you is glad for it, not quite ready to return to the real world just yet.

Wanda eventually lifts her head to look you in the eyes, tucking a strand of hair away from your face. “I didn’t know I needed that so badly,” she remarks with a smile.

You let out a breathless chuckle. “You and me both,”

Wanda chuckles too, brushing a kiss against the crown of your head and pulling you closer. You’re only allotted a few more minutes of snuggling just like this before you get a knock at your trailer door that makes you jump. But it’s only a PA, informing you that it’s almost time to return to set.

You’re suddenly incredibly shy as you pull yourself from Wanda’s embrace and begin to dress back into your clothes. For a moment, she watches you silently. Then, she stands and dresses as well.

Once you’re dressed and you still haven’t looked at her, however, she speaks up. “Hey, stop for a second, beautiful,” she stills your hand as you try to brush your hair. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” you say, your hand shaking as you drop the brush to your vanity table. She takes your trembling hand in her grasp.

“Look at me. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Wanda asks.

You meet her eyes and try to breathe, but your breath gets trapped somewhere around your ribs. “I just don’t…I don’t know what this means,” you say.

“What what means?” Wanda asks, smoothing your hair down.

“This—“ you gesture from yourself and then to Wanda. “What this means. What we just did. Does everything go back to normal now? Are you going to keep singling me out? Am I going to have to keep snapping and wind up in danger of being kicked off this movie for like…insubordination or something?”

Wanda replies with an easy smile. “It means I like you,” she says simply. “And you like me,” her hand slides down to cup your cheek and she pulls you closer. You let your hands rest on her waist. “And it means I don’t give a damn if people talk about it,”

With that, she kisses you tenderly, catching your lower lip first, and then your upper one after. When she pulls away, she’s delighted to see you smile. “And it means I want you,” she adds at last.

“But we still have a long way to go before the movie is done,” you say. “A lot of time we have to spend together. A lot of time that can be spent fighting off a bunch of gossip,”

“And I’m saying that I’m all the way in, for all of it,” Wanda squeezes your hand. “You’re worth the risk,”

A small smile plays on your lips, but it quickly transforms into a toothy grin. “So am I,” you reply. “But I need to know something,”

“Anything,” Wanda says.

“Do you really think I’m a mediocre actress with a forgettable face?” You ask.

“Oh no, absolutely not,” Wanda chuckles, pulling you into her arms again. “That was very much the sexual tension talking,”

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darkwaveho · 3 months ago

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Fuck Wendy, all my homies hate Wendy 😭 but honestly this hurt so good, like I know the actual blame can be put on Natasha but R being a psychologist and still not expressing her emotions to her wife when it mattered the most also played a part in that outcome…Can’t wait for part 2! 😩

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: the request didn’t ask for the backstory but here i am, giving you one anyway. part two with the actual request should be done in a couple days :)

summary: based on this request; firefighter!nat

warnings: alcohol, cheating

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 1: Death of a Marriage

Natasha's spent her entire life putting out fires. When she was a kid and angled the magnifying glass wrong. When she was a teenager and tried to make scrambled eggs. When she became a firefighter, carrying hoses and using fire extinguishers. The only fire she didn't manage to put out was the one burning down her marriage. Even worse — she was the one who struck the match.

Your daughter Valerie is four when it begins. Heat, fuel and oxygen come together. It's just little sparks, nothing more and nothing less; but it's enough to start something neither of you can put out.

It's an early night for you and your daughter. Valerie has been cranky all day due to a missed nap and a lingering fever, so you quickly dip her into a bubble bath before getting her into bed.

Cheeks warm and arms clutching her stuffed rabbit, she stares at the ceiling with the little glow in the dark-stars. Her toes wiggle under the blanket, and you smooth out her comforter.

"I want mama", she declares.

"Mama's at work, baby", you reply, bringing your hand up to her face. You brush unruly red locks behind her ear. "You'll see her at breakfast. She promised, remember?"

"No", she mumbles. "Want mama now."

You exhale, fingers brushing against her cheek in a soothing motion. This isn't uncommon — Natasha's shifts are long. But she used to be home more often, especially in the evenings.

She used to swoop your daughter up from the couch and into her arms, tickle her and carry her up the stairs. All you'd hear were belly laughs and quiet wheezing. It's been a while since that happened.

"I'm sorry", you reply. You grab her favorite fairytale book and open it, hoping it'd distract her. "Want to see what The Three Little Pigs are doing?"

Valerie shakes her head and turns around, arms crossed stubbornly. You frown and start reading anyway, but she stays quiet. No sign of interaction whatsoever — she's not looking at the pictures, not reacting to any of the scenes.

Finally, you close the book. You haven't even gotten halfway through.

"Honey?"

Valerie huffs, hugging her stuffed rabbit tighter. Her back stays turned to you, and you adjust her pajamas so they cover her lower back as well. You run your fingers through her red hair. Your hair texture, but the exact shade Natasha has.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. You know mama's doing something really important, right?"

"No", she mumbles. "It's stupid."

That does slice you open a little. You know she doesn't mean it — she's four, for god's sake. Last week, she threatened to not invite you to her birthday party. But she's a little human with big emotions, and in this moment, those emotions are directed at the profession her mother chose to pursue.

You understand her. You've been angry at it as well. Not often, and not like this, but it's happened. It's hard to be understanding when you're sleep-deprived and rocking a toddler who caught the flu.

