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Two Signatures: Chapter 3

The Last Attempt

Summary: Dinner at your father’s table was never going to be ordinary, but you didn’t expect this. One decision, spoken like inevitability, splits the room wide open: Wanda in tears, Pietro in rage, and you, sitting perfectly still. He calls it an alliance. You deem it survival. And for the first time, you begin to wonder if silence has become the only language you know how to speak.

Word count: 8195

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 28

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Warnings: Emotional burnout, Mentions of illness and hospitalization Mild language, Alcohol, Grief, Themes of parental control

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The morning comes heavy, though you rise at the same hour you always do. The apartment is hushed in its routine quiet, the only sound the hum of the city filtering through the glass. You move through your motions with practiced efficiency, slipping into a shirt, buttoning cuffs, pouring coffee that tastes more like habit than comfort.

Your reflection in the kitchen window looks older than it should. Not in years, but in the way the shadows cling beneath your eyes, in the tired set of your mouth. You have learned to carry it without faltering. Long ago, after Magda’s stroke, you had no choice. You had to be the one steady hand for Wanda and Pietro, the one who did not crumble when the ground gave way beneath the family.

There are traces of that time in everything you do now. The silence in the early morning feels like those years, when you crept into your mother’s room to check the rise and fall of her breathing, when you made sure the twins’ school uniforms were laid out, even if you had homework unfinished in your own bag. It has been years since then, yet it has trained you to live as if every moment is borrowed, every task a responsibility to someone else.

You sip the coffee and scan the day’s agenda. Numbers, contracts, signatures. Meetings stacked one after the other. To anyone else, it looks like the day of a rising executive. To you, it feels like armour. Structure keeps the cracks from widening.

The phone buzzes with a reminder. You silence it, setting it face down on the table. The urge to let it ring, to let the world wait for once, lingers at the edge of your thoughts. But the idea is dangerous. You learned young what happens when you let yourself pause. Everything falls on someone else.

So, you drain the last of the cup, gather your coat, and step into the day with the same deliberate calm as always.

What you cannot know, as you lock the door behind you, is that last night two old friends spoke your name over glasses of whiskey. What you cannot see is that your life, so carefully controlled, has already begun to shift into something you did not plan for.

Natasha wakes late, sunlight cutting across her face through curtains she never bothered to draw fully closed. The air smells faintly of last night’s perfume, sharp against the trace of whiskey and cigarette smoke that clings to her hair. Somewhere on the floor near the bed lies a sequined jacket, half-buried under shoes kicked off without aim.

The room itself is an echo of her nights, scattered, careless, half-alive in the clutter of glasses and discarded laughter. The city’s rhythm still hums in her ears. A private rooftop bar. Music too loud. A daring story told with a laugh that had everyone leaning in. A kiss that never mattered. The taste of recklessness carried home like a souvenir.

Her phone blinks with messages she will not read yet. Invitations. Photos. Someone reminding her of the lunch she promised to attend. Natasha rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. For a moment she almost laughs at the stillness. Mornings feel foreign to her, something meant for other people, the ones who thrive on schedules and rules.

She drags herself up eventually, bare feet brushing against the cool wood floor. A glass of water, aspirin slipped under her tongue. Her reflection in the mirror makes her smile, tired though her eyes are. She looks alive. Untamed. Free in ways that would terrify most of the men who sit across from her father in boardrooms.

But the freedom is also weight. Behind the glitter and recklessness is a father who shakes his head more often than he admits, a sister who grows sharp with worry, and a legacy that waits whether she answers it or not. She pushes that thought down, dressing quickly, choosing denim and leather over silk, daring the day to try and tame her.

By the time she steps out, Natasha feels the city belongs to her again. She has no idea her father sat across from Erik the night before, their shared silence heavy with the thought that maybe their children were running two very different kinds of damage. She does not know that in their worry, they are quietly imagining ways to force balance back into lives that have slipped out of their own hands.

The city feels sharper in the morning, glass towers catching the sun as you step out of the car. Your driver offers a polite nod, but you are already adjusting the cuff of your suit, eyes locked on the front doors of X-MEN International headquarters. The air smells faintly of rain from the night before, cool against your face as you cross the pavement with coffee in hand.

Inside, the lobby greets you with marble floors and the familiar hum of activity. Assistants stride past with folders, voices blending into the cadence of a new day. You keep moving, coffee warm in your grip, your expression unreadable. The world expects the Maximoff heir to arrive like this every morning, composed, untouchable.

The elevator doors slide open, and inside you find Pepper Potts. She offers you a small smile, the kind that suggests she has already been through three meetings and two crises before breakfast.

“Morning,” she says, voice steady. “Don’t let Rogers bury you in paperwork today. He thinks efficiency is a lifestyle.”

You allow yourself the faintest curl of your mouth, acknowledging her before the doors open again on your floor. The smell of coffee lingers as you step out.

Your office is waiting. The glass walls shine, the city stretched wide beyond them. On your desk are neat stacks of reports, color-coded tabs marking what requires your signature first. A second cup of coffee rests there, still steaming, courtesy of Wanda who has already been through and vanished like a ghost. A note rests beside it in her handwriting: Eat something before noon. I mean it.

You set your own cup down, slip out of your jacket, and breathe in the stillness of your space. This is the order you understand. Numbers that obey rules. Markets that move with logic. A world that you can keep in straight lines, unlike the chaos that sometimes follows your sister or the storm that is Natasha Romanoff, though you do not yet know her name.

You sit, straighten the first report, and take a measured sip of coffee. The city hums outside your windows, waiting.

You know your sister’s habits better than anyone. By the time you set your jacket over the chair, Wanda is already somewhere else in the building, moving quietly through the morning like she always does. She is more presence than noise, leaving little traces of herself for you to find. The second coffee on your desk. The scribbled note. A faint reminder of the perfume she wears that never quite lingers long enough.

You lean back in your chair, eyes on the untouched cup. Wanda has always been the softer one, but softer does not mean weaker. Where you approach the world with angles and walls, she tends to slip through the cracks, weaving herself into people’s lives until they forget she was ever an outsider. It is her gift. It is also what makes you wary.

You can picture her even now, perhaps down in the legal department, speaking with junior staff who light up when she remembers their names. Or in the cafeteria, listening as though she has all the time in the world. You know the truth though. Wanda listens because she carries too much herself. She needs the distraction, needs to tether herself to something less sharp than the Maximoff legacy.

There are times you envy that ability of hers, the way she draws warmth without effort. Your own presence cools a room before it can spark. Yet here she is, leaving coffee like a small act of rebellion against your silence, forcing you to be reminded that someone still thinks of you before noon.

You lift the cup finally, tasting it. Too sweet. Exactly how she drinks it, because she knows you would never order it for yourself. A small victory on her part.

You sigh, setting it back down. It is easier to think about her this way, in absence, rather than confronting the worry that you may not be as cold as you appear.

Wanda walks slowly through the corridor; her heels muted against the polished floor. She carries herself with quiet precision, pausing every now and then to greet a passing employee by name. Her voice is gentle, the kind that makes people stop and smile before they remember they have somewhere to be. She has already made two detours on her way to the atrium, one to check in on a junior associate and another to leave a file where it will be found without embarrassment.

In the atrium the light cuts through the glass in long bars, striking green into the leaves of the plants kept alive more by staff rotation than sunlight. She takes a seat near the edge, away from the main tables, and smooths her skirt across her knees. The untouched coffee she brought with her warms her hands as she sits in thought.

She feels him before she hears him. Pietro never learned how to move quietly. He is a streak of restless energy in a world that prefers measured steps. He drops into the chair beside her without asking, swinging a leg over the other, his shirt collar still open from the night before.

“You skipped breakfast again,” he says, eyes sharp even through the fatigue that clings to him.

“I had coffee,” Wanda replies softly, though she knows the answer will not satisfy him.

He studies her, the way only a brother can, and leans forward on his elbows. “Coffee is not food. And avoiding questions is not an answer.”

She takes a sip instead of answering. The sweetness does little to cover the bitterness that settles at the back of her throat. Pietro lets the silence hang for a moment, though patience was never his strongest trait.

“Everyone looks at you like you hold them together,” he says finally. “But I know you. You give too much away.”

Wanda’s lips curve at that, though it is a smile tinged with weariness. “And you give nothing away until it bursts. We balance each other.”

His laugh is short and unpolished, the sound of someone who has spent too many nights running from whatever waits in the quiet. He reaches over, steals her cup, and drinks from it like it belongs to him.

“Still too sweet,” he mutters. “You will ruin your teeth.”

Pietro sets the cup down and folds his arms across his chest, his tone softening. “How is she?”

Wanda tilts her head, pretending not to understand, though the pause gives her away. “Mother is improving,” she says at last. “The doctors are cautious, but every test looks a little brighter. She walks more now, even if only across the room. Some days she even insists on doing it without help.”

Pietro’s expression flickers between relief and doubt. “And Y/N?”

The way he asks is not careless. His voice carries weight, like he already knows the answer will be complicated. Wanda looks down at her hands, thumb brushing over the rim of the cup he abandoned.

“Stable,” she says. “You know how sestra is. Routine holds everything together, but it is different from healing. Still, being in the office again is better than watching from the sidelines. It keeps the shadows at bay.”

Pietro leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “I worry. About both of them. Mother hides her pain so well I almost believe her, and Y/N… well, dear old sestra never lets anyone close enough to see. You and I are the only ones who look long enough to notice.”

Wanda smiles faintly, though it never quite reaches her eyes. “That is why we are here. We carry what they cannot say out loud. And we remind them that silence is not the same as strength.”

For a moment they sit in the sunlight spilling across the atrium, two twins bound by duty and love, holding a conversation that never quite leaves their family but lingers over it like a thread stitching loose seams together.

Wanda rests her elbows on the table, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the surface. Her voice drops, low enough that it feels like it belongs only to the two of them.

“Sometimes I worry about sestra more than I do about mama,” she admits. “With mama, there is a path forward. The doctors chart her progress. We can measure her recovery in steps taken, in meals finished, in hours slept without pain. But with sestra…” She shakes her head, the words faltering. “With sestra, nothing is measured. There are no charts for grief or emptiness.”

Pietro studies her closely, but does not interrupt. He knows this rhythm, the way Wanda lets her thoughts pool until they spill.

“She comes into the office, she signs the papers, she drinks her coffee, she does what is expected. Everyone applauds her discipline, her composure. But I see it. The way she does not smile anymore, not really. The way she keeps her distance from everyone except mama. It is as if she is still walking through ashes long after the fire has gone out.”

Her voice grows softer still, almost fragile. “I am afraid she will bury herself in duty until there is nothing left of her. Afraid she will mistake silence for survival.”

Pietro’s jaw tightens, and he glances away as though the weight of her words is too heavy to look at head on. “Then what do we do?”

Wanda sighs, a weary sound wrapped in determination. “We stay. We keep being the eyes that see what others do not. We keep reminding her that family is not something you set aside when it is inconvenient. And maybe, when mama is strong again, sestra will believe she is allowed to be strong in other ways too. Not just for the company. Not just for us.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It holds all the unspoken promises between them, and all the fears neither wants to imagine.

Alexei had settled into the leather chair in his study, one large hand wrapped around a glass of mineral water that looked almost comically small in his grip. He stared at the surface of it as though it held the words he was trying to put together. Melina stood by the window, arms folded, listening without interrupting.

“When Erik first came to me,” Alexei began, his voice carrying the gravel of someone who has argued too many battles in boardrooms and living rooms alike, “I thought he wanted only leverage. Another Maximoff plea, another attempt to secure influence under the pretence of family.” He shifted, leaning forward slightly. “But this time, it was different. He did not bring figures or charts, not even a draft agreement. He brought conviction. He spoke of Y/N as if she were not only the heir to X-MEN International but the bridge between two fractured houses. He said the company does not only need her discipline. It needs her humanity. He said Natasha could be the answer.”

Melina turned from the window, her brows rising. “Natasha? His solution is marriage?”

Alexei nodded slowly, almost reluctant to admit how the idea had stayed with him. “He believes it will not only tie two legacies together but also steady them both. He told me our daughter has always been fire that refuses to be contained, while Y/N has become ice that does not melt even under the sun. And perhaps he is right. Fire can thaw ice, and ice can temper fire. Together, they could carry both enterprises without burning out or breaking apart.”

Melina tilted her head, considering him. “You are repeating his words more carefully than you admit. Usually, you would dismiss such talk as theatrics.”

A rough laugh escaped Alexei, but there was no mockery in it. “I tried. I wanted to scoff. But Erik is a man who knows loss. He speaks as someone who has nearly destroyed everything and crawled back to salvage what mattered. And he looks at Y/N with the eyes of a father who knows he has already asked too much of her. He sees the cost of her composure. He wants her to have a partner who can crack that silence.”

Melina’s lips pressed together, her mind weighing strategy against sentiment. “You think Natasha is that partner?”

“I think Erik is right to believe she could be. Our daughter has always run headlong into danger, into challenge. Natasha thrives where others hesitate. And Y/N, she has been taught restraint for so long that she has forgotten what it feels like to be reckless. Natasha will not let her stay frozen.”

For a long moment, Melina said nothing. The only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Finally, she lowered herself into the chair across from him, her sharp eyes softening in a way that startled him.

“It sounds almost poetic,” she admitted quietly. “Not like the strategies we build in annual meetings, but like something with its own inevitability. If you had brought this to me without Erik’s name attached, I would have told you to stop chasing impossible unions. And yet, as you speak, it feels less impossible. It feels… sound.”

Alexei lifted his glass, his heavy features unreadable but his eyes carrying the weight of reluctant belief. “That is what I did not expect. To think that perhaps, this time, the idea is not only good for the company. Perhaps it is good for them too.”

Melina leaned back, exhaling a long breath as if releasing her resistance along with it. “Then perhaps we should not dismiss it.”

The study fell into silence again, but it was a different silence than before. Not the silence of hesitation, but the kind that follows the first steps toward an agreement neither of them would have imagined a week ago.

The message came to you through a quiet knock at your office door, delivered by the household staff with the same calmness they had always used since Magda’s stroke. No explanation offered, no opportunity to question why now. Just the simple announcement that your father expected you and your siblings home for dinner.

It had been some time since he had called for such a gathering. You could see it in Wanda’s expression when she looked up from her book, in the way Pietro immediately crossed his arms as if preparing for a demand rather than an invitation. Neither of them spoke much, though the silence between them said everything. They felt the shift just as you did. Something in the air was different.

The house was not unfamiliar to you, but it had grown heavier since your mother’s absence from the head of the table. Every step through the corridor carried a weight that you had long ago taught yourself to carry without faltering. You made sure Wanda was walking at your pace, that Pietro was close behind. Their presence gave the scene a strange rhythm, one you had not realized you missed until you were here again, the three of you side by side.

When the staff led you into the sitting room, the air felt warmer than it should have, almost staged, as though your father had carefully orchestrated every detail to make you stay. The lights were softer, the table set in quiet elegance, no empty plates left out as a reminder of who was missing. You noticed the way Wanda’s hand brushed lightly against the back of a chair, steadying herself, her gaze caught on the place where your mother would have sat. Pietro moved with restless energy, hands deep in his pockets, pacing lightly as though still deciding whether to sit or stand.

You took your seat because that was expected of you. You did not ask questions, though your mind was already racing. The smell of warm bread, roasted vegetables, and something richer layered beneath filled the room, making it almost impossible to focus. Your siblings glanced at you in silent exchange, waiting for you to interpret what your father wanted. That had always been your role, to translate Erik Lehnsherr’s decisions into something they could understand.

But this time you did not yet have the answer.

The sound of footsteps carried before he appeared, steady and deliberate. Your father entered the room with the same quiet command he always brought, shoulders straight, expression composed. He did not rush, and he did not let silence linger. He moved as though this dinner were nothing unusual, as though it had always been the natural rhythm of the household.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice measured, carrying just enough warmth to disarm suspicion without erasing it entirely. His gaze passed over you, then settled briefly on Wanda before shifting to Pietro. He acknowledged each of you in turn, not with the stiffness of a business partner but with the presence of a father reclaiming his table.

He took his seat at the head, waiting only a breath before reaching for the bread placed near him. “I trust the day treated you well,” he began, not asking but framing it like an opening move in a conversation. Pietro gave a short shrug, muttering something about work keeping him busy. Wanda, ever the more deliberate of the two, said she had been reading, her tone polite but restrained.

Your father accepted their answers with a small nod, as though cataloguing them. Then his eyes turned to you. “And you, sestra?” Wanda asked softly, the question slipping out before Erik had the chance. She looked at you almost as if she wanted to shield you from his scrutiny.

