leesromanova

[leesromanova]

i love gays

i would give her the most sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death dropping, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotizing, heavenly, astonishing, leg trembling, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist moving up and down, heavy ‘‘i can’t take it much longer’’ breaths, eyes shut, lip biting, back arching, begging for relief, spit upon spit tongue twisting, deepthroating, mascara dripping down my face, slower then faster faster than little faster then perfect pace, hands in my hair brutally using my mouth, spiritually enlightening chakra balancing, mangekyo sharingan unlocking, golden light like a halo around the top, noise from the very edge of her throat for the final release head ever. and THEN i’d let her pound me so hard into the bed and use my body as though it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore that she literally throws me around and does as she pleases. i wouldn’t argue, i wouldn’t raise a word, no ma’am, not to mommy, absolutely not. she could ruin me, corrupt me, hit me, choke me, tie me up, bite me, i would absolutely encourage everything she does as long as i get a smidge of her attention and love. this woman could make me fuck myself on her fingers and i wouldn’t argue even if i ended up passing out, she could bruise me up and laugh at me and i would take it just to listen to her praise me. i would take her for 50 rounds in 60 positions cause never back down never what???? NEVER GIVE UP and i am not giving up to screw me till my mind becomes nothing but subservient to her.

and thats the way i’d like to fuck her <3

[leesromanova]

❛❛ 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓 ❛❛

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: once more, based on this request ♥

꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: beefy!natasha x reader

꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: fluff, smut (r receiving), established relationship.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 1.2k

an ; don't hesitate for feedback :) || masterlist

Morning light slanted through the curtains, casting warm stripes across the bedroom, but your girlfriend was not ready to face the day. Not when she was perfectly tucked between your thighs, head resting comfortably on your stomach, arms wrapped lazily around your waist like a stubborn koala bear.

You ran your fingers gently through her red hair, her muscle-heavy frame stretched across the bed like she owned it—and she did, honestly. You smiled down at her as she nuzzled into your skin like a sleepy cat.

“Baby…” you murmured, voice soft. “You’re gonna be late.”

“Mmm, don’t care,” came Natasha’s muffled reply, words pressed into your belly. “The only thing I’m late for is you.”

You snorted. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Nat propped her chin on your tummy dramatically, giving you the most unconvincing glare with half-lidded green eyes. “I do make sense, you just don’t understand me. You never understand me."

“Oh my god,” you laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Why are you being this dramatic?”

“I am mourning,” Natasha sighed theatrically, as if she were a widow at a funeral. “Mourning the loss of my warm pillow and thigh sanctuary. You’re abandoning me. You, cruel girlfriend.”

“You literally have a mission briefing in—” You glanced at the clock. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“And you have the power to stop time,” she said, voice low and persuasive as she kissed the side of your waist, then again, slower this time. “You could use that power for good.”

You groaned, already melting. “Natasha.”

She blinked up at you, a hint of pout on her lips. “Can’t I just stay here all day? Just…live here. Between your thighs. Happy. Fulfilled. Productive.”

“You’d sleep for hours.” as she always did.

“Exactly. Healing.”

You cupped her face gently, tilting her up toward you. “Tell you what—if you go now and save the world or whatever it is you’re doing today, I promise tonight… I’ll let you lie here again.”

Nat narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Lying for sleeping or… other purposes?”

You leaned down, lips brushing her ear, and whispered: “Other purposes.”

Her ears flushed immediately. “Define ‘other.’”

“Oh, you know,” you purred, “something involving less clothing, more moaning.”

Nat made a strangled sound, burying her face into your stomach again with a groan of suffering. “You are evil. Evil and tempting and unfair.”

“And yet you love me.”

She groaned louder. “Unfortunately.”

You tugged at her arm. “Come on, soldier. You’ll get your reward later.”

Finally, she rolled off you with the grace of a grumpy boulder, grumbling under her breath like a whole drama queen. “I’m holding you to that promise.”

You smiled, standing and tossing her a shirt. “Wouldn’t dream of breaking it.”