"Hey", you say, giving your failed attempt to distract her one last try, "what cartoon do you want to watch with mama tomorrow? I'll let you have breakfast on the couch."

First, she pauses. Then, her head turns and she gives you a hopeful look. "On the couch?"

"Yeah. You can watch whatever you want. Curious George, Franklin, Winnie...your choice, bub."

Valerie sits up and clumsily wipes her hair away from her face. "With mama?"

"With mama", you confirm. You tap her nose. "Don't be mad at her. She's saving people, you know. Putting out fires. You remember Fireman Sam?"

She nods. It's the first cartoon Natasha introduced her to. The why is obvious, but honestly? You thought it was endearing. Valerie was barely old enough to sit at that point, but your wife — fresh from her shift, complete with turnout pants and soot smudged on her hands — slid a dvd into the dvd player and watched two full episodes with her.

You miss those days. Back when Valerie was still a baby, and your marriage still felt new and exciting. When the cracks hadn't appeared yet, when love was enough to keep everything together.

Valerie, now content with the prospect of eating her favorite cereal on the couch tomorrow, curls into the blankets again.

"Can you read the pig story?"

"Of course, baby."

Once she's asleep, you tiptoe out of her room and leave the door ajar. You get started on the things you weren't able to do during the day. You do the dishes, wipe the table, fold the clean laundry. When you're done you turn on the tv, blankly stare at the screen for a moment, then sigh and turn it off again.

It's quiet in your bedroom. The bedsheets have little indents in them. While you were getting dressed this morning, Valerie had jumped onto the bed and hopped around until you were ready to get her to preschool.

You don't bother getting undressed. You had six clients come over for therapy sessions — which isn't a lot, per se, but when combined with having to take care of a very lively toddler afterwards, it easily becomes too much.

The pillowcases smell like Natasha's shampoo. Warm, woodsy, making you press your face into it. You fall asleep quickly, buried between the sheets and sprawled out on the bed. When she returns, it's 3am. You don't notice.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and not making a sound. She's still in her work clothes, which means turnout pants and a black tank top. Her arms are smudged, her hair in a low bun. She watches your back move with every in- and exhale, then she quietly makes her way to the closet and starts to undress.

You stir at the sound of her boot toppling over. She glances at you. She doesn't want you to wake up. She knows you've got your hands full with Valerie and work, and you need your rest. But you stay asleep, arms beneath the pillow and legs sprawled out.

Only in boxers and a sports bra, Natasha joins you. She puts her head on the pillow and tries to make out your features in the darkness. Her hand reaches out, fingers grazing your side, then she pulls back. You let out a tired hum.

"Home safe?", you mumble, half-asleep.

"Yeah." She brushes her fingers against your shoulder. "You're here."

"Always am."

"I know. It's good."

"Did you shower?"

Natasha rolls onto her back. She smells like sweat and smoke. "You can tell, huh."

You yawn and sit up, rubbing your eyes. It's been almost seven years since you got married. Figuring out whether she's taken a shower after work isn't hard, and truthfully, it never was. The smell is distinct, strong, but not that unpleasant anymore.

"You smell like you brought the entire station home." You tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not sleeping under the covers like that."

"Good god, Y/N."

"I changed the sheets two days ago!"

Natasha sighs, then gets up. You can tell she's exhausted. No wonder. She's told you about her typical day at work before, and just listening to it tired you out. Her muscles must be killing her after a long shift like this one.

You watch her disappear into the en-suite bathroom. Part of her is tempted to ask whether you want to join, but not much has been happening on that front for a while now, and she's not in the mood to get turned down. The door falls shut, and seconds later, you hear the water run.

You lay back down, eyes on the ceiling, and silently wish you'd installed those glow in the dark-stars Valerie has in your room as well. Maybe they'd be able to distract you.

. . .

"Mama, look!"

Valerie's standing atop the swing set your wife built two years ago. It's complete with a little treehouse, a climbing wall and a slide, and your daughter spends almost every day playing with it. Natasha's standing by the sandpit, arms crossed and a backwards cap on her head.

"You wanna slide down, bub?"

She nods, red curls flying, and jumps onto the slide. She slides down so fast that she ends up in the rubber mulch. "Woah!"

"Yeah, that was fast."

You poke your head out of the window, frowning. This is what you get for marrying a firefighter — the reckless genes get passed down to your children.

"A bit more careful next time", you call.

"Sorry, mommy!"

Natasha grabs Valerie's hands and lifts her off the ground. The girl shrieks and laughs, legs kicking. You smile faintly.

It's a peaceful evening. It's Sunday, the sun has started to go down, the sky is lit up in all shades of pink and blue. Someone's barbecuing. You watch your wife and daughter as they sit in the sandpit together.

"Are you guys hungry? Dinner's almost ready."

"Not now", Valerie says, grabbing a bucket. "I'm making a castle, mommy!"

"In this economy?", Natasha asks, grinning. She starts scooping sand into the bucket. "Anything for you, princess."

You smile to yourself and turn around again. The house smells like the pizza that's baking in the oven, music is playing on the radio, the book you ordered is actually interesting and worth spending your free time on for once. It's hard to believe that things aren't as perfect as they seem.

You go into the kitchen and get a few plates. You hear your daughter giggle outside, actual belly laughs that mostly Natasha manages to coax out of her. They join you in the kitchen a few minutes later, still smiling and talking. Sand is clinging to hair and skin, and you're pretty sure one of them smells like spilled apple juice.