You answered simply, your words careful, stripped of detail. Work. Meetings. Enough to fill the space without inviting more.

Erik responded with the faintest curve of his mouth, something between acknowledgment and approval. He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down again. “It is good that all of you are here,” he said, almost casually. “It has been too long since this house held its family around the same table.”

The meal was served, and the sound of plates being placed filled the room. The air was calm, the conversation restrained. Erik asked Wanda about her studies, listened with a patience you had not expected. He questioned Pietro about his recent projects, and though Pietro’s answers were clipped, Erik let them stand.

When his attention returned to you, it was not with questions but with observation. He spoke of the weather, of the quiet changes in the city, of an old colleague who had sent his regards. It was small talk, almost ordinary.

The dinner unfolded with a rhythm that felt unfamiliar, yet strangely easy. For once, there was no edge in his voice, no sharpness hidden between the syllables. He broke bread and passed it toward you without needing to be asked, the gesture simple and unguarded.

Pietro was the first to crack, grumbling about the overcooked pasta at one of his favourite cafés. Erik chuckled, low and quiet, and said he had never trusted restaurants that boasted too much about tradition. “They confuse stubbornness for craft,” he said, earning a smirk from Pietro and a soft roll of Wanda’s eyes.

Wanda spoke of a book she had finished that week, and Erik listened without interruption. When she hesitated, searching for the right word, he waited with patience instead of filling the silence. “You always liked to linger on sentences,” he murmured, “even as a child.” The words were not heavy, not laced with regret, only touched by memory.

You watched him notice the small things. He asked if the seasoning was to your liking, nudged the wine bottle closer when your glass was empty, laughed softly when Pietro teased Wanda about her habit of underlining every other page in her novels. He leaned back in his chair at one point, arms folded, his eyes moving across the three of you as though trying to commit this moment to memory.

It did not feel like a performance. The warmth came in details too small to orchestrate: the way he set down his knife to listen, the ease with which he let the conversation wander, the way his smile, so rare and fleeting, found its way onto his face without force.

For a time, the air was light. You were not heirs or burdens or expectations. You were simply his children, and he, for tonight, was simply your father.

The plates shifted with each course, conversation trailing naturally behind the steam and aromas that filled the room. The warmth stayed. There was no sudden tightening of voices, no silence cutting sharper than words.

Wanda surprised herself by laughing, really laughing when Pietro described his attempt at cooking risotto, which had ended with the fire alarm shrieking and a pan sacrificed to the trash. Erik smiled at that, shaking his head as if he could already imagine the disaster, and said Pietro reminded him of his younger self, impatient but convinced he knew best. Pietro, for once, did not bristle at the comparison.

You found yourself speaking more than you had expected. When Erik asked about the progress of one of your projects, you answered without hesitation. He listened, leaning forward slightly, his attention fixed in a way that did not feel performative. He asked questions that did not pry but showed he understood the scope of what you carried. You did not feel judged in your reply.

The warmth deepened when dessert arrived, bowls of simple fruit and a delicate tart placed between you all. Erik reached for a slice but made sure first that Wanda had her share, then nudged the plate toward you with a quiet “you should try this.” The sweetness lingered on your tongue, paired with a quiet comfort you had not thought possible at this table.

Conversation softened around memories rather than conflicts. Erik mentioned a summer long past when he had taken you all to the coast, and Pietro jumped in with complaints about the endless walking he had endured. Wanda reminded him he had spent half the trip racing against waves until his legs gave out. Erik did not correct either of them. He only laughed, his voice unguarded, his eyes soft as they rested on his children gathered before him again.

The sweetness of the tart still lingered on your tongue as the last plates were cleared. Conversation had quieted, but not in an uncomfortable way. It felt more like the hush that came when everyone was simply content to be together, the sort of silence that did not demand to be filled. The clinking of utensils and soft movements of the staff beyond the doors carried faintly, leaving the four of you wrapped in the cocoon of the dining room.

Erik rested his hands lightly on the table, fingertips brushing the rim of his glass. He looked at Wanda, then Pietro, and finally at you. His expression carried none of the sharp edges you had once expected from him. Instead, there was something measured, deliberate, as though he had been weighing this moment all through the evening and had finally decided it was time.

“I had a meeting recently,” he began, his voice calm, his tone more like he was drawing you into a conversation than delivering a command. “With Alexei Shostakov. You know him. Red Guardian Enterprises.”

Pietro shifted in his chair, brows pulling together at the name, but Erik continued before anyone could interject. “We spoke at length about the challenges both of our families have faced, and about what it might mean to create something new rather than keep old divisions alive. He came to me not only as a businessman but as a father.”

He drew in a slow breath, his gaze steady now. “He has a daughter, Natasha. Brilliant, strong-willed, a woman who refuses to stay in the lines people draw for her. She is not what the tabloids make her. She is sharper, braver than that. She reminds me, in ways, of your mother when she was young.”

His words settled across the table, heavy in their gentleness. Then he leaned back slightly, hands still folded together and spoke with the weight of finality.

“I have decided that you will marry her.”

The silence after his words stretched longer than any silence during the meal. It was no longer warm. It pressed on your chest and curled around the edges of your thoughts like smoke. Wanda’s hand trembled where it rested beside her glass, and when she finally looked at Erik her eyes already shimmered.

“Papa,” she whispered, her voice fragile, as if saying the word might soften what had just been said. “You cannot mean this. Not like this. She deserves to choose; she deserves to breathe before you decide her life.” Her voice cracked, and her hand reached out blindly for yours, squeezing as though she might anchor you in place.

Pietro was not gentle. His chair scraped back against the polished floor, the sound harsh in the quiet. His jaw tightened, eyes blazing, and when he spoke it was nothing short of fury. “Unbelievable. You sat here, smiling with us, pretending this was family, and all the while you had already decided. Do you even hear yourself? She is not some piece of leverage. She is not one of your mergers. She is our sister.” His hand slammed against the table, rattling what remained of the glasses. “You cannot do this to her.”

But you did not move. Wanda’s grip on your hand felt distant, Pietro’s outrage roared like a storm somewhere far away, but inside you there was only stillness. The decision had been made. You had lived your life long enough to know when resistance was wasted breath.

You drew your hand gently from Wanda’s hold, folded it in your lap, and lifted your eyes to Erik. His face was unreadable, expectant, as if waiting for a verdict from you. The words came quietly, steady, almost too simple for the weight they carried.

“As you wish, Father.”

The room seemed to tilt with the clash of voices. Wanda’s muffled sobs, Pietro’s sharp curse as he turned away from the table, the scrape of his hands through his hair as if he could tear the truth apart with his bare fingers. Erik remained still, shoulders set, watching you with that same unwavering calm, and you knew he had been prepared for every reaction but yours.

The silence after your words hangs heavier than any argument could. Pietro’s fists are tight against the table, knuckles whitening with the effort not to slam them down. Wanda’s tears slip freely, quiet at first, but her trembling shoulders betray the weight she carries. The clinking of silverware ceases altogether as the staff exchange glances and one by one excuse themselves with discreet bows, retreating through the side doors until only the family remains.

Erik does not flinch at the storm he has unleashed. He places his napkin deliberately on the table, folding it with a calm precision that seems at odds with the rawness around him. When he lifts his eyes, they first meet Wanda’s.

“Draga mea,” he says softly, the gentleness startling in contrast to the finality of his announcement. “This is not punishment. I would never harm you or your sister. You know this.” His voice falters just enough to reveal effort, a father holding onto his authority even as his daughter weeps in front of him.

But Wanda shakes her head, her voice breaking. “You think binding sestra to a stranger heals anything? You think this is love? You make it sound so… reasonable, as if we are pieces you can move, but she is not a chess piece, papa. She is not.”

Her words echo, raw, her accent thickening under strain. Pietro leans forward, unable to contain himself.

“Enough. Do you hear yourself? You talk of healing, of alliances, but you cannot even sit here without turning our lives into another deal struck over wine. Sestra does not need your empire to find peace. And she does not need your chosen bride.” His voice is sharp, biting, and his gaze burns toward Erik with an anger only a son can hold for a father who has disappointed him too many times.

Erik listens, his face carved from stone, yet the stillness in his expression betrays no triumph. He allows their fury to pour over him as if he has already accounted for it, already accepted it as the price.

Meanwhile, you remain silent, watching as the lines deepen between them all. The divide is no longer just at the table but runs through the very air, splitting warmth into fractures of grief, outrage, and resignation. You do not move, your posture as rigid as the back of your chair, your hands clasped in your lap where no one sees them tighten.

For all the noise Pietro and Wanda make, the quiet between your father and you is the loudest of all. He knows you are listening. He knows you are not fighting. That stillness is what steadies him, and it unsettles your siblings all the more.

“That is enough,” you say, and your tone is calm, flat, not raised, not strained. It is the still surface of a lake before the storm, unbroken, unyielding. And that is all it takes.

Wanda’s words collapse in her throat, her tears suspended as if held by invisible force. Pietro, mid-breath, freezes under the weight of your voice before slamming his chair back with a sharp scrape against the floor. He storms out without another word, his footsteps heavy with frustration, his shoulders squared as though he could carry all of your shared resentment on his back if it would spare you. Wanda lingers longer, her gaze wet and pleading, but even she bows to the authority buried in your simplicity. She wipes at her face, murmurs something that never fully forms, and then slips after her twin, her pace reluctant, her grief trailing behind her like smoke.

Silence reclaims the room once more. Only this time, it is yours.

You do not gloat in it, nor soften it, nor fill it. You simply remain where you are, unmoving, hands steady in your lap, gaze forward, detached as if none of it touches you. And for Erik, that is the most disarming thing of all.

He had braced himself for resistance. He had prepared for the shouting of his son, the sobbing of his daughter, the storm that always comes when he exerts control. What he had not prepared for was you. Not your silence. Not your composure.

His pride stirs, unwilling and unbidden. He feels it alongside something else, something that unsettles him more. For your calm is not only power, it is distance. It is the coldness of a daughter who no longer protests because she no longer expects to be heard. It is the authority of someone who can command others yet chooses not to command herself.

“I hope you have thought this through.”

The words leave your lips evenly, no rise in your tone, no tremor to betray the storm beneath your skin. You push your chair back with deliberate calm, the scrape against the floor sounding louder than it should in the silence that has settled over the room. Your father’s gaze stays fixed on you, searching, waiting for more, but you offer him nothing else. That simple sentence hangs in the air like a stone dropped into still water, rippling across the table until it collides with him, firm and undeniable.

Erik swallows as though the weight of your restraint presses heavier than the raised voices of your siblings. He had braced himself for Pietro’s fury, for Wanda’s tears, but he had not prepared for your quiet clarity. There is no defiance, no plea, only the measured certainty of a daughter who has carried too much silence too well. For a moment, he looks almost smaller across the candlelit table, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass as though he might anchor himself there. He knows you are not rejecting him, not outright, but neither are you granting him the easy absolution of acceptance.

Your steps are steady as you cross the room, past the half-cleared plates and untouched wine, past the watchful staff who have already retreated to the edges like shadows. You do not look back.

Behind you, Erik sits alone at the table. He does not call after you. He does not attempt to defend himself again. Instead, he watches the three of you disappear down the hall, struck by the realization that your calm has more force than anger ever could. He is not blind to the pain his decision brings, but in your restraint, he sees both the cost of what he has asked of you and the strength you carry despite it. It unsettles him, but it also stirs a reluctant pride. You have become the anchor your siblings turn to, and that quiet command is something even he cannot ignore.

The night air meets you with a sharp coolness as you push open the door to the terrace. The hinges groan faintly, a sound that has not changed since you were a child sneaking out here to escape the noise of the house. The city stretches before you in muted lights, a restless sea of motion and life, yet up here everything feels still. You cross the stone tiles slowly, each step deliberate, until you reach the edge where the balustrade stands firm beneath your hands.

You used to come here often. As a child, this space had felt like a secret kingdom. From here you could watch fireworks in summer, storms rolling in across the horizon, the silent sweep of stars in winter. When your mother was well, she sometimes followed you out, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her voice soft as she told you stories of Sokovia before the family name became empire. You remember sitting beside her, the two of you wrapped in quiet, the night sky carrying away the heaviness of the day.

Now the terrace feels colder. You stand alone where once you had sat pressed against her side.

You close your eyes and breathe in, but the air brings no comfort. The conversation at dinner replays in your mind with sharp clarity. Wanda’s tears. Pietro’s fury. Your father’s steady voice. Your own words, so calm they might have been mistaken for indifference. You know how it must have looked to them. Detached. Unfeeling. Yet the truth rests heavy in your chest. It is not that you do not feel, it is that you cannot let yourself be moved when everyone else around you already is.

You learned that the night of your mother’s stroke. You had been younger, still unprepared, but when Wanda collapsed into sobs and Pietro shouted against walls that could not answer, it was you who had to stand. It was you who had to call the doctors, you who had to listen to Erik’s silence stretch into something unbearable, you who had to look at the twins and tell them that Mama would not be the same. That was the night you stopped breaking out loud. That was the night you decided you would not bend where others needed you to stand.

Your hands grip the balustrade now, fingers pressing into the stone as though the cold beneath your palms can steady the fire you keep hidden. You do not rage as Pietro does. You do not weep as Wanda does. You swallow both, bury them where no one can see. Yet in the stillness of the terrace, when no one is watching, you feel how tired that silence has made you.

Above you, the sky spreads vast and empty. No stars tonight, only the haze of the city, but you look anyway. You imagine your mother’s voice carried there, imagine the warmth that once followed you out here, the shawl draped across your shoulders, the hand smoothing your hair. For a brief moment, you let the memory in, unguarded, and the ache is sharp enough that you almost stumble.

You inhale once, steady, and force the air deeper into your lungs until the ache dulls. Tomorrow will come. Your siblings will look to you. Your father will not waver. The world will keep moving, and you will not allow yourself to falter.

Still, standing here, you feel the child you once were, barefoot on the stone, hoping for someone to take the weight from your shoulders. No one did then. No one will now.

So you lean against the balustrade and let the night take what it can of your conflict, even as the rest remains locked inside where no one can touch it.

You think of your father. The look in his eyes at the table is not one Pietro will ever notice, not one Wanda is ready to read. They see only the patriarch, the strategist, the man who arranges lives as though they are pawns on a board. And perhaps they are not wrong. Erik Lehnsherr has spent a lifetime commanding the weight of empires, carving influence where none should have been possible. He is a man who holds control like a weapon, and they will always resent him for it.

But you know better. You have seen the cracks.

It was not strategy that carried in his voice tonight. It was desperation. The kind he would never show them. The kind he allows to bleed only in fleeting moments when he thinks you are not looking. You heard it in the quiet way he folded his napkin, in the steadiness that trembled just slightly at the edges when he called you draga mea. It was not the voice of a king securing alliances. It was the voice of a father throwing his last stone across a widening river, praying it might reach the other side before the current swallows everything.

He sees you more clearly than the twins realize. He sees the distance you keep, the way you carry your mother’s absence and bury it so deeply that even your grief has grown cold. He sees the life you are building around silence, one day bleeding into the next without anything to tether you but duty. And for all his power, for all the might of the empire he controls, this is the one place where Erik Lehnsherr is helpless. He cannot command your heart back to life. He cannot force warmth into your veins. So he has done the only thing he knows. He has reached for structure, for alliance, for the hope that binding you to another might bind you back to the world itself.

The twins will not see that. Wanda, who feels every emotion like fire against her skin, will believe he is sacrificing you. Pietro, who moves too fast to pause for subtleties, will believe he is trading you. Neither will understand that this is not a masterstroke. It is a plea.

You stand in the cold air, your breath visible in the night, and you let that truth settle in you. You are not angry with him. Not in the way your siblings are. What burns in your chest is not betrayal but a quieter ache, the knowledge that he looks at you and sees only a daughter slipping further and further away. His choice tonight was not about empire. It was about saving you from yourself, though he will never call it that aloud.

And the worst part is that you understand.

You grip the balustrade tighter, your knuckles whitening in the dark. Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps this will change nothing. Perhaps it will only leave you with another mask to wear, another duty to shoulder. But you cannot bring yourself to resent him for trying. You cannot turn his desperation into cruelty, not when you know it came from love, however clumsy and misguided.

The terrace has always been your place to breathe, yet tonight it feels like a mirror. The stones hold your stillness, the sky holds your silence, and the weight of your father’s decision presses in like the night air itself. And for the first time since you were a child standing out here, you wonder if maybe you have been holding yourself together for so long that even he is afraid of what might happen if you finally let go.

Your father remains in the dining room long after everyone has gone. The candles have burned low, their flames nothing more than flickers above softened wax. The staff has cleared most of the table, but his untouched glass of wine sits where he left it, the red gone dull in the half-light. He leans back in his chair, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other pressed against his temple as though he might hold himself together with the weight of his own palm.