As you turned away, Natasha smacked your ass on her way out of bed, grinning smugly. “Just remember—tonight, I’m not the one begging.”

You paused mid-step, eyes wide.

“…Rude,” you muttered.

“Hot,” she corrected.

It was nearly 9 p.m. when Natasha returned, hair damp from a quick shower at HQ, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and that slow, cocky smirk playing on her lips.

You were already in bed, reading, wearing one of her shirts—which honestly felt like a personal attack on her self-control.

She leaned against the doorframe like she hadn’t just kicked in a door during a mission six hours ago. “I upheld my end of the deal.”

You glanced up, pretending to think. “Hmm. Did you?”

Nat’s eyebrow rose. “You calling me a liar, sweetheart?”

You shut your book, setting it aside. “I’m just saying... I did say you’d get to lie between my thighs again—but not just for comfort this time.”

Her jaw flexed. “You teasing me, baby?”

You cocked your head, curling your finger toward her slowly. “Why don’t you come here and find out?”

She was across the room in three strides.

Natasha crawled onto the bed like a predator, strong thighs straddling yours for a moment before she slid down, settling right back into the position she’d whined about leaving this morning—head between your thighs, except now, her lips were dangerously close to where the fabric of your underwear clung to your skin.

She pressed a slow, reverent kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You promised,” she whispered, voice husky. “This was mine.”

You carded your fingers through her still-damp hair. “Take your prize, Romanoff.”

She smirked.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Your legs were already parted for her—just a little—just enough.

Natasha kissed the inside of your thigh again, slower this time, with purpose. You felt the burn of her gaze as she hooked a finger around the waistband of your underwear, dragging it down inch by inch, her breath ghosting over now-bare skin.

“Missed this all day,” she murmured, voice low and wrecked with want. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how warm and soft you are here…”

She didn’t rush. Natasha Romanoff didn’t need to. She liked to tease—to take her time and make you feel every bit of her need.

Her tongue dragged a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and your back arched instantly.

“Mmh—there she is,” she breathed, licking her lips like you were dessert. “Tastes even better than I remembered.”

Your fingers threaded into her hair, not guiding—just holding on for dear life as she kissed your folds again, firmer this time. Her broad shoulders locked your thighs open, no escape, no mercy.

She flattened her tongue and licked you again, again—until your hips started moving with her rhythm.

“That’s it, baby,” she hummed into you, voice vibrating through your core. “Let me have it. Let me take care of you.”

Your moan came out high and soft, completely helpless under the slow, devastating pull of her mouth.

And when she sucked your clit—slow, deliberate, controlled—you cried out her name.

She smiled against you. “Good girl.”

Two fingers slid into you with ease, thick and curling just right, while her mouth stayed glued to your clit. The coil in your stomach twisted hard, building fast and sharp.

“You gonna come for me?” she whispered against your folds. “Right here, right where I belong?”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—yes, Nat, please—”

“That’s my girl.”

And she didn’t stop.

She devoured you.

She pushed you over the edge like she knew every inch of your body—because she did. You came hard, clenching around her fingers, thighs trembling on either side of her head.

But Natasha didn’t move. Not yet.

She kept her mouth on you, lapping up every last bit of your release like she was starving, like she’d been thinking about this since the moment you left her that morning.

Only when you whimpered—completely spent—did she finally, finally pull away, kissing your thigh tenderly.

Then she crawled up your body

And as you were trembling under her touch, eyes blown wide and hands tangled in her hair, she looked up with smug satisfaction and murmured,

“Worth being on time for.”

The rest of the night was full of soft gasps, low moans, and the kind of worship Natasha only reserved for one person: you.

[leesromanova]

Finish What You Started (Also known as I Am Never Taking You to Work With Me Again)

NR x a civilian!r troublemaker that Natasha is just so enamored by that r can do no wrong

Word count: 3.7k

Summary: you finally manage to convince a rightfully reluctant Natasha to bring you with her to work

(You also get her to let you eat her out from under a table in public, so 18+)

You’ve asked time and time again and have always received the same answer: an assertive, non-negotiable ‘no’. Not a ‘not today’, not a ‘maybe next time’. A ‘no’. Firm, unrelenting, and not allowing for any further discussion.