Valerie climbs onto the counter to help you tear lettuce into smaller pieces. Natasha comes up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist in a way that almost seems foreign now. Her lips brush against your shoulder.

"What's mommy making for dinner?"

"I made pizza." You reach out to turn on the water for Valerie so she can wash her sand-caked hands. "There you go, honey. Now you can help."

"Smells good", Natasha mumbles. Her nose nudges your neck. "You smell good, too."

"Ew", Valerie says, tossing a piece of lettuce at you. Natasha laughs quietly.

"What, I can't be nice to my wife?"

The girl shakes her head 'no'. She turns, one foot dangling off the counter, and reaches into the bowl to grab another handful of lettuce. You hum and put out a bowl that she can put the smaller pieces into.

Hands roam your sides, your stomach, slip under the fabric of your shirt. Something in you twists with longing. This is exactly what it used to feel like. Warm, safe, normal. Now, it's just something you aren't used to anymore.

Natasha puts her chin on your shoulder to look at you. You give her a glance, a brief smile, and she squeezes your waist. She doesn't say anything — words have always been your strength in this household. You get paid to talk, after all. What she does instead is build stuff and use her hands, which can be useful, but not always appropriate.

"Dinner?", you ask, still looking at her.

"Kid's hungry."

"And you?"

She presses a quick kiss to your jaw. Her hand squeezes your tummy. "Dumb question. I always am."

You want to lean into her embrace. Instead, you turn to take the pizza out of the oven. Natasha stands there, rejected and silent, then scoops up Valerie and carries her to the dinner table.

Dinner is quiet, awkward. Out of the three of you, Valerie talks the most. She's a toddler, which means that she'll talk about everything and anything. Her current hyperfixation? Space.

"You can be an astronaut, mama", she says, peeling the peppers off her pizza. "It's so cool!"

"I already have a job, bub."

"But astronauts are cool!"

"No doubt", Natasha says, her voice shifting into a mumble when her phone buzzes. She takes a look at the screen and flips over her phone.

You pick at your salad, watching her. She bites into the pizza crust she abandoned earlier. You clear your throat. "Who was that?"

"Colleague", she mutters, reaching for her napkin and wiping her mouth.

"Which one?"

There's nothing going on between her and that woman. She's sworn that multiple times, and in a way, she's telling the truth. Flirting isn't cheating, after all. It's innocent enough. She's still not going to say her name out loud, though. It'd just end in another fight.

"Just a colleague", she replies. She bites into another pizza slice. "Nothing important."

"No", you agree half-heartedly. Valerie jumps up from her chair and runs into the hallway. "Wash your hands!"

"Okay!"

You stare at the almost-finished pizza in front of you. It's gone silent now that your daughter isn't filling the awkward space between you now, so every sound you make feels painfully loud.

Natasha puts down her pizza slice and scrubs her hand down her face. When she got married to you, she had no idea what it'd entail. All she knew were failed marriages, like her parents'. To this day, they don't talk.

She didn't know what being married to you would be like, or how she was supposed to act as a wife. She didn't know what it'd feel like, either. She still doesn't really know. But she's certain that it shouldn't feel like this. Not when it used to be so different once.

"I'll clean up", she finally says, just to make the silence less loud. You look up. "Just...stay here. Relax a bit."

"Sure", you mumble. Natasha gets up, balancing three plates and a salad bowl. She disappears into the kitchen. You lean forward, elbows on the table and your head in your hands.

They're still just sparks. They're small, minor, easy to extinguish. Somehow, despite all your knowledge and experience, you can't remember how to do it.

. . .

Fights become more frequent. They're not bad fights — just little arguments that you can ignore. Disagreements, squabbles, slowly but surely increasing the heat and feeding the growing flames.

Neither of you are sure how they start. It's not like the love isn't there, but it's not enough to quench the fire.

It's the small things that add fuel. Natasha not immediately responding to a text, you holding onto her mistakes and throwing them into conversations like pebbles. Her disappearing into the garage for hours, you comparing her to clients and subtly psychoanalyzing her.

(Natasha will probably never get over your anger-fueled remark that 'Freud would have a field day with her.')

Then again, there are moments where you're able to ignore the cracks. Where the love, buried beneath dishes and responsibilities, comes back up and gasps for air. Where your hand slips into hers easily, where she pulls you aside during a family function just to make out with you like you're back to being in that honeymoon phase of dating.

One Saturday, you get up early to go to the annual summer block party of Natasha's fire station. Knowing it'll be sunny day, you make both her and Valerie sit down after breakfast. Hands slick, you run them down your wife's arms to put sunscreen on them. She shifts and squirms.

"Hold still", you say.

"Yes, ma'am."

"God, even Vee doesn't move this much."

Natasha rolls her eyes. You smear some sunscreen on her nose. Valerie sees that and starts laughing so hard she almost falls off the couch. You chuckle along with her.

"Teaming up against me, I see", she mutters, wiping her nose.

"That's what you get for your attitude", you hum, rubbing some sunscreen into her cheeks and neck. When you're done, you pause. Your hands rest on her jaw, and you're standing between her legs.

Not too long ago, you would've leaned in and kissed her. It used to be the easiest thing in the world. Now, you're not sure — you feel like you should kiss her, but you don't know if you can.

Natasha swallows. She reaches up and adjusts your dress, subtly running her fingers over the soft fabric.