From the terrace above, you cannot see him, but you know he sits like this when the decisions finally catch up with him. You have walked in on him before, the same posture, the same quiet. You were younger then, too young to understand why a man who could bend industries to his will should sit so still, so heavy. Now you recognize it for what it is: not strategy, not calculation, but exhaustion.

He replays the evening in silence. Wanda’s tears, Pietro’s rage, your words delivered with that calm finality. He feels them like echoes that refuse to fade. And though he has weathered sharper storms than this in his lifetime, tonight unsettles him in ways the boardroom never has. Because this is not a battle with rivals or competitors. This is his family. His children. His legacy, not in stone or company shares, but in blood and memory.

He thinks of you most. The way you sat so straight, your voice even as the storm built around you. He had known you would not shout. That is not your way. But your silence, your calm, struck harder than he expected. He is proud of it, yes, proud that you command with so little effort. Yet beneath that pride lies the truth that makes his chest tighten: he has driven you to this. His eldest, the one who should have been free to stumble, to laugh, to fail, has become the pillar on which the family rests. He sees now how easily you bear it, and how deeply it costs you.

He thinks of Magda too, her hand in his, her smile dimmed by years of illness. He remembers her voice before the stroke, softer than his, always urging him not to let the weight of the world harden him. She would not have wanted this. She would have wanted laughter around the table, not silence. She would have wanted her children whole. But she is not here to guide him, and he is left with only the tools he knows.

So he reaches for the only solution he can see. Not as a strategist, though the world would call it that, but as a father with too few choices left. He knows the twins will not forgive him easily. Perhaps they never will. But if this marriage binds you back to life, if it gives you something beyond endless duty, then he will take their anger. He will take their tears. He will shoulder the blame, just as he has always shouldered everything else.

The clock in the hall strikes, a dull chime against the stillness. Erik rises slowly, the weight of his years pressing heavier tonight. He leaves the untouched wine, the folded napkin, the empty chairs, and steps out into the quiet corridor. His footsteps echo against the marble, a sound that has followed him through every house, every empire, every choice. But tonight, they sound less certain.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, looking up toward where he knows you have gone. He imagines you standing on the terrace, the night air cold against your face, and for a fleeting moment he almost turns, almost climbs to join you. But he does not. He has already asked too much of you tonight.

So he keeps walking, each step a quiet promise to himself that he will see this decision through, not as a deal struck between two men, but as his last attempt to keep his eldest from vanishing into silence.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff #pietro maximoff #yelena belova #alexei shostakov #melina vostokoff #erik lehnsherr #magda Eisenhardt #steve rogers #pepper potts #marvel #lesbian #marvel fanfiction #two signatures #arrange marriage au #Devi writes

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 9 days ago

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⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐋𝐘 !

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: In the midst of her own self-doubt, Natasha says something hurtful to attempt to drive you away from her. She nearly succeeds, but is quick to realise her mistakes. You help her express all of things that she had meant to say.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nat is slightly mean to reader for a second, self-doubt/self-hatred from Nat, mentions of arguments.

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

There were a hundred ways that the argument could’ve gone. You could’ve walked out. She could’ve followed. One of you could’ve said nothing at all. But that’s never how it worked between you and Natasha.

She’d always been the kind of person who cracked open in silence and stitched herself together in noise.

So, when she said it, when she said the thing that shattered the air between you, it wasn’t even loud. Just sharp. Final.

“Maybe I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

You had been standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing two chipped mugs, lukewarm tea curling down the drain. The window in front of you was open, summer bleeding through the screen in slow, golden waves. You could still hear the ice cream truck four blocks over. The faintest sound of children laughing.

And then she said it. Just like that. And the world stopped turning.

It had been about something small, something dumb. Who had forgotten to close the balcony door. Whether you'd told her about a mission detail or not. It didn’t matter now. Not when her voice still rang in your ears like a final judgment.

You turned to her slowly, eyes unreadable, face composed like she taught you. You didn’t yell. Didn’t even frown. You just nodded once, let the words settle.

“Okay,” you said, almost gently. “Then maybe you should go.”

Natasha’s face twisted instantly, pain blooming behind her eyes like smoke, but you were already brushing past her, stepping over the threshold of whatever you used to be.

The apartment felt too quiet after that.

Natasha stood alone in the kitchen, the faint clink of ceramic echoing in the sink. Her knuckles were white against the counter. She wasn’t even breathing. She hadn’t meant it. God, she hadn’t meant it.

It wasn’t even about you. Not really. It was about her, the parts of her that still believed she wasn’t worth staying for. The way her past still tugged at her in the dead of night, whispering that she could only ever be a weapon, not someone to love.

But that didn’t matter. Because she’d said it. She’d said it like it was something true. And the look on your face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even betrayal.

It was heartbreak. Quiet. Clean. Like you’d expected it, deep down. And that hurt more than anything else.

You didn’t go far. You never did. You ended up walking aimlessly around the block twice, hands shoved in your jacket, ignoring the way your stomach twisted. The sun had begun to set by the time you found yourself perched on a bench outside the bodega. The one she liked. The one where the cashier knew your names and always snuck you extra packs of gum.

You weren’t crying. Not really. Just blinking too hard. Holding yourself too still.

Maybe it wasn’t about the sentence itself. Maybe it was about how easy it had come out. Like she’d already thought it a thousand times. Like she'd been waiting for the chance to say it aloud.

Or maybe that was just you spiraling. Because if you were honest, you hadn’t been fine lately. Not really. Too many missions. Not enough time. Not enough sleep. You’d been going through the motions, chopping vegetables, folding laundry, kissing her cheek on autopilot, but it had felt like there was a sheet of glass between you both. Something unspoken that neither of you wanted to crack.

Until she cracked it. With one sentence.

You leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching a woman walk her dog down the street. She looked like Natasha, in the way people who don’t look like Natasha sometimes do, when they’re tall, guarded, and walking fast. You stared until they turned the corner, your breath coming out slow.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do now. You weren’t even sure if she’d be there when you went back.

But you knew one thing. If she was, she’d have to say it again. Softer this time. And she'd have to mean it.

Natasha didn’t move. She sat on the floor of the kitchen for twenty-four minutes after you left. Not crying, just still. Her thoughts looping back, retracing every word, every look, every second leading up to the moment she ruined everything.

She didn’t remember when she’d started sabotaging good things before they had the chance to leave her. She just knew it was her oldest reflex. Her worst habit. Like an old injury that never healed right.

But you weren’t like the others. You stayed. Again and again and again. You met her quiet with quiet. Her rage with stillness. Her cold with warmth. You didn’t try to fix her, you just kept showing up. Making her tea. Wrapping your arms around her in the dark when she couldn’t sleep. Whispering ‘I’m here’ when she didn’t believe it.

And she said that to you. Natasha ran a hand down her face. “Idiot,” she muttered. And then she got up.

You heard her before you saw her. The telltale sound of soft boots on concrete. Controlled steps. No rush. But no hesitation, either.

You didn’t look up right away. Just watched her approach through your peripheral vision as she slowed near the bench.

She didn’t sit. Not yet. She just stood in front of you, uncertain.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said quietly.

You nodded once. “I know.”

A pause. She shifted her weight, face unreadable in the amber glow of the streetlight. “I said it to hurt you.”

You met her eyes. “You did.”

She winced. “I’m sorry.”

There was another long beat of silence. Finally, you patted the bench beside you. “Sit with me.”

Natasha did. Cautiously. Like she wasn’t sure she deserved it. You were quiet together for a moment, just the sound of traffic humming in the background, the sky darkening above you. You didn’t touch. Not yet. Just breathed.

“I don’t think I ever learned how to be loved,” she admitted after a while. Her voice was low, barely audible. “So when it starts to feel like I am, I sabotage it. Before it can leave.”

You looked at her, and she looked like someone unraveling. Carefully. Deliberately.

“I’ve never wanted to stay anywhere,” she continued. “Not until you.”

You let out a soft breath.

“And I’m terrified,” she said. “Because I don’t know how to do this. How to be this. With someone like you. Who’s patient. Who sees me. Who waits even when I’m saying the wrong thing.”

You didn’t answer right away. You let her words sit. Let her feel the way you weren’t running. Finally, you reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against hers. She took your hand.

“You don’t have to know how to be loved,” you said softly. “You just have to let yourself be.”

Natasha looked like she was going to cry, and for once, she didn’t hide it. “I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I just don’t want to mess it up.”

“You already did,” you said, and the faintest smile tugged at your lips. “But I’m still here.”

That cracked something open in her. You watched her eyes shift, to sadness, then disbelief, then something like hope.

“You’re still here,” she echoed.

You nodded. “I will be. As long as you meet me halfway.”

She didn’t answer with words. She just leaned into you, forehead against your shoulder, arms winding around your waist. And you held her. You held her like she wasn’t a spy, or a soldier, or a broken thing with too many sharp edges. You held her like a person.

A person who hurt you. A person who regretted it. A person you still loved.

Later, when you both got home, quiet steps echoing through the hallway, you made tea. You didn’t speak. She just watched you pour hers and add honey, like you always did. And when you set the cup down in front of her, she reached out and took your hand again, steady this time.

“I’ll get better at this,” she said.

You smiled. “You already are.”

She looked down at your intertwined fingers, then back up at you. “I don’t want to be the person who says things like that,” she murmured.

“Then don’t,” you said gently. “Say something else next time.”

She hesitated. “Like what?”

You brushed a hand over her cheek, thumb grazing the place her sadness lived. “Say, ‘I’m scared,’” you said. “Say, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’ Say, ‘Please don’t go.’ Just don’t push me away and call it love.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“Okay,” you echoed, softer.

And then she leaned in, resting her forehead against yours.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

That night, you fell asleep with her arms wrapped tightly around you, like she was anchoring herself to the only thing she trusted not to drift.

She didn’t speak again, not with words, but her fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and her breath evened out only when you reached back to hold her tighter.

She’d said something hurtful. Something sharp and cruel and unfair.

But she came back. And she said something better. And that mattered more.

𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @writingcrustacean @feliciahardysgf @ayvuhs @nomajdetective

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 9 days ago

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can we unpack these photos for a sec?

the head tilt. the eyeliner. her jawline. those collarbones. the teeny bit of cleavage. her cheekbones. THAT LOOK. her cute button nose. the high ponytail! the necklace. the leather jacket.. OH MY FUCKING GOD. emo wanda is grossly underrated. i will take that to my grave.

please please please can someone indulge me here in my ask box n we can talk about all emo wanda thoughts 👉🏻👈🏻🖤

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 9 days ago

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Down Memory Lane

Request by @lilyeyama - R gets injured while protecting Natasha during a mission.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Except you’re not technically playing, because you already chose truth (dare is too risky if Tony’s daring you to anything) and had to confess your tactical suit tore right down the middle when you threw a kick at a HYDRA agent that got a glimpse of your underwear before falling down a staircase.

And of course, Natasha wants to be dared. She’s never one to shy away from showing the boys who’s got the bigger balls in the team. Nothing’s too scary, too embarrassing or too risky for her.

Apparently, that includes kissing you. Because that’s exactly what Sam dares her to do.

“Wait, what…?” you chuckle, but no one’s laughing. Do they know you have a crush on her? Is this some cruel, high school shit they’re pulling on you?

Then, Natasha just smiles at you, holding your cheek gently as she kisses you. It’s longer than you expected, but you’re still breathless by the time you break apart.

You almost let out a whine when she pulls back, hands balled in fists at your sides to keep you from touching her.

“Your turn” Natasha says and you tilt your head to the side. “Truth or dare”

“Oh. I… no. I think I should call it a night. Too drunk”

No one comments on how fast you get up from the couch, practically running back to your room. It’s either that or letting them see how flustered you are.

And for the rest of the night, you replay that kiss in your head, until you’re eyes are heavy and your mind exhausted.

—

It’s getting ridiculous.

You’ve been thinking about the kiss non stop.

Her lips are softer than you imagined.

The way she commanded you to surrender was completely expected.

And the way it happened? Disappointing. A dare, a stupid, drunken game among Avengers.

Let it go.

You’re hoping that an intense workout session, followed by a very cold shower can ease your mind.

And that hope is tossed out the window when you see Natasha in her tight workout clothes doing push-up rows. The way she groans as her arm pulls the dumbbell to her body makes you scramble around, looking for a way out of the gym.

But of course she listens to you and turns around, smiling.

“Hey”

“Nat” you nod your head towards her, walking past to do anything other than staring.

“Wanna spar?”

You startle at that, dropping the weight that you were trying to drag to a bench.

“I… uh…”

“You ok? You seem jumpy. And yesterday, you left in such a hurry…”

“Yesterday? Oh, the party. Yeah. I was tired. That’s all” you lie.

“If it’s about that game we played, don’t sweat it. We all have our embarrassing moments. Forget it ever happened”

So kissing you is embarrassing and she wants to forget it happened.

Cool.

“If that’s what you want” you mutter.

“Well, what I meant was…”

In that moment, Wanda walks in, calling for you.

“How did the mission go?” you ask when she hugs you. Natasha nods her way, still hovering.

“I’m exhausted. Want to get some food when you’re done?”

“Let’s go now” you say, eager to get away from Natasha.

“So, did anything fun happen yesterday at the party?” she elbows you and you try to hide the hurt from your face.

“No. Nothing at all”

—

The universe is out to get you.

First mission ever since the party fiasco and you’re paired with Natasha. Steve’s there too, but that’s hardly helpful. He rarely makes small talk, and usually, you and Natasha would tease him endlessly for his outdated speech.

Now you’re not even sure you can look at Natasha without feeling like the biggest loser in the world.

And that’s exactly why you never wanted to risk your friendship. Being around her was intoxicating in the best possible way. She’s fun, smart, fearless. You knew that if you ever confessed your feelings and she rejected you, it would be nearly impossible to go back to the way things were.

Yet, here you are, in this awful situation.

“Good to go?” Natasha asks when the Quinjet lands.

“Yeah, comms and ammo are good” you nod.

“That’s not what I meant… you seem distracted. Don’t want you getting hurt”

“I’m fine, Natasha” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Luckily, the plan requires the three of you to split up, accessing different parts of the building to retrieve information. In your case, and for the sake of this mission, it’s to install a bug encrypted in a hard drive to infiltrate a security network across the world.

Nerd stuff, Natasha would call it. You always thought she meant it in a playful way, but now as you type and set everything up, you wonder if she saw it as less important than taking care of things with a couple of knives and guns.

An explosion pulls you out of your thoughts and you look around the computer room.

“Who blew up what?” you ask, worried about your friends.

“That was me, a couple of grenades” Steve says, punching a few people to clear the way.

“You are a magnet for those things, Cap” you tsk, completing the infiltration. “Done here, see you back at the Quinjet”

“Romanoff?” Steve says, but there’s no reply. The silence stretches until he calls for her again.

“I’m in a… tricky situation” she says, and you can hear her out of breath, a metallic sound in the background.

“Where are you?” you ask, turning to one of the control screens. Then, you see it. The explosion set off an emergency lockdown, pushing water down the hatch where Natasha is right now. “We have to disable their emergency system, keep trying to push the hatch open, ok?”

“The explosion alerted them, guards are coming in fast. Can you handle it?” Steve asks and you confirm, though you’re not the best at hand to hand combat.

You won’t let your team down.

—

Natasha is getting anxious. Not at the possibility of drowning, but at the fact that your comms went silent while trying to get her out of her little predicament.

She’s looking around, trying to figure out if shooting at the metal walls around her might help her escape when the hatch above her head clicks open.

“I’m out, thanks Y/N” she says, breathing with a sigh of relief. Ok, maybe a small part of her was scared of drowning.

Especially because she has decided to stop being a coward and tell you how she feels about you.

“Steve, do you have eyes on Y/N?” she insists, as you’re still not answering.

“Get back to the Quinjet, now! I have Y/N” he says, out of breath.

No, he’s full on panicking.

Dread invades Natasha and she gets to the Quinjet, setting coordinates and alerting the team of your return.

“Let’s go” Steve says, and she doesn’t need to be told twice. Eyes trained on the dashboard, she waits until they’re on the air to get up from her seat.

Nothing could ever prepare her for what she sees in the small medical wing.

Steve’s suit is covered in blood -your blood- and he’s frantically looking for gauze and other stuff to stop the bleeding from your abdomen.

“It’s a stab wound. I think she was also shot but there’s too much blood, I can’t find…” he begins to rant, hands shaking.

Steve never loses his cool, but he cares about you, everyone does.

Natasha doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think, because if she does, she’ll be terrified and paralized at the thought of never seeing your smile again.