Despite the constant rejections, you remain undeterred, bouncing back after each denial, remaining not only persistent but also incessant in your requests. You know you’re more stubborn than she is. With each plea, you can see that you’re chipping away at Natasha’s resolve, see that her exasperation and subsequent yielding is increasing. She’s weakening, and it only furthers your determination.

Sitting at the kitchen table, blearily rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you watch as Natasha moves to the coffee pot, pouring a mug for both you and herself.

She continues her amateur barista work, adding some cream and sugar to yours as if it's second nature, and gently passes you the steaming cup. You mumble a quiet thank you, hoping the bitter liquid will help you shake the cobwebs from your head and figure out a way to once again ask the question that's been spilling nonstop from your lips for the past month and finally obtain the answer you’ve been waiting for.

Natasha relaxes at the table as well, taking a seat, and you both remain in a what you hope is your usual comfortable silence, slowly sipping on your coffees. But despite your best efforts, Natasha easily senses you’ve got something to say, and she’s pretty sure that she knows what it is, her eyes drifting toward you.

“The answer is still ‘no’.” She breaks the quiet.

Your lips press into a thin, displeased line, but then you go and feign ignorance. Unfortunately, there's no keeping anything from the redheaded spy. Even if you disregard her years of intelligence training, the woman knows you better than you know yourself.

“I didn’t even ask.”

She gives you an unimpressed look. “No, but you were going to.”

You let out a relenting sigh. “Please,” you decide to try, “I have the day off, and you said that it's supposed to be a slow day for you. Come on.” You extend the last word, trailing it off into a long whine. You've always wanted to visit her place of work, to see S.H.I.E.L.D. for yourself, and today is the perfect opportunity.

You can sense her knee-jerk response, you can practically feel another refusal sitting on the tip of her tongue, but Natasha surprises you, shaking her head and muttering about how she’s certainly going to regret this. It’s too bad she never could say no to you.

The moment you step inside the base, you understand some of her hesitation, her unwillingness. The two of you are on the receiving end of glances that range from curious to utterly baffled. It turns out, none of her coworkers knew that she was in a relationship (something about privacy and safety and all that), and they definitely didn’t come to work today expecting to see the big bad Black Widow acting soft toward another person.

She initially sets you up with level one security clearance, handing you your badge, but your petulant protest (“Natasha,” you whine, “what about girlfriend perks? I deserve at least level three.”) gets you an eye roll and a reluctant agreement under the condition that you don’t wander off, and soon, she’s leading you throughout the elaborate hallways of the building. On today’s agenda is paperwork, meetings, training recruits, and yet another meeting.

During the morning, you casually peruse her office as she tackles her paperwork, hands clasped behind your back, eyeing the plain walls and lack of trinkets and personal touches. There’s singular photo of the two of you on her desk, your expression a bright grin, hers a smirk, and although it warms your heart, you can’t resist your next words.

“Your office is boring.”

“I’m here to save the world, not to interior decorate,” she throws back at you quickly, not glancing up from her mission reports.

When Natasha eventually has to attend her first briefing, she gives you explicit instructions that you are not to leave her office. You easily agree, waving off her concern, and spend your time continuing to inspect your surroundings. Boredom ultimately causes the temptation to snoop to become too irresistible, and you begin to open drawers and cabinets, to toy with a few important-looking documents on her desk. But her office is sparse, too sparse, and your initial determination to follow her instructions gradually dwindles. Not long after, you’re opening the door, peering out into the hallway, and casually exiting the room when you see no one, trying to walk as if you belong.

You wander aimlessly throughout the base, taking a left here and a right there, unperturbed with the potential of getting lost. You pass by a multitude of other agents, and considering the attention you attract, your casual strut and nonchalant demeanor are not as subtle as you are hoping. Unlike your girlfriend, perhaps you were not made for espionage, your civilian clothing and captivation toward the technologically advanced building around you giving you away.