"You look good."

"Yeah?"

"Beautiful. You look beautiful."

"You do!", Valerie adds, getting up to grab her sandals. "I want ice cream. Can I?"

You smile faintly, still staring at the woman in front of you. There may be cracks in what was once a stable marriage, but that doesn't erase the past. It's all still there, floating between and surrounding you like air — invisible, silent, but always there.

She gets up and suddenly, the decision is taken from you. She smells like sunscreen and cologne, lips warm and familiar despite everything. You cup her face and press closer, mouth moving against hers.

Hands trail down your arms, to your waist. She tugs you closer. You wrap your arms around her. Things haven't gone further in weeks. Usually, it ends after a kiss. Now that it could go further, though, it doesn't. Because a little girl with an orange mini pop in her hands decides it's the perfect moment to skid back into the living room.

You pull away immediately, wiping your mouth to remove smudged lipstick. Natasha stands there, aroused and annoyed, rubbing at her own lips. She's tempted to send your daughter upstairs to play, but you have to leave in ten minutes.

"Ice cream?", you say in disbelief. It took you a few seconds to realize that Valerie managed to swipe a sweet treat from the freezer. It's melting already, dripping onto her white dress. "Hey, careful with that. Great, now you need a new dress."

"Didn't bring me one?", Natasha asks, sitting on the couch again. "Is that the last one, bub?“

"You're not having ice cream!", you call from the hallway.

"But-"

"We have to leave!"

Valerie nods. Her chin is pressed to her chest as she tries to peek at the stains the ice cream left. "Listen to mommy."

Natasha narrows her eyes at her. The way she said that sounds so like you that it's both infuriating and hilarious. "Careful, smartass."

You return, a fresh dress thrown over your arm. You crouch in front of Valerie and get her changed. She squirms, holding the half-eaten ice cream, and puts the cherry on top by dropping it. She stares at the ice cream, then starts crying.

"No, my ice cream!"

You sigh, tugging at the dress to make sure it sits right, and then get up. "I'll clean it up. Go to the car with mama, yes?"

"I want ice cream!"

"They'll have ice cream at the station", Natasha says. She scoops Valerie up despite her protests and carries her outside. Once the floor is spotless again, you follow them.

It's warm outside. The area surrounding the fire station is crowded and loud. It smells like hotdogs and cotton candy, kids shriek and laugh, adults try to keep up with conversations.

Your hand in Natasha's and Valerie on her hip, you make your way past smaller groups of people. Your daughter starts wiggling impatiently when she sees the bouncy castle they put up. Apparently, a house made of inflated PVC is enough to make her forget about the ice cream-disaster at home.

"Down, mama! I wanna play!"

You exchange a look with Natasha. She sighs and puts Valerie on her feet, but keeps a loose hold on her shoulder. "Shoes off and be careful, alright? Don't jump into anyone else."

One hurried nod later, your daughter storms off. You watch her join Clint's kids in the bouncy castle.

"You're sure this is a good idea?"

"She's a kid. Kids play. She'll be fine."

You cross your arms. You know she's right, but that doesn't mean you'll agree. The bouncy castle is cramped, so much so that a little boy ends up tumbling out. The ground is covered in soft rubber tiles, thankfully, but he starts crying anyway.

"Besides", she adds, "aren't you the one who's always going on and on about how kids need to be 'independent' and 'resilient'?"

"Don't use my own words against me", you retort, voice more biting. "I just don't want to drive to the ER on a Saturday."

"It's a bouncy castle."

"Romanoffs!"

As soon as you hear Clint's voice, you shut up and turn around. He approaches you, a beer in one hand and his shirt unbuttoned. He may seem oblivious on the outside, but he's done this before — broken up a fight that hasn't started yet.

It doesn't even faze you anymore. Natasha is just grateful she doesn't get sucked into another argument, while you're simmering silently. You've known Clint ever since you and Natasha started dating, and although he is the godfather of your daughter and basically part of your family, he still possesses the unique ability to piss you off. Not many people are able to do that.

He gives you both a happy nod and gestures at the surrounding area. "You see that? Half the town is here."

"It's nice", you agree. Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders. "Where's Laura?"

"Oh, talking to Peggy. You guys want a drink?"

"Driving", Natasha mutters.

"Too hot. I'll end up nauseous again."

"Again?" She frowns and squeezes your shoulder. She's forgotten about your almost-fight already. "You okay?"

You wave your hand, trying to dismiss her worries. "It's only been a few days, Nat. I'm fine."

Clint scratches his ear. What you're describing sounds a lot like something his own wife went through a couple years ago, but it's probably better to let you figure it out yourself. No need to add more tension.

"Alright", he says. "Hotdogs, then? They're great this year, Cooper killed five of 'em."

You shake your head, but Natasha's nodding already. Defeated, you follow them to the barbecues they set up.

Valerie comes running about ten minutes later. She jumps into Natasha's lap, talks animatedly with her hands flailing, steals bites of her hotdogs. You watch her, and the sight makes you feel even more guilty.

It's not fair. This little girl has been the buffer for way too long now. She deserves more than a home that feels like it's constantly holding its breath. Yet, there's no sign of her noticing it — she's as happy and smiley as always.

You, on the other hand, are exhausted. You feel a gentle nudge and turn your head.

"You're sure nothing's wrong?"

"Tired", you say. "Must be the heat."

"You're tired a lot lately."