So, she pushes him out of the way, patching up what she can, and hooking you up to the machine to at least get a reading of your vitals.

“BP is high. We need to hurry” Natasha manages to say.

It’s all a blur as they land, a group of doctors rushing in and taking you away. The entire team is already waiting for you as Natasha and Steve rush to the Medbay.

“You should go take a shower. Both of you” Wanda says, chewing on her finger.

“I’m not leaving” Natasha begins to protest.

“There’s blood all over your hands and suit, it’s making naseous just thinking about it. It’s her blood. Go wash it, Natasha” Wanda insists, her accent slipping as she tries to keep her cool.

Natasha makes it a quick shower, closing her eyes to avoid the sight of red washing down the drain. Your blood in her hands.

How fitting. She pretended that kiss was not a big deal, because she thought she’d end up hurting you. And yet, you’re still hurt and it’s all her doing.

“Don’t do it” Steve warns when they’re back.

“Do what?”

“Blame yourself. She would have risked her life for any of us. That’s who she is” he says.

“But if she had risked her life for you, wouldn’t you feel the same?”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply, as the doctor comes back to give them a status update.

“We’re transferring her to the recovery area. I’d say her condition is critical but I’m staying positive. You kept her stable enough on the flight back. I’m just…” the doctor hesitates.

“Don’t scare us, Doc” Sam pushes, arms crossed.

“I’m worried about the concussion and the high blood pressure. We won’t know if there was any damage until she wakes up. The brain just works differently than the rest of the body”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time” Steve says, standing up and offering his hand to the doctor to thank him.

The team alternates in shifts to stay with you, Natasha always taking longer than the rest of them. It’s no use to convince her of anything else, so Wanda stops by with food and Steve stays on the other side of the room, reading one of the many things he has to catch up on.

“The Hunger Games?” Natasha comments when he gets in one day.

“She told me to read it” he gestures to your bed. “Get some rest. I’ll stay by her side”

“I don’t rest. Not here, not at the Compound. I won’t until she’s awake” she confesses, her hand reaching out to move a strand of hair from your face.

Steve is about to say something; something incredibly inspiring, optimistic and wonderful, Natasha can imagine, but it’s not good enough. Nothing is as good as your laughter or the way you squeeze her hand when you’re trying to get her attention. Natasha needs you back, and she’s not sure she can take much more.

Maybe her thoughts are so loud and her longing so deep that it shifts something. Because she’s sure you’re starting to blink, and then you’re complaining, trying to breathe on your own.

“Get a doctor, now” she says, and Steve’s out the door, shouting. Two doctors and a nurse move Natasha out of the way as they crowd around you, removing things from your body and shinning a light on your pupils.

“Take it easy. Easy” one of the doctor insists when you try to move and sit up. “Welcome back, Agent Y/L/N”

—

Even Tony got here from his conference in D.C. in record time. They’re doing some tests to make sure you’re ok, but no one’s had a chance to talk to you yet.

“Try not to overwhelm her. She knows the basic things. Her name, what she does for a living, what year we’re in… about you, or the specific of her relationship with each one, I’m not so sure” the man speaks in a calm tone, like a parent trying to ease his children before a big event. He nods to confirm that everyone understands, and he opens the door.

“Hey” you say, a weak smile on your face. Wanda ignores everything the doctor asked, running to hug you. “Easy, witchy. My side still hurts”

“Do you remember the name of your teammates?”

“Steve, Tony, Buck… uh…” you stop at Sam, and his eyes widen. “Just messing with ya, Wilson”

Everyone laughs, but your eyes are already on the last person, and your heart beats faster at the sight of those deep green eyes and her fiery hair.

“And of course, Tasha”

“Welcome back” she says, trying really hard to keep her voice from shaking.

The doctors examine you, and you keep answering their questions, but you hesitate when they get to some other stuff. Like your favorite color. Or the name of your childhood pet.

“We can try something easier, maybe” the doctor suggests as you get increasingly anxious. “What did you do the day of the mission? Or the week before your injury?”

“I… I can’t remember. I mean, of course I know everyone’s names. But anything specific, anything that requires more details, I… can’t” you say, shoulders slumping.

“It’s ok, it may take a while. You just woke up. Take it easy. Just go back to your routine and it will come back, little by little” he suggests.

Everyone seems optimistic or delusional, because Natasha sees beyond the doctor’s smile and his appeasing tone. You getting your memories back is not a certainty.

Natasha asked you to forget about the kiss, didn’t she?

Well, wish granted.

—

It’s been a couple of days since you’re back at the Compound. The place is quiet and the environment heavy. You’re always in your room, and only leave when the common areas are empty.

You're worried about doing or saying something wrong. You have some notion of who you are, like the time you joked about forgetting Sam’s name. But then, you try to delve deeper into your memories, your routine… and it’s like trying to catch fog in your hands. It slips away, and you’re left with nothing but a vague sense of self.

Those are the thoughts in your mind when Natasha walks in the kitchen. She stops for a moment, considering if it’s best to leave you alone.

To be honest, she’s still struggling with the guilt of being responsible for what happened to you. And above all, the regret of pretending the kiss meant nothing to her.

She missed her chance to have something with you, and it’s all her fault.

But as much as she’d like to run away, you’re looking at the coffee machine like it personally offended you, arms crossed and a frown clouding your features.

“Good morning” she clears her throat, and you smile at her, though it’s barely noticeable. “Everything ok?”

“I’ve been trying to… for the past couple of days to make coffee. It’s always too bitter or too hot, or too sweet. I drink coffee, I know that. But I just can’t seem to get it right”

“I see. May I?” she walks up to you, and you step aside. Natasha squeezes your hand to calm you down, and you try to ignore the tingling sensation the contact leaves.

“Usually, you take a hot latte and add some vainilla extract. Like this” she says, showing you how to do it. “But if you didn’t get the chance to drink it before training, you drink it cold with breakfast”

Natasha offers the cup of steaming coffee and you close your eyes, enjoying the scent. After taking a sip, you gasp, laughing.

“Oh, my God! It’s perfect! Nat, thank you” you smile, feeling like a small piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“Of course” the redhead nods.

Maybe she can be of help after all.

—

The entire team bands together to help you go back to normal. Wanda is happy to spend the evenings showing you the movies you like. Bucky trains you based on your strenghts and what he knows works best for you in combat.

But there are small things, the ones that come up when you’re alone and feeling restless, that no one really knows about and you’d like to understand.

One day, Natasha finds you scrolling through pictures on your phone. Your eyes linger on some of them, as if you’re hoping they’ll magically fill in the blanks of what’s missing.

“Hey” she sits at the end of the couch where you’re curled up.

“Hey, Natty” you say.

Natasha’s taken aback by that.

Once, many weeks ago, the pet name slipped out of your lips, making you blush and apologize. Natasha assured you only you could call her that. And so, you did when it was just the two of you, because you knew the rest of the team would give her shit for it.

Maybe you don’t remember the conversation, but you certainly remember the feeling behind it.

“What’s wrong?” she nudges your side.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“You always wiggle your toes like that when you’re mulling over something” she points to your feet and you immediately stop moving them, feeling exposed. “Come on, you can tell me”

“It’s stupid”

“It isn’t if it’s bothering you” she says with a soft smile, and you sigh, finally speaking.

“Well, I was just thinking I wanted to go out for a change, do something fun. Leave the Compound. But I don’t know where to go”

Natasha nods, standing up. You think she’s leaving because your dilemma is in fact, stupid, but instead she turns around.

“Meet me at the garage in ten. We’ll go around the city”

“Really? You’re not busy?” you say, mood improving at the idea of exploring New York with Natasha.

“Not for you” she says, and all you can do is nod, allowing her to get changed while you wait downstairs.

When Natasha meets you by the entrance, you are about to hand over the car keys, because you actually remember she doesn’t let anyone else drive. But your eyes catch sight of her motorcycle.

“What?” she says, nervous about that mischiveous smile.

“Well… can we?” you nod your head torwards the BMW sport motorcycle. “Funny enough, I do recall you promised me a ride once”

“Oh, that you remember” she mutters, but you laugh so freely that it makes her own lips turn upwards.

Without another word, she pulls out two helmets from the locker, and reminds you you’re supposed to climb from the left side.

“In case the motorcycle noise is too much” she offers her airpods. “Hold on tight”

You immediately put your arms around her waist, fingers lacing by her front. Natasha tries really hard to focus on anything other than the way your body fits perfectly against hers.

The experience is almost cinematic, the wind in your face as you hold on to Natasha and drive around the city at sunset. By the time you reach your destination, your head is set against Nat’s shoulders, completely relaxed.

“Are you getting down or what, princess?” she jokes and you snap out of it.

“Will you teach me how to drive?”

“We’ll see” she hums, taking your helmet.

“What? You don’t think I can do it?”

“I know you can do it. I just don’t want you getting hurt” she says, and you nod.

“Right. Hit my head again and forget how to walk”

“Y/N” she says, and you laugh.

“Just kidding”

“Not funny” she says in a low voice. Something shifts in her demeanor, and you reach out for her hand, apologizing with a squeeze.

“Where are we going?”

“Let’s walk around. You like this neighborhood. Said you’d live here if you found the right place”

“I can’t imagine living outside the Compound. Not now, at least” you admit, walking down the sidewalk. The place is nice, full of restaurants, galleries, some old bookstores.

Natasha follows you around, commenting on some things as you stop at certain places.

“No one can handle their spice as good as you, so you usually get food from this place when you come by that bookstore”

“They won’t deliver that far just for one lamb masala” you nod, remembering. “But sometimes you order some chicken curry just so I can get my delivery”

Natasha smiles, and keeps walking. It’s strange, how much you seem to remember about her, specifically. Conversations, promises, inside jokes.

All this time, you knew and shared so much with each other, but she had been the one to screw it up. To pretend it was nothing.

And if you remember what she said, how she shrug it off as a stupid game… would Natasha get a second chance to prove to you she didn’t mean that?

“Tasha” you call for a second time, and she snaps out of it. “Let’s take a look here?”

You walk around the little bookstore, gravitating towards the history section. You also look around some art books, pausing at Monet.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the water lillies” you say to yourself. “Maybe that will be my next adventure”

Natasha nods, hoping she can be with you during that. Somehow, she’s sure you’ll remember the artworks and every single detail of the museum. You seem to remember a lot of what comes naturally to you.

“I love Mary Oliver” you whisper when you stumble upon an edition of Dog Songs. “I don’t know if I should read it, though. It will probably make me think about Gordo too much”

“Gordo?” Natasha asks, noticing how more things are coming back to you.

“Yeah, my childhood dog. Had it until I was fifteen. He was a white poodle. He loved eating Cheetos and had a yellow octopus that he'd carry everywhere” you say, reading through one of the poems.

Just when you’re about to place the book back in the shelf, Natasha takes it from your hands.

“I think we should take it. Come on” she says, leaving no room for argument as she pays for it.

“I’d buy you ice cream to thank you, but on top of my recent memories, I also forgot my wallet” you sigh, and Natasha chuckles.

“Come on, I’ll buy today, you buy next time”

The man behind the counter greets you with a smile, which must mean you’re a frequent customer.

“The usual?” he offers and you nod. You watch him scoop mango and raspberry ice cream. His hand pauses when he reaches for the chocolate sprinkles. “I always forget, do you like sprinkles?”

“I…” you say, panicking. It’s just ice cream, why are you feeling so…?

“Extra sprinkles. Y/N here has a sweet tooth. I’ll have a mocha ice cream, please” Natasha intervenes, and you take your ice cream with a grateful nod.

For the next couple of minutes, you eat in silence, walking back to Natasha’s motorcycle.

“It feels like it’s two steps forward, one step back” you finally speak, sighing.

“You’re doing great” Natasha eases your mind, her arm around your shoulders. “It’s not easy, but you got this”

“And I got you. You helped me remember a lot, Tasha. Thank you”

“Here, put this on” she takes off her hoodie. “You always get chilly after eating ice cream. And you always forget to bring your own coat”

“Ah, so I was a little like this even before the accident” you joke, smiling. You shake your head no when she offers the airpods. “No, thanks. But great music taste, though”

“It’s a playlist you made for me” Natasha explains, and something about the way she smiles makes your heart beat faster.

There it is again. The feeling that something is almost within reach… but you can’t get there just yet. Something about you and Natasha.

For the rest of the ride, you think about how she knows so much about you. More than anyone else on the team, even Wanda. There’s a feeling that maybe, a part of you liked Natasha more than as a friend.

But did she like you back?

Was it even something worth talking about?

As you go back to your room, you decide that it’s best to leave some things as they are. Even as you squeeze her hand and say goodnight, wishing it was a kiss instead of a touch of your hand, you push those thoughts away.

But when you’re getting ready for bed, taking off her hoodie, you remember something else.

You always forget to bring your own coat.

That’s what Natasha said. But you never forgot. It was the excuse you used to wear her hoodie.

And just like that, you wonder how much more there is you don’t remember about Natasha, and how in love you are with her.

—

A few weeks later, everything is mostly back to normal. Though there are things you still don’t remember, the things that do come back are enough to make up for it.

Steve allows you to go back to the field, though it doesn’t escape you how everyone hovers around you, and there’s always at least one person that provides backup. None of this happened before the accident, but you understand the team is being protective, and it has more to do with them worrying about you than it does with concerns over your skills.

Still, no one is more worried when you resume missions than Natasha. If it were up to her, she’d be on every single one of your assignments.

Part of you wonders if it’s because she feels guilty, blaming herself over what happened last time. Another part, a quiet, hopeful voice keeps thinking that maybe she sees you as more than a friend.

Either way, as life goes back to normal, you begin to venture into the city more, and when you do it on your own, you relish in the feeling of finding old pleasures, and enjoying them as if it were the first time.

After a gruelling mission, you decide a trip to the park is what you need. Before leaving the Compound, you knock on Natasha’s door.

“Hey, you ok? How was the mission?” she rushes to say, eyes scanning your face for any sign of injury.

“Natty, I’m fine. I came back to give you your hoodie. It’s been ages but I… forgot about it”

Lie. You’ve been wearing it every day since she let you borrow it. But now it doesn’t smell like her anymore, so you gave it back, hoping you can steal it again some other time.

Totally normal behavior.

“Thanks” she says, taking it. “And that?”

“Oh, this. I know this isn’t mine but it was in my drawers. I asked everyone. Does it look familiar?”

You show her an old Joan Jett t-shirt.

“Yeah, it’s mine. Maybe you don’t remember, but we went on a mission and we had to stay the night in a shitty motel. Your tactical suit was torn around the middle, so I gave you my t-shirt…”

“Because you always pack extra clothes” you remember. “Well, I’m sorry I kept it for so long. I’m starting to think I have a thing for stealing clothes”

Only Natasha’s, apparently.

“I gave it to you” Natasha smiles fondly. “You said it was the most comfortable you’d ever been”

“Oh. Well, thanks” you blush, putting it in your bag. Natasha notices the ice skates hanging from the bag and looks at you, frowning. “What? I can do it. Saw a picture of all of us last year at 30 Rock. It’s like riding a bike”

“It’s not at all like that. I’m coming with you” she decides, and you laugh. “Just to be safe”

Still, you let her drive your car all the way to Central Park, and watch as she rents a pair of skates. The first thing she does when you stand on shaky legs is frown, muttering.

“I don’t like this”

“It’s fine” you insist, gliding along the ice. And at first, it is totally fine. But then, you’re losing your balance and honestly, how the fuck do you stop moving when you’re doing this? “I take it back, it is so not like riding a bike”

Natasha comes to the rescue a second later, taking your hand and pulling you along. Of course, her movements are graceful and she smiles at you, as her arm goes around your waist to keep you steady.

“Is there something you suck at?” you say, mildly annoyed at how good she is. To be honest, you’re more focused on her hand in the small of your back.

“So many things” Natasha says, sneaking a glance at your lips.

She sucks at honesty and vulnerability. She sucks at relationships.

But still, Natasha wants to try with you.

That’s all she’s thinking about when she leans forward, meeting your lips and desperately hoping you can understand how much she’s wanted this.

Your hands go through her hair, and you sigh when you feel Natasha’s hands sinking in your hips, pulling you closer.

And then…

A memory.

Another kiss. Shorter. Less passionate. And Natasha’s words.

Forget it.

“What’s wrong?” she says when you pull apart, eyes full of tears.

“You told me to forget it. That it was stupid. And I…” you wipe away a tear, turning away from her. Your face is burning with the shame of the memory.

“Let me explain,” she says, trying to reach for your hand.

“I need to be alone” is all you say, not turning back to look at her.

Natasha stands there, watching you walk away.