Despite the suspicious stares you glean, your exploration is left unhindered for quite some time, most electing to throw a confused glance your way but, in the end, turn a blind eye. Your phone buzzes with a text after approximately two hours. How you’ve made it this far with no trouble is beyond you.

‘I thought I told you to stay put.’

‘You did.’

‘And?’

‘And I got bored. You left me in too small of an enclosure with zero enrichment.’

‘Where are you?’

‘That’s a good question.’

You get a bit of enjoyment out of Natasha’s growing irritation that you can sense through your phone, but your amusement is cut short by an agent that is apparently unwilling to ignore your presence like the others. What timing.

“Hey, you. What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Just… following orders, surveying the area.”

“But you don’t have clearance to be here.”

“Yes, I do,” you try, not knowing if there’s any validity to your statement. You hurriedly grab at your badge, holding it up. “I’m level three.”

“And you need to be level four to access this floor.”

Shit.

“What’s your name?”

“There’s just been a misunderstanding. I got mixed up. I’ll head back now and-”

“What’s your name?” the agent demands again.

You still don’t answer, eyes wide. You’re sure you look like a deer caught in the headlights as you flounder to come up with a way to talk yourself out of the predicament you seem to be finding yourself in.

Ever your knight in shining armor, Natasha rounds the corner as the man is twisting your arm behind your back, effectively restraining you, not that you had the ability to resist anyway.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” you mumble, the position straining. You don’t know how your girlfriend handles pain on the daily. “Do I at least get a phone call?” you snark, foolishly deciding to take the chance at making things worse.

“Stand down,” Natasha calls out, voice firm but not without a degree of exasperation, unhappy but unsurprised that you’ve gotten yourself into a situation such as this. “She’s with me.”

“Agent Romanoff, you know this woman? She’s been walking around a restricted area, refusing to answer questions, and resisting procedural arrest. She wouldn’t even tell me her name.”

Natasha shoots you a disapproving look as she walks over. “Unfortunately, yes, I know her. Now, let her go. Please.” The last word is a warning, almost a threat, a direct order from a superior.

You’re roughly released, stumbling slightly at the abruptness of the action, and Natasha instinctively reaches out to steady you, her hand now secure on your hip.

“Thank-” you start to say, but you’re cut off with a grumpy “let’s go”.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice my office askew,” Natasha adds flatly.

Following the morning paperwork, meetings, and your narrowly avoided detainment, is lunch. You two find yourselves in the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria, but quickly, you’re the cause of another scene.

After what feels like the millionth time overhearing some not-so-hushed whispers gossiping about you and your relationship, you just can’t take it anymore. You stand up, chair scraping loudly against the floor, gaze pointed at a trio of agents on the other side of the room. The whole cafeteria goes silent as people freeze in place to watch your little display. Natasha closes her eyes, taking in a calming breath as she gets ready for whatever it is you’re about to say.

“Yeah, I know right? I’m dating her. Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow. Her. This woman right here. We have sex. Often. Her and I. Her,” and you point emphatically at your girlfriend who’s sitting across from you with what’s now becoming an incredibly charmed expression on her face.

You turn to her, voice turning low. “Natasha,” you whisper, “tell them.”

She just huffs out a breath before addressing the agents that had been chattering. “It’s true,” is her terse statement. “This little spitfire here is my girlfriend,” and her exasperation wars with affection.

Your outburst and her confirmation get them to quiet, and you turn back to her. “Anyways, what were we talking about?”

Natasha chuckles. “What we are having for dinner tonight, but I think a topic change to how you’re causing quite the ruckus for me at work today is in order.”

Natasha decides it’s best to bring you along with her to her next task, wanting to avoid any further trouble after the two little (and hopefully only) stunts you’ve pulled. She’s scheduled to spar with new trainees, and while that sounds simple enough, nothing could have prepared you for what you were going to witness. It turns out that watching your girlfriend easily take down multiple other agents is harder than impatiently waiting for her to complete her clerical work and meetings. The rosy tint of your cheeks and the subtle clenching of your thighs as you sit on a nearby bench betrays the way her workout attire and the sight of sweat dripping down her collarbone affects you. Your core begins to throb shortly after the first match starts due to the well-defined muscles of her biceps flexing each time she throws a punch, her abs being on full display, sinfully uncovered by her sports bra, and her leggings leaving almost nothing about her ass to the imagination.