Valerie climbs into your lap now, but only to grab your lemonade and sip on it. You wrap one arm around her and smooth her hair down with the other.

"I told you I'm fine", you mutter, reaching for a napkin to wipe the ketchup off your daughter's mouth. "Probably work too much."

"Right." She exhales softly. Her fingers drum against the surface of the table. "It's just, you know..."

You're not stupid. You know exactly what she's insinuating. Once upon a time, you loved the idea — two kids, maybe three. Beds filled with giggles, fingers sticky with applesauce, feet dirty with mud. Cartoons on Sunday mornings and a living room full of toys and picture books.

Honestly, it scares you now. Your marriage problems are enough to deal with already. Adding a new baby to the mix could be the thing that makes the cracks grow and the glass shatter.

"I'm fine, okay?", you snap. Valerie gives you a confused look. "Just let it go."

Natasha stares at you, jaw clenched with worry. She silently notes to grab a pregnancy test on the way home.

. . .

Seeing a single line appear is both relieving and disappointing in the most confusing way.

You're both in the bathroom, barefoot and only in pajamas. You're crying, silently, and you're not even sure why. The thought terrified you, but now, you miss the glimmer of hope you felt at the thought of a little being growing inside you.

Bullshit. Like a baby could change anything. Putting that much pressure on an infant can't be healthy. Still, you glance at Natasha. She quickly wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Well, there's that", she mumbles. "At least we don't have to buy a new stroller."

"No", you agree. You sold the stroller a couple months ago, when you were certain you were done with having kids. "No crib, either."

"Right." She clears her throat. "I, uh, should go and keep working on that bookshelf for Vee's room."

You reach for her wrist right as she gets up. This is so painfully familiar in the worst way. Whenever there's something that's not quite going right, she grabs her toolbox and starts assembling or fixing stuff. Your first big fight is how you wound up with a potting bench — neither of you garden, but you technically could.

Natasha looks at you, her eyes still glassy with tears. She swallows. "Hm?"

"I want a baby."

She stares at you, staggered. "What?"

You hesitate, still holding onto her. You're not even sure why you just blurted it out like that. Of course there are more sensitive ways to say it, but your brain isn't functioning how it should right now. Sitting in the small bathroom downstairs, with the peach scented soap and the turtle stickers on the tiles, the negative pregnancy test on the counter — you're overwhelmed.

Natasha isn't doing much better. She slowly sits back down on the edge of the tub. Your thumb rubs her skin absentmindedly.

"I want a baby. With you. I want to make this work."

"It is working", she protests weakly.

"Is it?"

Her eyes flicker between you and the floor. She pulls away only to grab your hand and squeeze it. You feel her wedding band against your palm. She can tell where this is going just by your voice. You're using your therapy-voice again, the one she's heard you use with patients when she accidentally walked into the hallway that leads to your practice.

She's not in the mood for this. She doesn't like talking it out, she doesn't like verbalizing what she's feeling. She's more of a 'show, don't tell'-person. If she's sorry, she's building you patio furniture instead of apologizing.

"A baby", she says, quickly edging past the topic you just brought up. But she sounds hopeful. "We said we're done."

"We don't have to be", you say, more softly now. "Maybe it's what we need. I mean, when we had Valerie..."

"I know." Natasha smiles, her fingers intertwining with yours. Those first few months of baby bliss were the sweetest she's ever had. It was quiet, warm, like you were trapped in a bubble in which nothing could go wrong.

In a way, it was true. Nothing did go wrong. Spit-up on your shirts and sleepless nights were your biggest problems. You didn't fight once. You were able to kiss issues and disagreements away. The knowledge that a tiny human relied on you was enough to make you keep your shit together.

You hum, glancing at her. She exhales and rubs your hand. You see her in that hospital room again, the night you gave birth — a little baby cradled to her chest, cheeks tear stained, mumbling 'it's okay' over and over again —, and everything clicks into place.

It may not fix your issues. It may not be some sort of magical cure. But you're desperate enough to convince yourself it's worth a try.

"I want to do it for the right reasons." You force those words out, even if they taste bitter. "Not just so we..."

"We won't."

"Natasha."

She shakes her head and gets up, pulling you along. "No", she says. You find yourself seated on the counter of the sink. "I don't want to hear it. It's not happening."

"God", you mumble. She kisses your neck. "I hope you're not wrong."

Your breath hitches when her hands tug at your shorts. You shift and wiggle out of them. Hands roam your sides and thighs, lips press against your shoulder and chest. You wrap your legs around her waist.

This is not a new situation for you, but it feels new anyway. Different, exciting, scary. Her movements are quicker, her breathing is ragged and slightly shaky.

Saving a marriage isn't easy. Not even a baby can put out the flames that are already eating at the support beams of a house.

. . .

It takes almost half a year before looking at the crib Natasha assembled doesn't hurt.

You didn't think it'd take this long for you to get pregnant again. With Valerie, it happened immediately. You just decided to start trying for a baby one day, and a month later, you held a positive test in your hands.

This time, it isn't nearly as easy. It's like the universe is trying to warn you, trying to tell you to really think this through.

Neither of you listens, though. It turns into a routine. Once the kid is asleep, you lock the bedroom door and tug off your clothes. There's not much talking involved, but one thing's certain: the fire may affect your marriage, but definitely not your sex life.

Natasha buys pinewood and baby-safe paint. She sits in the garage for hours, headphones on and fingers calloused. She misses lunch three times before she's done building the crib.