It all comes back to you so suddenly, you feel dizzy. The mission. How you held on to the last second, through getting shot and stabbed, just to make sure Natasha could escape.

That was the easy part.

The party was a whole different story. You can almost remember the taste of Natasha’s lips that night, a mix of the gin from her dirty martini and white wine. How she shrugged it off the next day.

Why did she kiss you again? Out of pity?

You pinch the bridge of your nose, and only open your eyes when you feel someone sitting next to you.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Favorite childhood movie” Natasha points at the statue of Balto.

Of course.

“Please let me explain” she says, and you nod, because you don’t even know what else to say. “I… was scared. Of my feelings for you. That night you practically ran away after the kiss, and a part of me thought that it was because you were uncomfortable. Even if I knew that wasn’t probably the case. But that small possibility of rejection was enough to make me feel… too exposed. So I told myself I was giving you an easy way out, but that’s not true. I was being a coward”

“So, that night at the party…”

“I guess I just thought it was the perfect excuse to get closer. It’s stupid, I know”

“It’s not exactly romantic, to have your first kiss from a truth or dare game” you say, but can see that Natasha’s being honest. “I don’t remember a lot of things still, but ever since I woke up, I looked at you and felt safe. Even when I forgot a lot about me, I could still remember you”

“Would you give me another chance?” Natasha says, reaching for your hand. It takes you a moment, but you nod, smiling when she moves closer, lips inches apart. “How about a third kiss that’s way better than the first two?”

“I’m open to the idea” you smile, meeting her lips. It’s full of feeling, and honesty and you can finally appreciate the way Natasha holds you, knowing she wants this.

She wants you.

And if you ever forget it, she’ll be more than happy to remind you how much she loves you.

417 notes · View notes

justarandomreaderxoxo · 10 days ago

Text

Where You Go, I'll Follow

Summary: When Natasha switches sides in the Avengers Civil War and disappears without a trace, you track her down and remind her that you love her and she doesn't have to do things alone.

Warnings: Natasha has a penis, smut(vaginal sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink)

Word count: 4551 Nat Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

Life was currently hectic with everything that was happening with the accords. As an agent you were worried you'd be tasked with arresting half of Natasha' found family if they didn’t just agree to sign the paperwork. Not that you thought they should mind you, even with Natasha's stance. You knew she only wanted them to sign because she wanted to keep everyone together, not because she actually believed the cause. And you were in a similar spot. You didn’t think it was right at all, but the government did, and you worked for them. So if it came down to it, you’d have to act. And that had been your worst case scenario. Having to arrest half of Earth's heroes in front of a heartbroken girlfriend. Unfortunately you found out that things could get much much worse.

It started with a confusing and quite hurtful text from Tony where he had called Nat a traitor and said you shouldn’t waste your time protecting her. But before you could even ask him for clarity, you found it in the most unfortunate of places when Ross called. He informed you on how Natasha was now a wanted fugitive for not only going against the accords but for attacking the King of Wakanda. Which meant you had two options, help her and become a fugitive yourself and lose your badge or help bring her in to face justice. And lastly, the thing that hurt most. You had returned to where you and Nat had been staying only to find her things gone, along with Liho, and only a simple note in her handwriting that said I love you, I’m sorry, don’t come looking for me.

Your heart sank, and though you knew there was likely no point you immediately tried to call her. Of course the number had already been disconnected, and to be honest her lack of an in person goodbye coupled with not even being able to hear her voice or hear why she made these decisions, left you feeling quite unloved. But you loved her, wholly and completely, so you weren’t going to listen to her or Ross. Without even a second thought about the repercussions chasing after her might have on both her anonymity and your employment, you packed your essentials and headed off to an old contact.

And that's how you ended up in Norway, sitting in a lonely trailer in the dark while petting Liho. You had honestly expected to find Natasha holed up inside, unwilling to leave for her safety, especially when her car was still parked out front. But the trailer was indeed currently empty, which was puzzling until you remembered that this was a pretty isolated spot in the Norway wilderness and it was the middle of the night. So it really was a safe place and even safer time for her to do whatever it was she was up to.

Finally you heard her trailer door open, and since you had a flair for the dramatic and knew the women's enjoyment of Bond, you continued to pet Liho with one hand while the other reached over to turn on the small lamp beside you.

“Good evening, Miss Romanoff”

She had grabbed her gun from her waistband as soon as she heard the lamp click on, and it was aimed at you before you’d even finished your movie villain impression. But her eyes immediately widen as she realized who she's pointing it at, and multiple emotions cross her features in seconds as she tucks the gun away once more

“Y/n, I could have shot you!”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have!” she stresses, “What are you even doing here?!”

Now that made you mad. You had intended to find her and just talk things over, work things through like a normal couple would despite being as far from normal as possible. Because at the end of the day you understood that being a spy came naturally to her while being in a relationship didn’t, and you were willing to give her some leeway there, but you wouldn’t be giving her enough to just pretend her actions hadn’t hurt you.

“Oh gee, I don’t know Nat.” you said in a low voice, clearly pissed off, “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my girlfriend decided to switch sides mid battle with no warning, and then instead of filling me in on what was happening she just vanished into thin air, with our cat, and expected me to both be okay with that and do nothing about it.”

“I- “ she tries to interject but you don’t let her

“I’m not finished.” you tell her, “Or maybe it has something to do with how Ross called and warned me that if I gave up everything I know and own to go on the run and help you, I’d be a wanted fugitive too, for god knows how long. So I might as well just help him track you down, arrest you, and lock you up in the Raft with the rest of Steve's friends”

Her eyes glance down at her hands then, which she's been fidgeting with ever since you started ranting at her. Her shoulders also have an uncharacteristic slump to them, like a child being scolded. Normally you'd feel bad but right now, some guilt could do her some good.

After about a minute she looks back up at you with glossy eyes, “Are you here to take me in?”

“I’m mad Nat, and hurt, but I’d never do that to you”

Her bottom lip quivers slightly as she nods, “Thank you”

“You don’t have to thank me”

“But I do, you put up with so much from me.” she explains, “My past, my nightmares, my stupid decisions like this.”

You shake your head and stand, making your way to her as Liho runs off, “I don’t put up with anything Tasha. I just accept you as you are, because I love you”

“I love you too detka(baby), and I’m so sorry I left the way I did, believe me I didn’t want to”

“Then why did you?”

“Partially to keep you safe and keep you out of this. But also because I was afraid. I thought there was a chance this situation would make you see that dating me isn't worth it. It's too risky, I’m too unpredictable. Too different and dangerous”

“Baby” you sigh before cupping her face, “Do you think I’d be standing in front of you right now if I wanted to break up with you?”

“No” she admits with a small grateful smile as she wraps her arms around your waist

“Good, because I’m definitely not. I knew what I was signing up for when we started dating. You're stuck with me”

Her smile widens, “I really like the sound of that”

“Yeah, I do too” you admit softly, “Now come on, sit down and relax. I’ll make us some food”

Her brows furrow, “You just tracked me around the world, do you really think I’m going to let you cook?”

“You don’t really have a choice Tasha” you tell her, reaching up to affectionately boop her nose, “I know you, you focus too much on survival to take care of yourself appropriately. So I’m making us dinner”

She lets out a small huff, “Okay, fine. But I really don’t think I have the ingredients for anything you’d deem an appropriate meal”

“Lucky for you, I came prepared” you tell her as you head into the kitchen

She watches you sort through the fridge with a quirked brow, curious to what all you brought and what you intended to make. She knows better than to pry though, prying and offering to help you never works out well for her when you've deemed her to be neglecting herself. So with a huff she sits down on the nearby living room couch

She resumes her Bond film on her laptop, but her focus really isn't there. It's truly only on for background noise as she watches you move about the trailer's small kitchen. You look completely at ease there, not at all how she's been feeling since she's been on the run. It's already a nice change having you here. You can feel her eyes on you as you start to prepare the food, it honestly makes your heart flutter knowing that you have all her attention even while doing something so mundane.

Once you've finished chopping up some vegetables you glance over at her and tease, “It's a good thing you've seen those movies before, otherwise you'd be missing a lot of plot points right now”

She rolls her eyes but her smile conveys that she isn't truly irritated, “yeah well, Bonds been here the whole time. You just got here”

“Well I'm not going anywhere Tasha “ you tell her as you dump the veggies into a pot and set it aside, “you don't have to watch me all night”

“I know” she says, glancing away briefly from guilt, “I just missed you”

You pause as you set the pan on the stove top, “I missed you too. We can catch up properly once I'm sure you're well fed”

She smiles and nods and you get to work on browning some beef. The smell of it cooking fills the small trailer and you're almost certain you can hear her stomach growl. Once it's done browning and is seasoned to your liking you dump it into the pot with the vegetables from earlier. You then add in a bunch of beef broth and more seasoning before turning the burner on high and placing the lid on the pot

“It's going to take about an hour to finish. I could have made something quicker but this is a hearty meal and we'll have plenty of leftovers”

Nat smiles at you as you join her in the living room, “It's fine detka(baby), I can manage an hour wait and I appreciate you making something for us”

You sit down on the couch beside her and both of you automatically scoot closer to each other, making you both giggle. She wraps an arm around your waist and rests her head on your shoulder while your arm lays across her shoulders so your hand can play with her hair. She sighs contently, enjoying the soft intimacy of this moment with you. But you can tell something is still on her mind, reading her became so easy once she let you in past her walls

“Tasha baby, it's okay.” You assure her, toying with the baby hairs at her neck

“Is it?” she's quietly questions, thinking about the damage your career and reputation will both be taking all because of her, “You worked hard to get that job”

“I never liked working for Ross anyway” You shrug, “I’ll find something else”

“I doubt this will open you up to a better opportunity. Fled with a fugitive doesn't exactly look good on a resume” she retorts, "Agencies likely won’t trust you to work for them now”

“I'll freelance or something.” you counter, “My skills can be used outside of the government”

“Money won't be as good though, pay less frequent”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t care about that” you assure her, “All I care about is you. Being here with you, knowing you're safe. That's enough for me, working and money is just an afterthought”

Your answers make her eyes water, and she quickly blinks them away before she turns to look at you, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m so glad I have you”

You smile softly and lean in, pressing a soft kiss against her lips, “You were just you, and I love you”

“I love you too Y/n, so much”

The two of you continue to just sit there, enjoying each other's company and watching Bond until you decide that it's been long enough that you can check on the soup. Nat relents on you leaving with a small whine so you placate her with a kiss to the forehead. Once in the kitchen you stir the soup for a bit before gathering some in your spoon to taste. You nearly burn your tongue in doing so, but are confident that it's ready. You grab a couple bowls and start filling them

“Soups on” you call, and Nat gets up to join you quickly. You give her a look, one that shows that you knew she hasn’t been eating well. She gives you a sheepish smile as she reaches for the bowl, “Careful, it's still pretty hot”

After dinner the two of you feel very full and content but it's been a long day so you want to relax, “this old tin have a shower?”

She chuckles, “Yes. I know the trailer is a little rough, but it's not primitive”

She gets up to lead the way and you follow wordlessly down a small hall and into the bedroom. She points to the door in the corner, “Bathroom is there, it has the essentials”

“Thanks Tasha, I won’t be long” you tell her, kissing her cheek

She fights back the urge to surge forward and claim your lips in a heated kiss and instead lets you walk off. As soon as the door closes behind you she flops down on the bed with a huff. Her emotions are truly all over the place right now, but what she's feeling most is just a bone deep gratitude that you love her so much. It truly warms her heart in ways she never thought she’d experience

Liho suddenly lets out a small meow as she stretches from her spot up by the pillows and Nat shifts her head to look at the cat. She stretches her legs and back out before trotting over to Nat and gently headbutting her. Nat reaches out a hand to pet her silky fur

“Are you happy she's here too?” she coos, her voice taking on a softer quality. Liho lets out a sound between a chirp and meow that makes Nat chuckle, “Yeah it is nice to all be together again”

She keeps petting the cat while waiting for you, and Liho is absolutely soaking up the affection. But when the bathroom door opens Liho, perhaps sensing the tension that's only seconds away from crackling in the air, hops down and darts out of the room. Nat sits up and her breath catches in her throat as she sees you standing there with only a towel wrapped around you, water still dripping from your hair and across your body

You gesture to the foot of the bed, “Forgot my bag”

She only glances at the duffel bag briefly before her gaze is back on you. She swallows thickly as she watches a water droplet run down your collarbone, and she finds her thoughts wandering. She's missed your presence yes, but also your touch. How you're always so gentle with her, how your body reacts to her hands on you. The thoughts alone are enough to have her pupils dilated and her cock hardening

At her silence you glance up at her with a quirked brow only to find a very familiar expression on her face. One that conveys hunger and longing. You smile at her and walk closer, swaying your hips as you approach

"See something you like, Tasha?"

Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, "You know that I do"

"I know" you chuckle, stopping in front of her, "But I like hearing you say it"

Her hands grab your waist and pull you closer, "I like what I see detka(baby). But I'd like it even better if this towel wasn't in the way"

You laugh before smirking at her, "Then take it off"

Her hands quickly move to the hem of the towel and she practically yanks it off your body, letting it fall to the floor. She grabs your hips again and pulls you even closer as her eyes rake over your still damp body. There's a hunger burning in their depths that has butterflies erupting in your belly and a warmth pooling in your core

"You are so beautiful" she whispers, as if its a secret that only the two of you share, "I've missed you"

You reach out and gently cup her face before letting your hand move to the back of her neck where you play with her baby hairs, "I've missed you too"

Slowly but purposefully you straddle her waist and lower yourself onto her lap. Her breath hitches at your close proximity, and your chest heaves slightly in excitement. You loop your arms around her neck and pull her closer, until your noses are just barely touching. Then you roll your hips against hers, letting out a small moan as your bare center rubs against the fabric of her pants

Her grip on your waist tightens, not in an attempt to stop you but in order to help ground herself. She lets out a shakey breath as she feels you continuing your movements, causing her cock to stir. You can feel her hardness starting to press up against you, which only fuels your arousal

"You miss me that much, baby?" you tease, grinding down even harder

"Fuck yes" she answers through gritted teeth, obviously trying to hold herself back

You lean into the column of her throat and press a few kisses there before bringing your mouth to the shell of her ear, "Show me"

As soon as she registers the words she flips you over, pressing your back against the mattress while she hovers over you. Her usually bright green eyes are now dark due to her dilated pupils taking over. She presses her lips against yours in a searing kiss, conveying both her love and longing for you as her tongue slides into your mouth and dances with yours. The soft moan you let out only urges her on, and her hands fumble with her belt

She finally gets the belt to unbuckle and quickly unzips her jeans before she shoves them down over her hips. Her boxers follow next, letting her cock spring free. it rests against your thigh as she works on kicking her pants and underwear off her legs, letting you feel how shes already throbbing. As soon as her bottom half is bare your hands grab the hem of her shirt and you tug it up and over her head. You make quick work of ridding her of her bra and you both let out a sigh as her bare chest comes to rest against yours

Your arms wrap around her, holding her close even though you know shes not going anywhere and she relaxes into your hold, clearly feeling the most at ease here in your arms like this. Your breath mingles with hers as the two of you just stay there for a few moments just enjoying each other's presence. But eventually the need for each other becomes too much for either of you

"Tasha" you whimper, "please"

"What are you asking for detka(baby), use your words"

"Please fuck me" you plead, parting your legs for her

She practically growls as she reaches down between you both, lining herself up with your cunt. She slowly pushes her hips forward, letting the head of her cock start to stretch you open. You both let out soft moans as she continues to slowly push forward, making you take her inch by delicious inch until her hips meet yours. She only gives you a moment to get accustomed to the feeling before she starts thrusting, pulling a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands scramble for purchase on her shoulder blades, no doubt leaving scratch marks in their wake, but you don't care. All you can focus on right now is the pure pleasure radiating in your core as she pounds into you

"Fuck detka(baby)" she moans as your fingernails dig into her flesh. She loves the feeling of it, not just because its a sign of how good shes making you feel, but because it leaves a mark that others can see

"Tasha…fuck" you gasp out as her cock hits just the right angle inside of you, "Right there baby, don't stop"

"I'm not gonna" she pants as her thrusts start to get a bit erratic

It was clear by her pace that she was quickly approaching her release, and honestly with the way she was pistoning inside you, you were quickly approaching yours too. You wrap your legs around her waist, pulling her closer and deeper, making you both let out sounds of pleasure. She nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck and presses sloppy opened mouth kisses there. You lean your head, bearing more of your throat to her as she continues to fuck you, pressing you firmly into the mattress with each of her thrusts

"I'm gonna fill you up, gonna make sure this pretty pussy is full of my cum" she growls at a particularly hard thrust

"Fuck yes Tasha, please"

"Yeah? You want that?" she teases, nipping at your throat

You let out a needy whimper, "Yes! Please Tasha!"