She finishes up the sparring sessions, having defeated every new recruit with practiced ease, and waves you over to her, chest heaving with only slight effort, a thin sheen of sweat coating her already stupidly attractive form. You bite your lip to suppress a groan. Just the action of her hand coming to settle on the small of your back as she leads you out of the training room feels almost indecent.

Natasha once again ushers you to her office, pointedly telling you to actually stay put this time, and leaves you to entertain yourself while she goes off to shower and then see to her last meeting, but your imagination is running wild, and your arousal grows exponentially in her absence.

The only thing you can think about is your girlfriend ravishing you. You want her to roughly press you against the wall of the hallway and kiss you senseless, you want her to reacquaint her fingers with your pussy in a bathroom stall, her other hand placed over your mouth to contain your moans, you want her to bend you over and fuck you on top of her conveniently barren desk. She once mentioned that her office door locks and that the walls are soundproofed, so what exactly are you both waiting for?

As Natasha escorted you to her office earlier, she casually pointed out the room that she’s going to be in, offhandedly gesturing to the chair that’s her assigned seat as you two passed the open door. You couldn't help it, entire body still flushed with desire, breathing hardly able to be considered normal. You took note of the room number, paid close attention to which chair she’s going to be sitting in, and memorized the path to and from her office.

She pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before heading off, assuring you that she would be back quickly. But, given that show she just gave you with her body skillfully pinning down those of the other agents, given the way you can currently feel your clit rub against the seam of your jeans with every step, you don’t think you can wait that long.

While she’s preoccupied with her shower, you make your move, doing your best to inconspicuously walk back to the meeting room. The door is closed this time, but you can't help but smirk to yourself as your level three clearance grants you access, your badge opening the door with a green light and satisfying beep. Peeking through the doorway, you fortunately find the area empty, allowing you to enter, drop to your hands and knees, and crawl underneath the long conference table, positioning yourself in front of what you know to be her seat.

Only minutes pass before you hear commotion outside the door. The door once again beeps open, footsteps entering the room, and you can make out your girlfriend’s voice talking amongst the chatter. As the multiple people get seated, Natasha included, placing herself in the chair you’re situated in front of, you lick your lips in anticipation for what you’re about to do. Natasha is so going to kill you for this later.

You let the meeting begin, not moving, not acting, waiting, heart thumping loudly in your chest to the point that you’re concerned it’s going to give away your spot on your knees, but despite the sound of it beating wildly in your ears, no one appears to be aware of your presence, and once everyone seems deep in serious conversation, you’re unable to resist any longer, the apex of your girlfriend’s thighs just too enticing.

Your hands move, slithering up her calves, pressing against her knees, spreading her out for you. You immediately feel her body stiffen at the contact, her own hands quickly but discreetly shooting down to grab at you, to stop whatever is happening, to stop whoever is touching her, but when her eyes flicker down and meet yours, her brief moment of alarm dissolves into calm disapproval as she realizes that it’s just you. Of course, it’s you. She looks at you reproachfully, but you begin placing gentle open-mouthed kisses up her inner thighs anyway, making your way up to her core, tongue skimming along the fabric of her slacks, and when you glance up at her again from between her legs, you see the surprise, warning, and objection in her gaze faltering.

You continue to languidly mouth at her covered pussy, applying just enough pressure so that she can feel it, and soon you notice a damp spot appear, sticky and wet, your saliva and her slick mixing together and soaking their way through both layers of her clothing. Her thighs attempt to shut, to ward off your touch, but your hands firmly keep her legs open, preventing her from closing herself off, and despite her sending you another deterring glance, her body reveals her need. She may be playing at resisting, may be attempting to remain outwardly unaffected and displeased by your bold and reckless decision, but she wants this just as much as you do, and as you finally begin to breathe in the heady scent that is uniquely her, you can’t wait any longer. You need to taste her, and you can tell from the way her breathing has sped up, imperceptible to those around her but not to you, that she needs you to too.