None of that seems to matter, though — the tests stay negative.

You take one every week. You go through two dozen pregnancy tests before one is finally positive. Two lines, one a bit weaker, but both clear enough to quell your doubts.

Tears flow, again. They're silent and salty, dripping on your shirt and on the test. You can't get a single word out, so Natasha pulls you into her arms and kisses your hair.

"It's okay", she mumbles, over and over again. This time, it's directed at you. You cry harder and fist the fabric of her shirt. You don't even hear the padding of socked feet behind you, don't notice how Natasha's voice drifts off.

A dimpled little hand pats your back. You turn your head. Somehow, seeing Valerie stand there — all sleepy and confused — makes your tears worse. You scoop her up with one arm, holding her between you and Natasha.

For the weeks that follow, things are okay. Cracks disappear, the fire dies down little by little. You bask in the same light you felt a few years ago. You're almost as overeager as Natasha — you order onesies, search the basement for your breast pump, clean out the extra room you use for everything that has no real place in the house.

Valerie is old enough to sort of understand what's happening. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she's happier about it than Natasha. Unlike her mom, she's verbalizing her excitement constantly. She tells everyone — her teachers at preschool, her friends, the random neighbor she sees while playing in the backyard — about the baby.

Natasha doesn't talk about it much. Instead, she does what she's always done. Build, paint, repair. Buy food and make breakfast in bed. Put her hand on your stomach at night. Kiss it, maybe. Clean the house. Find your old maternity clothes (then decide you deserve new ones and order four boxes full of them). Stock up on snacks.

She doesn't tell you what she's feeling. As someone whose entire career revolves around just that, you both hate and love her for it.

At first, she's present. She's attentive. Then, you start to pull away. Not intentionally — it's something pregnancy can do to you. It makes you feel alone, especially when your partner's ability to talk about emotions and feelings is limited. But when you pull away, so does Natasha.

It's subtle. Late nights at the station, maybe once or twice a week. A missed dinner here and there. Being avoidant. Still making midnight runs for your cravings, but not staying while you pick at them. You used to share the bag full of fries you requested. Now, they go cold.

You start to fight again, which is much worse than the silence ever could be. Because no matter how hard you push, she still won't say much. Some of your patients are kids with traumas, kids who go non-verbal whenever they're stressed. They still tell you more than she does.

The fights get loud, anyway, but you're the one who's doing most of the yelling. You're the one who finds herself with a cup in her hand, ready to hurl it at the wall. Only the cartoon playing on the tv in the living room is what stops you.

The more you fight, the less you see her. Late shifts, she says. It's stressful. Luis quit. Not enough people in case of emergencies.

Tears dry on hoodies. You curl into the sheets on your own. Sometimes, Valerie tiptoes into your bed and snuggles up against your back. When Natasha finds you like that, the guilt she feels is so suffocating it makes it hard to breathe.

The next morning, there's a birdhouse on your dresser.

Despite all of this, she still manages to feel the baby's first real kick. She doesn't cry often, but she does that night.

. . .

You go into labor when Natasha's working another late shift. As soon as she gets the call, she's sprinting towards her car and leaving.

Charlotte is born seven hours later. Natasha's the one who picked her name, because you wanted her to. You regret doubting that decision in the beginning — the name definitely makes sense for the little baby in her arms.

"She's got your eyes."

"She's asleep."

She nods, biting the inside of her cheeks. Her thumb is rubbing featherlight circles into the baby's cheek. She smells like smoke and exhaustion. "I know you. I know her. She's definitely got your eyes."

Outside, the sun is peeking over the horizon, sneaking glances at the newborn your wife is holding. You could swear you've never been this tired in your life, and it might be accurate. You spent the hours right before your water broke trying to soothe a sick toddler.

Natasha shifts in her chair. There's one thing you've always loved about her, and that's the way she treats children. She puts out fires and carries 200 pound men out of burning buildings, but she holds babies like they're made of gold.

She looks at you. You both see something you thought was long gone. "You alright?"

"Bit hungry."

"Oh?" She gets up, no questions asked — it doesn't matter that you had a full meal just a couple hours ago. She hands you the baby and slips into her jacket. Do, don't tell. "What do you want?"

You hesitate, cradling Charlotte against your chest. She squirms in her sleep. "You're leaving?"

"Just to get some food."

"I'd rather you stay", you admit, lightly rubbing the baby's back. "We could order something."

"You sure? There's a diner right down the street, or a Wendy's-"

"Stay. Please." You exhale shakily. "It's been weeks since I fell asleep next to you, you know."

Natasha stares, her heart heavy. Between late shifts and early mornings, she never realized this. When she gets home, you're usually fast asleep — being pregnant and taking care of a toddler will tire you out.

She shrugs off her jacket and puts it over the backrest of the chair. She sits down next to you, kicks off her boots, curls around you. Her fingers trail down the baby's back, and her arm wraps around your shoulders. You lean into her.

The sun comes up. The room is bathed in bright colors, yellow and orange in all their shades. You fall asleep with your head on her chest.

. . .

Having a baby doesn't take the oxygen away from the fire. It doesn't stop the flames from licking at something that was once stable. It just puts your life on pause, even if only briefly.

Postpartum is always hard, but it's infinitely harder when you have a toddler to look after as well. Natasha takes a couple weeks off work, which helps. She makes food, entertains Valerie, holds and rocks the baby while you shower.