"Fuck, I'm close" she growls out as your walls flutter around her, squeezing her in all the right ways, "Gonna fill you up so good, gonna breed you"

As soon as the words leave her mouth your orgasm crashes over you and you can feel your own release gush out around her as she still thrusts herself into you and you can't help but let out a guttural moan as pleasure erupts through you

"That's it detka(baby), that's it….fuck!" she exclaims, her own eyes fluttering shut as her climax hits her as well

She continues to gently rock her hips as her release fills your most intimate of places, prolonging both of your highs until it becomes too much for either of you to continue. She carefully rests herself on top of you, wrapping her arms around you in the way that only she can. Softly yet protectively.

"ya tebya lyublyu(I love you)" she murmers against your lips as she presses her forehead against yours, "Thank you for coming to find me"

"I'd follow you anywhere Tasha." you assure her, pressing a soft kiss against her lips, "I love you too"

After a few more moments of simply laying together in a tangle of sweaty limbs she shifts her weight off of you, causing her now softened member to slip out of you. You whimper softly at the loss of her, but she comforts you with another soft kiss. You can feel her release leaking from you and dripping onto the sheets below, and you have to fight back the urge to tell her to fill you again

She settles you back against the mattress and pulls back, swinging her legs off the bed, "I'll be right back. Just gonna clean us up"

You nod at her, too sated and tired to give her a proper response. You can hear the sound of the sink turning on and off, followed by her grunting at the feeling of water on her sensitive member. A few seconds go by before you hear the sink again and she re-emerges with another washcloth in hand. She takes a moment to appreciate the view of her seed leaking from you before she gently cleans you up. As soon as shes done she tosses the soiled cloth into the dirty pile of clothes nearby and quickly rejoins you in bed, pulling the covers up over you both

Her arm loops around your waist and she pulls you closer until your head is against her chest. You snuggle up against her, humming softly as she trails her fingers through your hair. It isn't long before you drift off to sleep in her hold and she smiles down at you before letting herself drift off as well. It's the quickest shes fallen asleep since going on the run.

In the morning shes the first to wake, she always was, and the sight of you still huddled up against her and the feeling of your arm around her waist has her heart soaring. Truthfully being here didn't feel right without you, no matter how much she tried to convince herself it was for your own good and your safety that she disappeared. She's never been more glad to have been wrong, or more glad that you're stubborn

She shifts closer to you only to hear a soft chirp, letting her know that Liho was in between you both. She looks down to find her curled up in a ball right up against both of your stomachs and let out a soft chuckle. She reaches down to pet her and so the sound of her purring fills the small space

"You're too cute for your own good sometimes"

"You telling me or the cat?" you sleepily mumble, making her smile

"Well, I was talking to Liho, but the statement is true for you too"

You smile at her, "Always the charmer"

"For you, always is right" she responds, further proving your point

The two of you are quiet for a long while, just enjoying each other's company in the early morning light. But after a while you can see the look in her eyes that tells you shes thinking about something. Knowing how difficult it is for her to voice things sometimes you simply give her time and wait

"Y/n?" she finally asks, though its so softly said that you almost miss it

"Yes baby?"

She Toys with the edge of the blanket before asking, "You're staying, right?"

You have to hold back the urge to chuckle, "Tasha, I didn't track you halfway across the globe just to fuck you, then leave"

"I know, I know. I just…" she huffs, feeling frustrated at her own mind

"You overthink. I know baby." you tell her, reaching out to grab her hand. You lace your fingers with hers, "In case it wasn't clear, You are in fact, stuck with me. I tracked you down because I love you, even when you're stubborn. So yes, I'm staying"

She lets out a breath she hadn't even realized shed been holding and relaxes fully into the mattress again, "Thank you detka(baby)"

"Of course. Now, I think we should get some more sleep. I see no reason to be up at the asscrack of dawn anymore, do you?"

She chuckles, "No, no I don't"

You smile at her as she closes her eyes again, letting herself get comfortable. Your hand is still clutched in hers as you watch her drift back off to sleep, all thoughts of Ross and the Avengers far from each of your minds. And as she softly snores next to you, you can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, going on the run was a blessing in disguise. Maybe a new life for her, for both of you, waited just around the corner. Only time would tell you supposed as you closed your eyes, joining Natasha in sleep

Taglist: @wandaromamoff69 @mmmmokdok @nataliasknife @natashasilverfox @when-wolves-howl @danveration @naomi-m3ndez @sheneonromanoff @sayah13 @likefirenrain @nighttime-dreaming @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @readings-stuff @chaoticevilbakugo @crystalstark02 @wackymcstupid @xchaiix @iaminluvwithnat @lovelyy-moonlight @blackwidow-3 @mistressofinsomnia @that-one-gay-mosquito @yomamagf @yourfavdummy @justarandomreaderxoxo @scoutlp23-blog @whoischanelle15 @lissaaaa145 @eline03 @wizardofstories @imthenatynat @marvelonmymind @fluffyblanketgecko @bitch-616 @dakotastormm @zoomdeathknight @rayeofmoonlight @aeroae @sashawalker2 @cobaltperun

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 10 days ago

Text

2 vs 1

Pairing: WandaNat x GN!Reader

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Slight Angst, Fluff, Injuries, Sparing Session, A Small Argument.

Request: Yes - Can make Natasha is badly injured and won't admit it but the reader and Wanda find out about it and want to help Natasha even though she is stubborn?

Your eyes squinted over the cup, the warm liquid flew down your throat as you followed the redhead's every move.

Ever since she had come back from her mission, she'd been acting weirdly. Nothing too unusual, nothing that would raise an alarm in your head too much.

But something was off.

And you would find out sooner or later.

"Oh!" A loud gasp from your left did not disturb your focus on the woman as she jumped before smiling warmly. "Natty! You're back."

Wanda's arms quickly circled the shorter redhead, going over her shoulders and around her neck. "Wan—da!" The Russian almost yelled out the second syllable of the name when the brunette hugged her tighter.

The discomfort could not be more visible on her face even when she tried to hide it. "How did it go? Is everything good?" Maximoff questioned after pulling away, her hands placed on the redhead's shoulders.

You waited with high anticipation for what she would answer with since she had dismissed this question earlier today from you.

Her eyes anxiously found yours as she fiddled with her fingers and you could only raise a challenging eyebrow in response.

"Everything's great! We got the file and I have the rest of the day off." She explained, her expression relaxing upon seeing the warm look in Wanda's eyes.

"You'll need that for sure." Your mumble muffled more when you raised the cup and took a sip of your coffee.

The intention was only for Natasha to hear, but when you felt a hot gaze running around your face, you knew your lovely Sokovian did not miss the words.

"What was that, baby?" Everyone knew you dealt the cards in this relationship, but there was something about her head tilt that even your pants would twist in fear.

"That I love you both very much." A wide, thin smile spread on your lips as you sent her a kiss.

Fortunately, for you—and your survival—she accepted the reply, but not without giving you a warning look.

"Alright, I want to see you both in the training room in 10 minutes." Her fingers pointed at the redhead before going to you. "I need to change first."

Your lower parts got tingly when her tone quickly changed, sultry voice almost whispering to Natasha before her seductive eyes found yours.

A smirk spread on her face after she bit her bottom lip, leaving you speechless.

Not the first time and not the last one for sure.

The redhead was in a trance as she stared at the side of her girlfriend's face with a gaping mouth.

"Don't make me wait." She added before disappearing, you and Natasha nodding dumbly in agreement.

Making her wait was one of your least favorite things in this world.

You almost forgot about your redhead but the clearing of her throat gained your attention once more.

"You don't seem too excited about it." Quipping, you took a sip. "A rough day?" Your eyebrows raised innocently.

She knew exactly what you were doing.

Her eyes squinted at you slightly like she was trying to determine what your intentions really were.

"No, not at all!" She dismissed your words, her arms swinging back and forth in a stretch. "Just uh—small hiccup at work, but nothing I can't handle." Her head tilted as she took a step toward you, the look in her eyes shifting, matching the one Wanda had not long ago. "I'm sure you would agree."

Her finger trailed from your chest and down to your stomach as she poked out her tongue in a smirk.

Smiling back at her, you turned on the bar stool, giving her more access to you—her face getting closer to yours.

"Without a doubt, my love." Your hands pulled on her jean loops before grabbing her waist. "We should talk about that hiccup." Your thumbs were brushing her sides over the shirt as her face turned into a grimace, her lips pressing together.

Her flirting stopped, a blank expression took over her features as she stared at you annoyed. "I told you I'm fine." Your arms fell when she stepped away from you with an eye roll.

She tried to act tough when her arms crossed, a grit to her teeth did very little when your eyebrow raised at her with an unconvinced look.

"And I'm a fairy." Your remark was met with a harsh glare—one that could make you backtrack in any other circumstances.

But not this time.

"Wanda's probably waiting, you shouldn't make her wait." Her sassy reply made your mouth fall open as she took long, slow steps toward the elevators.

She was always good at redirecting the conversation. It came with the job.

And you were always good at keeping on track. It came with the job too.

"I'm sure she will be happy to know something happened on the mission."

Her head turned to you with a smile of a winner as she ran her tongue over her upper teeth.

"I dare you to tell her, baby." She kissed her hand and blew you a kiss with a wink before turning around again.

The feeling of fear shot through your body at the possible things she could do to you if you said anything.

Not that you knew much. But you knew she was not telling you something.

"You can't hide it forever, Nat!" You told her while she kept walking, flipping you off over her shoulder.

She was not reckless. Her butt would be sitting now in the medbay if the damage were bad.

It had taken you a while to get to this point, her stubborn nature and pride would not have let her seek help when she had needed it. Now, however, she knew better than that.

At least, you hoped so.

With how confident she seemed today, you assumed it shouldn't be anything bad. But it was hard to stop thinking about it and feeling like there was more to it.

Shaking your head, you stood up and started heading to the gym.

"I'm going to take the punching bag for a bit."

Your eyes followed after her, her hands going over each other to wrap themselves with the tape.

It had to be more than just a scratch if she was not putting bets down on the hand-to-hand combat.

She had always been first to jump into the competition.

Even your favorite brunette looked at the other woman in puzzlement before scrunching her eyebrows at you.

"Does she not feel well?"

Your hands suddenly felt heavier on your hips, eyes widening slightly before you caught yourself.

Should you not tell her since Natasha was your girlfriend?

You had no idea what was wrong, to be fair. The only thing you had were your suspicion and assumptions.

But even for these you did not have much evidence—besides the redhead's strange behavior.

Or would it be good to share it with Wanda since she was your girlfriend as well?

You swallowed slightly. Natasha would kill you if you tried to get her in trouble—especially, if there's nothing going on.

You felt like in a trap, a loop with many options, but each of them would end with you losing.

"Uh—" Clearing your throat, you moved on your feet, slightly jumping as if warming up. "She told me she was fine."

She did tell you that.

That was very true.

You could not get in trouble for speaking facts.

True facts.

One of the brunette's eyebrows raised before her eyes wandered to the other woman.

The air thickened as the seconds went by. The longer she had stared in question, the more sweat you were producing—and you hadn't even started your sparing session.

You did not want to get in trouble with either of them.

The thought of getting in it with both of them terrified you even more.

"Maybe she had enough of hugs for today." Wanda joked about the mission where, undoubtedly, the redhead had had to kick a few asses.

You did not dare to question anything when she got into a fighting stance, her fingers going through her hair before making a ponytail.

Green eyes moved up and connected with yours as a sneaky smile spread on her face.

"Ready?"

You knew that look. It never brought anything good—not for you.

"As long as you play fair." The glint in her eyes made goosebumps run on your skin.

She could do so much to you by doing so little. Her tongue poked out to go over her upper teeth.

"I thought you liked it when I played dirty." Red tendrils swirled around her fingertips.

It was a second later when you felt tingling in your lower area, it quickly changed to a stinging sensation on your back like somebody was scratching it.

"That—" You could barely speak when her torture intensified. "—is cheating."

Her laughter erupted in the training room and you breathed out in relief when her magic let go of you.

She could be a handful sometimes. Very different from how she'd been when you had first met her.

The shy, innocent girl was gone.

Mostly at least.

"Are you ready for something at your level then?" Your mouth hung open when her words hit you like a thousand bricks.

The sassiness was not very surprising, but you simply did not expect her to fry you like a potato.

Blinking slowly, you clicked your tongue before getting ready. "Give me what you got."

"Oh, I will, honey." She sent you a wink with a look that you would be dreaming of for hours if it were not for her fist flying at your face.

Placing your arm inwards from hers, you blocked it while it pushing away. She attacked faster, using both alternatively but not getting a hit at you.

Finally, you caught her fist, twisting it slightly but not enough to hurt her.

"You have to show more than just your speed, honey." Her lips scrunched in anger at your mocking and she pulled her arm to her chest before head-butting you strongly.

Clearly, she did not care about hurting you today.

"Is that—" She groaned, her face grimacing in pain as she tried to compose herself. "—better?"

No.

It was not better for you.

It was much more painful.

But you only shrugged before she gritted her teeth and swung her leg at you. She kicked your knee, but you did not react much, taking a step forward and throwing a punch that she dodged.

She did not see another one coming, however, causing you to hit her side. Her body twisted in pain and let you grab her arm before turning around and throwing her over your shoulder.

Her back slammed against the mat, her face between your feet contorted from the impact as you looked down at her with an open-mouthed smile.

"That's better." Her lips spread into an insincere grin before irritation painted her face.

Her legs were around your neck before you knew it and you were down with her as she pulled you to the ground and flipped herself to be behind you.

It was safe to say, you were shocked.

And a cocky smile instantly appeared on her face as she used her hands to keep yours hostage.

"I agree." She huffed out.

You would laugh if it was possible for air to reach your lungs. Suffocation was one of the main ways in which you did not wish to die.

Which also made you that much more determined to get out of this position.

Using your strength, you pulled on the arm that was looser and caused her upper body to tilt more toward you.

She was forced to let go of your other arm and you quickly rolled, grabbing her head and pulling it closer to you.

The arch in her back was too much, causing her to let go of your neck as her body fell to the floor.

You quickly hooked your arm over hers and caused her to turn on her stomach as you held it twisted on her back. Her other arm joined soon after as you used your legs to lock hers in place.

You finally had her.

She wiggled in the spot but every one of her limbs was trapped.

"Do you give up?" The taunting made her groan in anger, but even that did not help with escaping.

She finally lay flat, gently tapping out.

"I hate you." Her mumble sounded grumpy and almost real when a hard glare was thrown your way.

Grabbing her hand, you helped her up with a smile.

"You need to work on your weak points and you will hate me less."

The sassiness was not appreciated and her eyes instantly rolled at the comment.

She mocked you silently as she dusted off her gymwear. The whole point of these sessions was to make her combat skills better, you were one of the best, but she still did not like the comments.

"I know that."

"Then you need to also fix it."

She threw you a glare at the quick response. You knew she was unhappy with herself, she did not like making mistakes—especially, basic ones.

"Nat!" She called out after a few seconds of silence, her teeth biting into her bottom lip. "It's time for two versus one."

The brunette completely missed the horrified look on Natasha's face. She was too busy sending you a smirk and dangerous looks to notice how the other woman took longer than normal to compose herself.

"Um—" The redhead stammered, her hand lying on the punching bag as she leaned on it a little. "I really think I should stick to this today." She pointed to where she stood, a nervous smile playing on her face.

You were not sure what to do. It was clear as day Natasha did not fancy the idea of sparing. But Wanda was not giving up while throwing you glares.

"Y/n is annoying and I need you to help me kick their ass." Wanda said in a pleading voice this time, her arms raising and falling at her sides as she connected her eyes with Natasha's.

The other woman glanced at you anxiously, her mouth opened to say something but nothing came out.

"Maybe," You started, seeing how the redhead's face was screaming at you for help. "She can stick to punching, she had a long day today—"

"Come on!" The brunette almost begged both of you. "Just one round, please." She looked at Natasha with doe eyes, her hands clasped together.

She really wanted to kick your ass. She needed to win against you. You were not sure if it was because of how fast she landed on the mat today or if there was something else.

"Okay, just one." The redhead gave in. Reluctance was swirling all over her face and you were sure she already regretted it.

Your eyes skimmed over her body with concern when she came up to you. She moved cautiously and slowly like her body could fall apart at any second.

But if she were willing to take part in a sparing session with you, she had to feel well enough for it.

Wanda was already ready, waiting for the green light to deal with you. You swallowed thickly upon seeing her serious face before looking at Natasha.