Your hands move up to fiddle with the button and zipper of her pants before you tap gently at her thigh, indicating she needs to raise her hips so you can smoothly slip them down. There’s a moment of hesitation on her part where she carefully casts a glance at those also in the room, eyes sweeping across the faces of the others sitting at the conference table, where she considers the consequences of allowing you to continue with your daring venture, but all it takes is a strategically placed trail of your finger along the seam of her slacks and she’s lifting her hips up, giving in to the need, the desire, that you know is steadily building within her.

Quietly, you pull her pants down, the fabric sliding along her hips, her thighs, exposing more and more of her flushed skin, and her hips subtly buck up once as the cool air of the room hits her now bare core, the feeling almost making her gasp out loud. You don’t allow her any time to prepare before you’re tugging her forward, shifting her weight until she’s on the edge of her seat, and your lips quickly find their way to her pussy, sucking on her clit for a few seconds before your tongue swipes through her folds repeatedly.

Everything about your touch is gentle, caressing at first. You don’t want to give away what you’re doing, you don’t want the others to find out, you don’t want your renowned secret agent girlfriend to get into trouble, and so each circle of your tongue around her clit only floods her body with more desperation as your unhurried ministrations persist, slow and leisurely. The fidgeting of her hips in her seat gradually evolves to full on squirming as the minutes pass, silent requests for you to give her more, but you don’t comply, your lips and tongue still moving with zero urgency, their soft brushes lingering and delicate and much too light for her current state, neglecting her rising need.

“Do you have any notes, Agent Romanoff?” one of the agents asks suddenly, breaking Natasha out of her lust-induced haze.

Her gaze jumps to the agent that had spoken, and she scrambles to find an answer, mouth opening and closing a couple of times, not having been listening to the conversation, too distracted by the feel of your mouth on her overheated core.

“What?” she asks, the word coming out more strangled than she’d like it to, and she clears her throat, struggling to center herself, to refocus.

“On the mission plan?” the agent prompts further, raising an eyebrow at her confusion, “The drop we’re set to infiltrate next week in Bulgaria?”

“Oh, um, I-” she’s cut off by your tongue beginning to lazily probe at her entrance, and she bites her lip, hard, in order to stifle the loud moan that wants to break free.

“What was that?” the agent presses, his confusion transforming into slight concern at her stuttering. The Black Widow doesn’t stutter.

Natasha just shakes her head, breathing getting heavier as you continue to push your tongue in and out of her hole, her slick staining your lips in the most satisfying way, your nose nudging against her clit with every movement.

“Nothing,” she says much too quickly, clearing her throat again, “No, nothing. This all sounds fine. I have no adjustments to make.”

Upon her, albeit not at all reassuring, answer, the agent moves his focus elsewhere, giving her one last confused look before the meeting resumes and she gets caught back up in your concentrated motions.

You pick up the pace once the attention is off your girlfriend, lapping away at her now sopping pussy with newfound hunger, trying to muffle your own moans and whines of pleasure at the taste of her, at the feeling of her. She’s intoxicating, the way her body clenches around your tongue, her walls fluttering with each dip inside, her pussy welcoming your intrusion with a fresh stream of arousal that drips down your chin. Your knees are certainly bruising, your back aching from the strained position, but you hardly think about it, too overwhelmed by everything that is Natasha to care, devouring, savoring, every bit of her.

Natasha’s trembling in her seat, every muscle pulled taut. Her hands grip the edge of the conference table in an attempt to restrain herself from making any move that would disclose what is happening. Her clit is pulsing as you roll your tongue over it again and again, her whole body feeling as though it’s vibrating with pleasure. Each flick of your tongue causes more arousal to leak down and pool onto the chair beneath her.

Despite all of her training to keep her composure, you’ve always been her weakness. She can never get enough of you and finally can’t hold back any longer, one of her hands diving down to grab at your hair, dragging you closer to her pussy, holding you firm, her hips beginning to grind into your mouth.