It's healing. It reminds you of why you're doing this. Suddenly, you're falling asleep together again (not for long, since Lottie wakes up three times a night, but who are you to complain?). You're in a similar headspace as to when you had Valerie. Things usually get easier before they get harder, but for a few weeks, you don't dare worry about that.

Why should you, after all? Despite the stretch marks and the spit up on your shoulders, Natasha's flirting again. She's present. She's changing diapers instead of fixing chairs in the garage. Whenever the baby blues hit, she appears next to you with a cup of tea and your favorite meal. When you're breastfeeding, she pulls out a book and quietly reads it out loud. Not even the little sex jokes she throws in here and there bother you anymore. Somehow, it's nicer to feel desired when you're not at your personal best.

Natasha disagrees with that one. You're always at your personal best, even when you're fighting with her, but especially when you just gave birth to her baby. Of course, she doesn't tell you that.

It's not postpartum that makes you worry. It's what comes after those three months of bliss.

You knew she'd have to go back to work eventually, and that's fine. Obviously it is. But the second she's late to dinner, the moment you realize she's taken over a late shift again, you slip back into that feeling of being abandoned.

You start to pull away again, and so does she.

No more falling asleep together. No more dinners on the porch. All that remains is the smell of smoke, clinging to her skin and to the bedsheets. Conversations become shorter as you reduce them to the absolute minimum.

Charlotte is four months old when you have your first big fight since having the baby again.

It starts as something mundane. Natasha, home late from work and missing dinner. You, barely talking. Valerie, asleep in her bed.

She's in her turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips and soot all over her hands. She picks up Lottie and you nearly spiral.

"Wash your hands first!"

"What?"

"Your hands, Natasha." You walk to the portable crib and take the baby from her. Charlotte squirms. "Wash them, for god's sake."

She stares at you, taken aback. She knows it's not just her unwashed hands. It's happened before, because she's tired when she gets home and tends to forget about things, and you usually just remind her before going on about your day.

This time, you're pissed. You cradle Charlotte and walk into the kitchen. Natasha quickly follows after you.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"She's a baby. I don't even want to know what you've been touching all day."

"I wash my hands all the time while at the station." She stands next to you. You put Lottie into her bouncer and fasten the safety harness. She kicks her legs, gurgling at Natasha. "Hey, sweetheart."

You turn on the faucet and gesture at it. She sighs and gives in, pumping some soap into her open palm and scrubbing off the soot.

"I don't know what's gotten into you", she mutters, drying her hands. You raise your eyebrows. "All I did was-"

"You picked her up without washing your hands first! You know that rule!"

"Dirt builds immunity", she argues.

"I don't need you taking risks", you hiss. "She's four months old. Plenty of time left for her immunity to be built."

Natasha can't help but chase you when you leave the room once more. You've got the baby in your arms again, your steps hurried as you walk up the stairs. She hesitates when you pass Valerie's bedroom — she's barely seen her today —, then speeds up when she loses sight of you.

"I forgot, okay?"

"Yes", you mutter, putting Charlotte on the changing table, "that's the problem, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

The baby lets out an unhappy squawk. Maybe it's you peeling off her onesie, or maybe it's the fight you're having right next to her. Either way — you bite the inside of your cheek and grab a diaper, knocking over a bottle of lotion in the process.

It drops. You, being in a hurry earlier that day, left the cap open. Lotion spills on the floor, and you start to cry.

"Get out."

"No, no, wait", she pleads, stepping closer. "Why are you crying? It's just lotion, I'll clean it up."

"Get out!"

Charlotte fusses and starts crying as well. You shake your head and put the fresh diaper on her, then you reach for her pajamas. Natasha's still there, standing next to you, looking lost and helpless.

You're bitter. You're tired. It's not your fault for thinking she deserves to feel that way. You've been feeling like that for a while now, haven't you? It's fair that she experiences it as well.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't move, doesn't help. You scoop Charlotte up and walk to the crib that's attached to your bed. Only then does Natasha clean up the lotion.

When she's done, she leaves the room. She closes the door, gently. She shrugs on a jacket and grabs her keys. She gets into her car and drives off.

It's quiet in the barn behind the station. It's an old thing, huge and smelling like dust, but the team renovated it a couple years ago. The beanbags are flat and probably full of insects, the mini fridge is almost never stocked, but at least there's alcohol.

Going here is probably the dumbest decision she could've made that night. She should've talked to you, apologized, listened. Instead, she's about to turn a fight into a full blown war.

Clint looks up when she sits on the beanbag next to his. He raises his bottle in silent greeting. She nods, arms crossed, and stares at the wall. It's covered in pages ripped from old Playboys. How very different from the house of milk bottles and lullabies she just ran from.

First, he clears his throat. She doesn't react. Then, he nudges her foot with his. She shakes her head.

"Alright", he finally says. "Why the hell are you here?"

"Not your fucking problem, Barton."

"No", he agrees. "You got two kids waiting for you, though. And a wife who's probably not too happy about this."

"Y/N is never happy, anyway", she mutters, flicking a fly off her knee. "Doesn't matter if I'm home or not."

He frowns. She reaches into the cooler he brought and grabs a beer. When the barn door opens, she looks up and sees Wendy. A wordless nod of acknowledgment is exchanged, and Clint elbows her in the ribs.