She popped her knuckles and continued with her neck right after. Both women fixated their gazes on you before charging at the same time.

You quickly slid to the side and towards Wanda, she instantly used her left arm to attack with her elbow while turning around.

You squatted, avoiding the blow before grabbing both her forearms and crossing them while turning her back around.

Delivering a gentle kick to her backside, she was pushed far enough for you to dodge Natasha's incoming fist. You twisted it to the side, but the redhead swiftly jumped on your thigh before rising her right leg and kicking you hard in the chest.

The impact got you closer to Wanda who missed the first hit but managed to successfully connect her fist with the side of your stomach.

It hurt, but there was no time for feeling pain when you saw her leg coming at you again. You quickly grabbed it and harshly threw it before getting low on your legs, turning full circle, and sweeping her off her feet.

She collided with the mat as you got up just in time to block Natasha's attack.

It felt like they were not even considering to give you a break. If you did not know better, you'd think it was personal.

Her fists were flying at you from different angles as you defended yourself before she delivered a kick to your thigh. You grabbed her other leg when she tried to do it again.

She did not waste time and used your hands as a pillar to jump up and kick you in the side of your head as she did a 360-degree spin.

You immediately let go of her leg just for her to charge at you again.

Maybe it was personal.

Wanda was at your side a second later as they both were alternating in throwing blows at you, making it harder and harder within seconds to stay up.

There was not even time to speak as they seemed determined to make you give up.

The Sokovian's poor footing saved you when she took a step that was way too big and you managed to deliver a punch that blew her away.

It left only Natasha.

Just one more.

She was not giving you any room to counter her and go into attack. You had to stay in defense.

But the more she was swinging, the more energy she was losing and you could see the exhaustion slowly washing over her.

It was not long until one of her punches slipped and gave you an opening to get the upper hand.

Blocking the hit and pushing her arm to the side, you expected her other one to come at you.

She turned around with an incoming fist, but you grabbed it and took a step forward before slightly twisting her wrist and pushing back.

Her footing fell off and she took one too many steps back, tripping over the elevated flooring and hitting the low railing with her side.

"Ah!" Her scream made Wanda look up from where she was sitting on the floor with a horrified face.

"Oh, shit! Are you okay?!" You quickly moved closer as the brunette ran up and bent down next to the redhead.

"I'm fine." The redhead's face was scrunched up as she held her side, Wanda's eyes jumping all over the Russian's body.

"What happened?!" The concern was shining through her voice as she tried to understand the situation.

"I don't know, I pushed her and she hit the railing—"

A loud gasp cut you off when Wanda lifted Natasha's shirt.

A huge, almost black bruise was covering her entire side. There were million thoughts running through your head as your stared in shock.

The brunette could not even utter a word from the unexpected discovery. Her face said more than she needed to though. The concern and anger were most visible as she tried to gently touch the bruise.

"I knew it! I knew something was off." You said loudly, your hand gripping your hair tightly as you wet your lips.

The feeling of guilt was running through you at the thought of not figuring it out sooner and making her injury worse now.

"You knew?!"

Now, you were fucked.

Wanda's furious eyes snapped to you, fire swirling in them as she looked like she could kill you within seconds.

"I—"

"That's so great of you to let me know when I asked and get her help!" Her entire face was tense, jaw popping in one place as her lips formed a thin line from pressing against each other so much.

"She said—"

"I don't care, Y/n!" Her tone left no more room for talking as she inspected the redhead's big bruise. "We need to get you to Doctor Cho."

"No, I'm—"

"If you say you're fine one more time, you will have bigger problems than this bruise." The redhead felt silent at Wanda's words, she was not joking around and clearly in a mix of emotions.

Not the best time to mess with her.

You, on the other hand, felt the disappointment making itself more known in your chest as you regretted not saying anything earlier.

Seeing Natasha in so much pain made you feel like you failed as her partner.

And seeing Wanda in so much anger gave you the same feeling.

But this was not about you. Shaking your head, you bent down and carefully picked up the smaller woman. Her exhausted eyes looked at you with a pained smile as she pushed her face into your neck.

"Let's go." Wanda said sternly, throwing you a harsh glare. "We need to take her where she should have been taken hours ago."

Without another word, she picked up a water bottle and went to the door to hold it open for you.

You could only hope she would let you live past today.

Your finger looked like a mess as you kept nibbling and chewing on the tip of it. The nerves were getting the best of you, making your leg jump up and down as you waited on the chair in front of the medbay.

Doctor Cho had needed peace and space, letting only one of you to stay with Natasha and, well, you'd let Wanda take the spot.

You knew she wanted to stay with the redhead and that she already was mighty mad at you.

It would not have been the best idea to argue over it, possibly making the situation worse. So, you had given the redhead a kiss on the head and had walked out.

The Sokovian hadn't even looked you in the eye ever since you'd left the gym. You felt like shit. Waiting alone gave you more time than enough to think about everything.

As much as you loved the redhead, you should've shared your concerns with Wanda. You knew she would've done that if the roles were reversed.

The anxiety of making either of them mad had clouded your judgment to the point you'd wanted to please both of them in a way that had been impossible.

Now, you had an injured girlfriend with a fever and a mad girlfriend with zero tolerance for you for the rest of the day.

Or maybe the rest of the week.

You could only hope she would forgive you.

Your eyes snapped up when the doors to the medbay slid open, Wanda's face came into view a second later.

She was playing with her rings while looking down, biting on the inside of her lip. She was nervous, she always would do that when her anxiety would spike.

It made your body fill with worry as you sat up straighter. What could have possibly happened to make her like that?

"She's okay, no need to worry." She calmed you down upon seeing your horrified face, taking a seat next to you.

It felt like weight was lifted off your chest, causing you to let out a breath. "I'll always worry about you two." Your fingers ran through your hair before tangling in it.

"You have a funny way of showing it." Her words felt like a million needles poking your throat, making you inhale sharply. "I—" Her eyes fell down to her hands as she fiddled with them. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"You're mad, I know." You stared ahead with blank eyes as none of you said another word, letting the silence overtake.

The mistake you had made today would probably haunt you for a while. It was enough on its own. It sucked hearing your girlfriend speak like that, but a part of you believed you deserved it.

All it could have taken to avoid this had been a conversation with Wanda. You wished you could've gone back in time and be honest with her instead of trying to stay on Natasha's good side.

"I'm not mad at you—"

"There's no reason to lie now—"

"I'm not." Her stern but gentle tone made you stop as she turned her body to you. Her eyes slowly lowered as she swallowed. "I was mad at you, yes." Your tongue poked out to wet your lips. "It was in the heat of the moment, I thought you knew about the wound and just chose to keep it away from me."

Her voice became smaller as she spoke, hurt cut through it while she kept glancing at you.

She did not give you a chance to explain earlier, so you guessed it was time for it now.

"I realized what you said when I was in the medbay." Her hand went over yours, the thumb moving slowly as it brushed your knuckles. "I'm sorry for how I acted."

"I'm sorry for not telling you something was wrong." You slowly moved your head to face Wanda.

A warm smile quickly spread on her face as she put her other palm on your cheek. "I love you." You mumbled the same back when she pressed her lips to yours in a short kiss. "Let's go check on our troublemaker."

Her whisper made you chuckle and you almost melted at the sight of her nose scrunching.

But you did not wait any longer, quickly getting up and heading inside the medbay, going through the hallway and finding Natasha's bed.

"Hi." Her voice was small as she lay in the bed.

She looked pretty lively for someone on a bunch of medication. But you noticed mostly how she was anxiously looking all over your face.

"Do you feel better?" You asked concerned, taking a seat by her and grabbing her hand.

Wanda decided to stand at the foot of the bed, sending both of you a content smile.

"Yeah." The redhead let out breathily, moving a bit to get comfortable. "Just a scratch."

Her joke caused you to huff out a laugh, but Wanda gently slapped her leg with a warning look.

"You should've come here right after the mission."

You could not help the snort that left you upon seeing Natasha's surprised face. She probably thought she was off the leash.

The doghouse only started for her.

"You can't be mad at me!"

"Sure I can." Wanda crossed her arms, nodding her head with raised eyebrows as if she was challenging the other woman.

"I am injured!" Natasha gestured to her body, hoping that the brunette would take pity on her and let it all go.

But it was Wanda. It was not always that easy.

"Oh, now you know it?"

Your laugh stopped as quickly as it started when both women glared at you, causing you to quickly clear your throat and stay quiet.

"Don't worry, we still love you." You nodded in agreement, kissing Natasha's hand as Wanda came up to her and leaned down to place a kiss on her head. "But pull something like that again and you'll see."

The seriousness in the Sokovian's eyes made you terrified even though she was staring straight at Natasha who quickly nodded with a smile.

"I guess you both will have to do a full body check after my missions." Her bold words stunned both of you as she lay back down with a fat smirk on her face.

Wanda and you exchanged looks, having the same thought in your minds. Slowly turning your gazes to the redhead, you both leaned in closer before speaking lowly.

"Guess we will."

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 12 days ago

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MY BISHOVA OBSESSION IS BACK

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 12 days ago

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How is that the same person?! How! HOW?! My baby ;-;

Wanda Maximoff needs a hug.

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 13 days ago

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Two Signatures: Chapter 2

A Dangerous Kind of Thinking

Summary: Two fathers, old friends bound by history, sit in the low hum of jazz and rain. One speaks of a daughter made of ice, carrying the world but never herself. The other admits his is fire, restless and reckless, burning faster than she can live. Between them, a thought blooms. Reckless, impossible, and maybe the only chance either woman has of surviving themselves. An alliance. A marriage. A dangerous kind of thinking.

Word count: 1088

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 28

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Warnings: Emotional burnout, Mentions of illness and hospitalization Mild language, Alcohol

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The bar Erik chooses isn’t loud, but it isn’t quiet either. Low jazz hums through the speakers, the kind that smooths over silence without demanding attention. Warm wood, amber lighting, shelves lined with bottles that glint like they’ve been waiting for decades.

Alexei is already there when Erik arrives, occupying a corner booth with the sort of presence that draws glances whether he’s trying or not. He looks up, grins broadly, and gestures for Erik to sit.

The two men clasp hands, the greeting solid but brief, and settle in.

They don’t speak right away. A waiter appears, takes their order with the kind of ease that comes from knowing these are men who don’t like to be asked twice, and disappears again.

Erik leans back, letting the atmosphere settle. He isn’t here for pleasantries. His gaze lingers on the polished surface of the table, tracing the thin lines in the grain.

Alexei watches him, eyebrows raised slightly in silent question.

The drinks arrive. Erik’s scotch is neat while Alexei’s vodka is poured over ice so clear it could almost be water.

Erik takes the first sip slowly. The warmth hits the back of his throat before spreading through his chest. It buys him the moment he needs to find the right opening.

Outside, a light rain begins, streaking the windows in thin, wavering lines.

Erik turns his glass slowly in his hand, watching the way the amber liquid catches the light. “You ever notice,” he says, voice low but even, “how some of them take on more than they should, long before they ought to?”

Alexei doesn’t answer right away. He just tips his glass back, takes a slow drink, and sets it down with a quiet clink. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about someone in particular.”

Erik’s mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. “Maybe.”

There’s no need for names. They’ve both known each other’s families long enough to follow the unspoken threads.

Alexei nods, eyes narrowing slightly as he swirls the ice in his glass. “We tell ourselves it’s strength. Maybe it is. But even strength wears down if you don’t give it somewhere to rest.”

The conversation drifts for a moment into the comfort of shared silence. The kind that comes from years of knowing the other man’s battles without having to fight them yourself.

Erik takes another measured sip before setting his glass down with care. “I worry,” he admits. The word lands heavier than the scotch.

Erik exhales through his nose, more weight than air. “It’s what they’re forced to do. I watch her sometimes… there’s no space left for her in her own life.”

The ice in Alexei’s glass shifts as he swirls it lazily, eyes narrowing in thought. “And you’ve told her this?”

“I don’t need to tell her,” Erik says quietly. “She’d just tell me she’s fine. And then she’d work twice as hard to prove it.”

Alexei’s mouth curves into something between a smile and a grimace.

Neither of them says the names. They don’t have to.

“Mine,” Alexei leans back, sighing. “Well, you’ve seen it. The way trouble follows her around. Or maybe she follows it. I can’t tell anymore. It’s all fire, all the time.”

Erik’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak over him. He knows this isn’t just complaint, it’s a confession.

Alexei takes another drink before adding, “I can’t keep pulling her back from the edge. Sooner or later, she’ll have to find something that steadies her. Before she falls over”

Erik shifts slightly in his seat, leaning forward just enough that his voice stays between them. “And mine… she’s the opposite. Keeps her distance from everything. From everyone. You could put the weight of the world in her hands, and she’d carry it without complaint, but she won’t let anyone touch the load with her. Won’t let anyone touch her.”

Alexei tilts his head, listening the way only an old friend can, without judgment, without the need to interrupt.

“She’s been like that since… well.” Erik stops, the memory pressing against the inside of his throat. He doesn’t need to finish; Alexei knows the story. The illness, the hospital halls, the sudden way childhood ended for all of them.

Erik clears his throat and continues. “It’s not living. It’s… survival. And she’s good at it. Too good.”

The jazz hums low in the background, and the rain keeps tracing the glass.

“You think they’d steady each other?” Alexei asks, not quite as a question, more like he’s rolling the thought over to see how it fits.

“I think,” Erik says after a pause, “that maybe each could give the other what’s missing.”

Neither of them says the word. Marriage hangs there, unspoken, like a card face down on the table.

Alexei’s gaze drifts toward the bottles lined up on the back wall. “That’s a dangerous kind of thinking, my friend.”

“Sometimes,” Erik replies, taking another sip, “danger is just another word for change.”

Alexei leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Alright, Erik. Enough circling it. What are you actually suggesting?”

Erik takes his time answering. He swirls what’s left in his glass, listening to the faint clink of ice against crystal. When he finally speaks, his tone is steady, almost casual but Alexei hears the undercurrent.

“I’m saying… maybe they don’t have to keep doing this alone.”

Alexei’s eyes narrow. “And how exactly would that happen?”

Erik sets the glass down. “Tie them together. Not just on paper. In life.”

It’s quiet after that. Only the rain and the low hum of the bar’s heater fill the space.

Alexei sits back, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not a small thing you’re putting on the table.”

“No,” Erik agrees, “but neither is watching them both burn themselves out before they’re thirty.”

Alexei lets out a humourless chuckle. “You really think they’d agree to it?”

“I think,” Erik says, meeting his friend’s gaze, “that if they could see past their own walls for five minutes, they might realize they’d be better off together than apart.”

Alexei tilts his glass, considering it. The thought is wild, maybe even reckless but the more it settles in his mind, the less it feels like madness.

Erik doesn’t press. He knows an idea like this has to sit, has to breathe, before it can be spoken of again.

The bartender passes by, asking if they’d like another. Erik glances at Alexei, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “How about a drink, Alexei?”

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff #alexei shostakov #erik lehnsherr #magda Eisenhardt #marvel #lesbian #marvel fanfiction #two signatures #arrange marriage au #Devi writes

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 17 days ago

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Two Signatures: Chapter 1

Everything’s Fine (and Other Lies You Tell)

Summary: You’re all sharp edges and pressed suits. Every day is a script you’ve perfected. The city hums far below, your family depends on your steadiness, and grief sits quietly where joy used to live. Across the city, someone else is burning herself out in a blaze of headlines and chaos. The ice has held for years. The fire’s already spreading. What would happen when they meet?

Word count: 3711

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 28

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Warnings: Emotional burnout, Mild language, Alcohol

Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The glass in your office doesn’t let in much noise. You’re on the forty-third floor, and the city hums far below, the cars look like insects, people like dots. From up here, everything looks manageable. Even the chaos.

You sit perfectly still behind your desk. The tablet in front of you glows with numbers, graphs, and morning reports. They’re already three minutes late. You don’t look at the clock. You don’t tap your pen. You simply wait. Silence has always been easier than repetition.

Someone knocks once, twice, then enters. Not nervous. Trained. You appreciate that.

“Miss Maximoff,” your assistant says, voice carefully modulated. “Mr. Lehnsherr’s car is en route. He’ll join the board call from transit. Here’s your speaking brief.”

You nod. That’s all. They place a folder on the corner of your desk and step back. You don't thank them. You’ve never seen the point of softening necessities. When the door clicks shut, you exhale. Quietly.

The folder remains untouched.

You know the brief already. You wrote most of it.

Across the room, the wall of windows reflects your outline in the glass. Slate grey suit. Hair pulled back. Expression smooth and unreadable. You see your mother’s cheekbones in your own face. Her mouth, too. It’s almost cruel, how much of her you carry.