He's seen them flirt. Natasha claims it's harmless. In a way, it is — she could never feel for her what she feels for you. She married you. She has kids with you. But oftentimes, flirting is not about feelings. It's about escaping. About feeling something new for a few minutes.

"I swear to-"

"You need to talk to Y/N", he says, "not ogle Johnston."

"I'm not ogling", she replies, cracking open the can. She takes a sip and grimaces. "What the fuck is wrong with your cooler? This is warmer than my piss."

He rolls his eyes. "Bring your own, then. Now get up and go home, or I'm driving you myself."

"Shut up", she mutters, taking another sip. "She needs some time to herself."

"Sometimes I wonder how you guys are still married."

"Trust me, I do too."

"Yeah, well..." He plucks the can from her hand, "...go home and change something about it!"

She glares at him, but he doesn't budge. He gestures at the barn door as if he could make her get and leave with his sheer willpower. But Natasha's more scared of what awaits her at home than she is of him, so she stays seated.

Clint is sick of her by this point. He has a teenager at home who isn't this hard to deal with. Playing marriage counselor when her wife is a literal family therapist also doesn't make much sense to him.

He gets up and grabs her by the collar of her jacket. She sputters and lets him drag her to her feet.

"What the fuck!"

"Get your sorry ass home!"

She stumbles out of the barn and nearly trips. It's cold out, her breath coming out in aggressive little puffs. Clint pats her back and nods at her car.

"Go", he says. "Before you screw this up."

Before you screw this up — for some reason, Natasha thinks she might've missed that opportunity.

. . .

When she returned that night, you didn't talk for two full days.

It slowly got worse. Longer shifts, more time spent in the garage. You, pulling away from her every touch. The flirting died down. When you did talk, it was about the kids. Your sex life was nonexistent.

Two months later, and it's gotten somewhat better.

That is, until she doesn't come home after a fight one night.

You're terrified. Scared to death. You call all of her friends, colleagues, family members. You put Valerie and Charlotte into the car and search every corner of town for her. Right as you park next to a playground, you get a text.

It only consists of two words.

Natasha: I'm sorry — 5.02am

Natasha, in another woman's bedroom, her head pounding with a hangover and her fingers trembling. The bedsheets rustle as Wendy shifts, and she quickly walks into the hallway.

You're not replying. You're staring at the screen, confused and heart rabbiting in your chest. Behind you, Lottie fusses and spits out her pacifier. Valerie grabs it and puts it back in her mouth, soothing her with her sleepy-soft voice.

You press the call button. She picks up immediately.

"What do you mean you're sorry?", you say, not giving her the chance to say something first. "What did you do? Where are you? Do you know how worried I am?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know", she says, rubbing her temple. She hears Lottie let out a cry in the background, and her entire body seems to recoil with guilt. "I don't know how to tell you."

"Natasha. How bad is it?"

"Really fucking bad. I didn't...this wasn't supposed to happen."

Charlotte's fussing turns into crying. She kicks her legs and refuses the pacifier Valerie's trying to put back into her mouth. You turn around, shush the baby and rub her belly, while also trying to tell your older daughter to let it go.

"I don't have time for this", you say. "Lottie's teething, I left the teething ring at home-"

"I slept with Wendy."

You freeze, your hand stilling on Charlotte's tummy. She keeps crying, her hands balled into little fists. Valerie gives you a questioning look.

"No."

"I'm so sorry."

You exhale shakily. Tears fill your eyes, but you barely register them. All you feel is the numbing feeling of disappointment and the quiet realization that maybe this is how it was always supposed to end.

You're angry, anyway. You hang up on her and throw the phone onto the passenger seat, then you start the car and speed off. Trees, houses, bakeries and mom-and-pop stores create a blur as you drive past them. Your vision is even blurrier, so you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

Natasha stares at the phone for a moment. Her heart almost stops when Wendy leans against the doorway. All it takes is one look at her — hair tousled, only wearing a white shirt — and she instantly regrets everything that led to this moment.

Flirting for months. Harmless, but constant and unapologetic.

A drink at the bar next to the fire station after a fight. More flirting. Natasha, slipping back into old habits she thought long buried.

She's married, after all. Ever since she found you, she was convinced she could leave it behind. One night stands aren't nearly as significant as waking up next to someone familiar each day. Knowing someone's habits by heart is much more soothing than having to guess them.

But she was pissed, and tipsy, and Wendy slid behind the bar like the personification of a cruel twist of fate.

And now, she's in her house. Wendy's studying her, eyes drowsy and arms crossed, and Natasha wants to scream. She's so unlike you it's painful.

"You're up already?"

"I'm leaving", Natasha says, turning around to find her clothes. Where did she discard them? In the living room or in the hallway? She's not sure anymore.

Wendy watches, eyebrows raised. She tilts her head and leans it against the wall. "Behind the couch."

"What? Oh." Natasha huffs and crouches beside the couch. She reaches behind it and fishes out a hoodie and jeans.

"No 'thank you'?"

"Fuck off."

She slips into her clothes. Wendy steps closer, and she steps away. They repeat that once, twice, before Natasha snaps.

"Are you kidding? Back off!"

"Wow", she muses, frowning. "You're in a mood. What happened?"

"Nothing", she snaps, grabbing her boots. She walks to the front door and opens it. "Absolutely fucking nothing."

The door slams shut. There's a baby sock in the backseat of her car. Her world as she once knew it is now in pieces.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #I’ll always be down for some angst!

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