Your tablet pings. The morning call will start in two minutes.

You stand, roll your shoulders once, and slide the folder into the drawer. The conference table behind your desk is spotless. Eight leather chairs, none ever used. You take your seat at the head and tap the screen embedded in the wood. The display comes alive.

One by one, board members begin to appear on the split screen. Some nod, some speak. You do neither. Not yet. Erik joins last, from the back seat of his car. He doesn’t greet you, but his eyes flick over your face. Measuring. Searching. You keep your expression flat. It’s what he taught you.

“Y/N,” he says eventually, his voice crackling over the connection. “You’ve reviewed the Stark proposal?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“We’ll decline.”

There’s a pause. You watch the silence sink in.

“Explain,” someone says from the London feed.

You do. Efficient, concise, without needing to look at notes. Stark Industries’ licensing offer undervalues your third quarter projections, masks risk with media hype and underestimates your R&D. Tony will hate it, but he’ll respect it. You’ve spoken his language long enough to know how the rhythm works.

By the time the call ends, no one questions your decision.

You turn off the screen. The silence rushes back in.

Only then do you allow yourself to lean back in your chair, shoulders against cool leather, eyes briefly closed.

This is how most of your mornings go. Smooth. Controlled. Almost effortless, from the outside. From the inside, it feels like surviving on half a lung.

Your phone buzzes. A soft vibration. You already know who it is.

Magda Maximoff.

Care Centre Line.

You press answer and hold the phone to your ear. You don’t speak right away.

There’s a gentle rustling sound. The nurse. Then her voice rings in. It is slow, slurred, but it is there.

“…detka…”

Your throat tightens. Just slightly. You swallow around it.

“Hi, Mama,” you say softly. “It’s me.”

Another pause. Breathing. Her breath is laboured today.

“…work?”

You glance at the empty screen on the table. At the sunlight beginning to filter through your windows.

“It’s fine,” you say. “Everything’s fine.”

You tell her about the garden at her facility. About the nurse who has a cat. About how Pietro might come visit her this weekend. You talk slowly, giving her time to follow. You’ve learned how to measure your words like this so that they are gentle, steady, spaced just right.

She laughs at something. It’s quiet, hoarse, but still hers.

You close your eyes again. Just for a moment.

After the call, you don’t move for a while. There’s nothing scheduled for thirty-seven minutes. Not until you have to meet Bruce in R&D.

The silence wraps around you again. Familiar. Almost comforting.

It’s always like this.

No chaos. No warmth. Just precision.

And underneath, there is grief that never quite sleeps.

The elevator opens directly onto the executive floor. You don’t need to look up to know who it is. His footsteps are heavier than most. Slower, too. Always just loud enough for you to hear.

Steve Rogers enters your office with a file tucked under one arm and two coffees in hand.

He places one in front of you without asking. Black. No sugar. The exact temperature you like it. Then sets the second down at the seat across from you. It was his, though he never assumes.

You finally glance up.

“Bruce says your meeting with R&D might run long,” Steve says. “Thought you’d want caffeine that doesn’t taste like burnt rubber.”

You nod once. That’s the only thanks you ever give, and it’s enough.

He doesn’t fill the silence. That’s one of the reasons he’s still here.

You tap the side of your mug. “Updates?”

He pulls the file open and walks you through minor security changes to the lower R&D wing. One of the biometric scanners had glitched, just once, but once is enough. You listen, scan the diagram, and make three decisions before he finishes the second page.

He’s still talking when you slide the file back across the desk.

“It’ll be taken care of by tonight,” you say.

Steve gives you a look, one eyebrow just barely raised. You say nothing.

He nods. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he might smile. Then,

“I was at the centre this morning,” he says finally.

Your expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in your posture.

“She was asking for you,” he adds. “I think the speech exercises are helping.”

You nod. Just once.

“You called her already?”

You pause.

“I did.”

“How was she?”

You wrap your hands around the coffee mug.

“Better,” you say quietly. “She laughed.”

That softens him. You see it in his eyes. It is not pity but it is something quieter. Something closer to shared weight.

He sits across from you without asking. He only does that when he knows you won’t mind.

You let the silence stretch.

Fifteen minutes later, the elevator dings again. This time, it’s louder. Faster. The kind of energy you’ve never had.

Wanda enters first, hair loose around her face, wearing one of those long cardigans she refuses to retire. She’s carrying something wrapped in brown paper.

Pietro follows, half a step behind, already talking.

“You know, if this whole empire thing falls apart, we should open a bakery. She bakes like she’s summoning spirits, I swear. I just taste test-”

“Pietro.”

Wanda doesn’t look at him, just says his name the way only she can. He grins. No remorse.

She places the parcel gently on your desk. “Pumpkin bread,” she says. “Still warm. Mama’s recipe.”

You blink, just once. Then reach for the small knife in your drawer. You cut a clean slice and place it on a napkin. You don’t eat it right away. You just let it sit in front of you.

“Thanks,” you say, and your voice is noticeably softer. Steve catches it. Of course he does.

Pietro collapses onto the couch near the window. Legs too long, arms thrown dramatically over the sides. He looks like he’s been waiting his whole life to be bored.

“You look terrible, by the way,” he says, squinting at you. “Like, aggressively competent but soul-crushingly tired. Have you slept?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Wanda moves to the seat beside Steve and leans over to flick Pietro’s forehead. He yelps.

You watch them. You don't smile, but something about your face eases. Barely visible to anyone but them. These two. Your shadows. The only softness you let stay close.

“How was Mama this morning?” Wanda asks.

You nod toward the phone on your desk. “She was good. She laughed.”

Both twins fall quiet. Pietro sits up straighter. Wanda wraps her arms around herself.

You don’t need to say anything else. They understand.

Steve rises from his seat, stretching just enough to crack one shoulder. “I’ll give you three sometime.”

You nod again. That’s all he needs.

On his way out, he pauses at your side, hand brushing your shoulder for just a second. Warm, steady pressure. His version of goodbye.

Then the door closes, and it’s just the three of you.

Home, in a way.

No suits. No strategy.

Just pumpkin bread and memory and the three children Magda Maximoff loved like her whole world.

There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable, just full.

Both of them are watching you. Not with expectation, not with judgment, but with something closer to faith. Respect that was never asked for, only earned. And something more than that, too.

They still call you ‘sestra’. They still call Magda ‘Mama’, even though you were the one who cooked their meals, folded their clothes, stood between them and Erik’s temper when it flared.

You clear your throat.

“I’ll see her today,” you say. “I’ll update you tonight.”

“She’s doing better than anyone thought.” Pietro says, quiet.

You nod, staring at the empty chairs.

“She’s still not home.”

Pietro says nothing for a long moment.

“You’re not either.”

You don’t answer.

The music in the club is too loud for conversation. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t care. Conversation was never the point.

She’s somewhere between the bar and the dance floor, drink in hand, hair loose, eyes lit up in that dangerous way that makes people lean closer without thinking. The DJ has just switched tracks, bass vibrating through the floor. It feels like the whole building is breathing in time with the beat.

Yelena stands off to the side, arms crossed, a resigned look on her face. She’s been here before. She’s always here. Actually sister, part-time chaperone, full-time audience to Natasha’s self-destruction dressed up as fun.

At the far end of the bar, someone says something stupid. Natasha laughs, not the polite kind. The sharp, gleaming kind that slices through the noise. She leans forward, says something back, and whatever it is makes the guy grin like he’s just won something. He hasn’t. She’s already walking away before he can reply.

The bartender doesn’t ask what she wants. He’s already pouring it. Vodka, neat. It slides across the bar, and she catches it with one hand without breaking stride.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She doesn’t check it. She’s here to be seen, not to answer calls.

Someone brushes her arm. She turns around and recognizes the face from a magazine cover and she tilts her head, considering. Ten seconds later, she’s pulling them toward the dance floor.

Chaos looks effortless on her. Like it was stitched into her bones.

From the balcony above, Clint Barton is watching. Not in a creepy way. In a long-suffering, I-get-paid-to-keep-her-alive way. He’s wearing a dark jacket that hides the earpiece, scanning the room with the kind of patience only years of dealing with Natasha Romanoff can teach.

When she finally notices him, she flashes a smile. Mischief. A silent dare.

He shakes his head and she ignores it.

Two hours later, the car door slams behind her. Clint slides into the driver’s seat, expression unreadable.

“You could try flying under the radar once in a while,” he says.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Natasha leans back, boots up on the dashboard. The smell of perfume and cigarette smoke lingers around her. “Besides, people talk more when they’re watching.”

Clint glances at her in the rearview mirror. “People also talk more when you give them something to gossip about.”

She smirks. “Exactly.”

He doesn’t push. She’s already scrolling through her phone, liking photos, replying to messages. A dozen invitations flash by. She accepts three.

When they pull up to the gates of her building, the flash of cameras hits like a second sunrise. She pauses long enough to let them get the shot. She tilts her chin while her smile remains perfect, her eyes daring them to print something unflattering.

Then she disappears inside.

Upstairs, in the penthouse her parents bought but rarely visit, the silence feels heavy. For a moment, she stands in the middle of it, looking at the city spread out in lights below.

She downs the rest of her drink, tosses the glass onto the couch, and heads for the bedroom.

It’s not that she doesn’t notice how empty it is here. She just refuses to sit still long enough to feel it.

The light in Natasha’s bedroom is merciless. Curtains half-open, sun cutting sharp lines across the floor.

She groans before she even opens her eyes.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Yelena’s voice drifts in from the doorway. She’s holding a glass of water in one hand and two aspirin in the other. Her hair is tied back; hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. She looks more like she’s about to run errands than deal with her hungover sister.

Natasha sits up slowly, the world tilting for a second. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Yelena steps closer, drops the pills into Natasha’s palm. “If you mean watching you self-destruct in slow motion, no. That’s not exactly my idea of entertainment.”

Natasha smirks faintly, but she takes the water and swallows the aspirin without argument.

“You have a meeting,” Yelena says, turning toward the door. “And before you start complaining. Yes, it’s important. Papa’s there. So is Mama. You should probably wear something that doesn’t smell like last night.”

Natasha lets herself fall back against the pillows for a second. “They love me just the way I am.”

Yelena looks back at her, one eyebrow raised. “Keep telling yourself that.”

An hour later, Natasha steps into the main boardroom of Red Guardian Enterprises. She’s dressed well enough to pass in a sleek black suit, hair neat, makeup just enough to hide how little she slept. The sunglasses in her hand are less about style and more about survival.

Alexei is already at the head of the table, fingers drumming against the polished wood. His expression is somewhere between concern and calculation. Melina sits to his left, spine straight, eyes unreadable.

“Natasha,” Alexei says, voice warm but heavy. “You made it.”

She drops into a chair, leaning back with the kind of casualness that’s meant to be disarming. “You make it sound like I crossed a desert to get here.”

Melina’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s nine-thirty. The meeting started at nine.”

“Which means I’m right on time for the important part,” Natasha says lightly.

Alexei’s mouth tightens. “Your name is on this company. People notice when you’re absent.”

“They also notice when I’m present,” Natasha replies. “Sometimes that’s the problem.”

Melina sets down her pen. The sound is small, but it lands like a gavel. “This isn’t a game. Every headline you chase, every photo you pose for; it reflects on us too. On this company. On Yelena.”

For a moment, Natasha’s eyes flicker. Just for a moment.

Alexei leans forward, voice quieter now. “I’m worried, dorogaya. You’re… restless. Too restless.”

She shrugs, looking away toward the window. “Restless keeps me moving.”

Melina doesn’t look away. “Restless can also make you reckless. And reckless doesn’t last forever.”

The silence stretches. Natasha doesn’t answer. She knows they’re right. She just isn’t ready to admit it.

The care centre is always quieter at night.

The hallways are dim, lights lowered, the faint hum of machines and the occasional soft voice from a nurse’s station breaking the stillness.

You sign in at the front desk. The nurse nods. She knows you by name, by face, by habit. You don’t waste words. You never have to here.

Your mother’s room is halfway down the east wing. The door is open, as it always is when she’s awake. A TV murmurs low in the corner, casting pale light across the bed.

She’s sitting up, head tilted slightly toward the sound, hair brushed back neatly by the evening nurse. There’s a knitted blanket over her legs, one Wanda made years ago, red and cream.

“Mama,” you say, stepping inside.

Her head turns slowly toward you. Her smile is small but real. “…detka.”

You set your bag down in the chair and cross to her side. You take her hand gently, warming it between both of yours.

“Have you eaten?” you ask.

She nods, slow but deliberate. “Soup.”

“That’s good,” you say softly. “It’s cold tonight.”

You pour her some water from the pitcher on the side table. She sips carefully. You wait until she’s finished before you start talking. Not about work, never here. You tell her about Wanda’s pumpkin bread, about how Pietro is threatening to repaint his apartment again, about a book Steve left on your desk that you’ll probably never read.

She listens, eyes focused, as though she’s catching every word. Sometimes she nods. Sometimes she laughs, low and breathy. Every sound feels like it reaches straight into you.

You stay until the nurse comes in to check her vitals. You help adjust the blanket, brush a stray hair from her face. She catches your wrist lightly, her fingers thin but warm.

“…good girl,” she murmurs.

You feel it in your chest, heavy and sharp all at once. “Always, Mama.”

When you finally leave, the hallways feel even quieter. The cold air outside bites at your face, but it’s grounding. You pull your coat tighter, get in the car, and tell the driver to take the long way home.

Some nights, you need the extra time.

The city blurs past the window, neon and headlights bending into streaks of colour you don’t bother to focus on. You lean back into the seat, watching without really seeing.

It used to be different, the way you moved through the world. Before the hospital calls. Before the sound of monitors replaced your mother’s voice.

You were twenty-two when it happened. Old enough to be halfway through a graduate program, young enough to still think the future was something you could take your time with. One phone call and you were standing in a white hallway, Pietro pacing, Wanda clinging to your arm like she might disappear if she let go.

You can still remember the cold of the vending machine coffee, the smell of antiseptic, the way the doctor’s mouth moved when he said stroke.

After that, time stopped belonging to you.

You left your degree unfinished. You moved into the corner office Erik had been saving for you, the one with the view that made the city look smaller. You learned to talk like him in boardrooms, to sign your name without hesitation, to never let anyone think you were waiting for approval.

You also learned to read Wanda’s moods before she spoke, to find Pietro at whatever trouble he’d wandered into; to cook meals you didn’t have time to eat so they’d know someone was still looking after them.

Every decision after that was about stability. Keep the twins safe. Keep the company strong. Keep your mother comfortable. Keep moving, even if it meant locking away everything you didn’t have the luxury of feeling.

The driver slows at a light. You glance at the people crossing in front of the car. Two teenagers laughing, a man with a bouquet of flowers, a woman holding a toddler’s hand. The sight catches somewhere in your chest before you look away.

When the car pulls into the driveway of your building, you stay seated for a moment, the engine idling. You tell yourself you’re just finishing a thought, but the truth is you’re not ready for the silence upstairs. You press your fingers to your temple, eyes closed. Just long enough to feel the weight of it all pressing in before you take the next breath, open the door, and step back into the life you built the second the old one ended.

Erik is in the library when you come in.

The room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single lamp and the low flicker from the fireplace. He’s seated in the leather chair he favours, a book open but unread in his hands.

You pass by without noticing him at first. Your coat slides from your shoulders into your arm in one practiced movement, your shoes soundless on the marble. The only break in your rhythm is the pause near the side table, where you set down your bag and keys in their exact places.

He watches the way you move. Efficient. Controlled. Not a trace of hesitation, even now, near midnight.

You cross toward the stairs, and the light catches your face for a moment; tired, drawn, the faint crease between your brows deeper than usual. He can tell the visit to the care centre went longer tonight.

You don’t look up at him, but you don’t need to. He knows you’re aware of his presence; it’s in the subtle shift of your shoulders as you walk past the library door.

Halfway up the stairs, you slow. Just a fraction. As though something inside you is debating whether to stop. But the moment passes, and you keep going.

He listens until the sound of your footsteps fades.

In the quiet, Erik sets his book down. He leans back, fingers steepled under his chin, gaze fixed on the space where you’d stood. He’s seen you hold the company together through crises, navigate family arguments with the precision of a surgeon, step in for him when illness or travel kept him away. He’s also seen you turn all of that precision inward, using it as armour until nothing soft was left on the surface.

It’s been years since you had the luxury of faltering. Years since you could be anyone other than the daughter who holds everything together.

The clock on the mantel ticks on. Erik reaches for the phone beside him, the polished brass cool under his fingers.

He waits for the line to connect, eyes still on the empty stairwell.

“How about a drink, Alexei?”

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