Her movements are subtle, unrecognizable from above the table, but her desperation is clear to you. You can feel her need in the way she holds you steady, trying to set a rhythm that will relieve her ache. You flatten your tongue, your head stilling, allowing her to use you and guide your motions as she sees fit.

You’re mid-lick when the meeting comes to an end, everyone standing up slowly and filing out of the room except for your girlfriend.

“You coming?” an agent asks her, also concerned over her unusual behavior as she remains stiff in her seat, face redder than it should be for this air-conditioned room.

There is a moment of delay, but Natasha finally manages to choke out a weak, “Be out in a minute. I need to check over some last few things."

That seems to satisfy the others, and once the last of them exit the room, the door snapping shut, you disconnect your mouth from her pussy with a loud, wet ‘pop’, and peek up at her from under the table, mouth glistening with her juices, a more than pleased expression on your face at the trouble you just caused her.

“Good meeting?” you ask casually, “Ready to go?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. You’re not done yet, detka. You’ve been pushing me all day. Now, finish what you started,” Natasha murmurs lowly, and you're not complaining when she roughly shoves your face back between her thighs.

[leesromanova]

to preface, i have not read the comics and know singular fact about liho (she is black), but anyone with a cat understands the exasperation that comes with owning one. i have four, and let me tell you anyways, here’s natasha romanoff meeting the veterinarian!reader that saves her cat. natasha definitely takes her out on a date later as a thank you natasha is so desensitized to liho’s trouble-making tendencies that she doesn’t bat an eye she walks right into the veterinary hospital. calm, collected, unfazed “hi! how can i help you? do you have an appointment?” “my cat ate a hair tie.” fucking cats, man “what?” you don’t mishear her, and it’s not the first time you’ve handled a case like this, but the way she says it, casual, nonchalant, throws you for a loop “my cat ate a hair tie,” she repeats “alright… well the first thing we want to do is radiographs. we’ll perform a barium study to confirm and-” she interrupts you with a tired sigh at the new information, looking exasperatedly at liho in her carrier. fucking cats. “just do it” “let me just get you an estimate-” “no.” another sigh. “no. no need. just do it,” and then she’s throwing a black amex card down on the counter

you eye the card. “okay, yep, yep, right away,” you say, and you’re grabbing the carrier and taking liho to the back while natasha simply sighs for the third time, taking a seat in the lobby. fucking. cats.

[leesromanova]

Rumpelstiltskin

Summary: Due to your carelessness, one of your bestfriend's favorite plant got perished but that one small action of yours became a chaos in an instant. You found yourself causing even more problems along the way, including summoning a wrong entity that will bind you into a consuming contract.

Pairings: Demon Natasha Romanoff x Summoner Female Reader

Word count: 3.1k

Tags | Warnings: +18 smut, fluff (kinda), top!Natasha, virgin bottom!reader, cunnilingus (r receiving)

Author's Note: Scheduled repost

⧗

You were lounging on your couch, your small form a tiny fitting. You absentmindedly swiped your hand across the coffee table, knocking over a potted plant in the process. The ceramic pot shattered on the floor, dirt spilling everywhere as the plant lay broken and lifeless.

The plant was one of Wanda's favorites. You knew how much she cared for each of her plants, treating them like precious children—well your best friend loved her plants more than you. So you immediately sprang into action, frantically gathering the broken pieces of the plant and trying to scoop up the spilled dirt. You panicked, knocking over a nearby vase in the process, causing it to shatter on the floor as well.

The room was now a mess, with shattered ceramic, spilled dirt, and broken plant parts scattered everywhere. Your panicked attempts to clean up the mess only made it worse, causing you to knock over a lamp and send books tumbling to the floor.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

You let out a heavy sigh as you looked around at the remaining mess. You knew you couldn't afford to leave anything undone, not with Wanda's keen eye for detail. So you started to clean the broken lamps, put the books back in place, but you have no idea how to replace her favorite plant! Her children!

"She'll know, won't she?" you shakingly muttered to yourself, running a dirty hand through your disheveled hair. You looked around at the mess, knowing you still have a night ahead of you before Wanda comes back.

You whined softly to yourself as you vacuumed the rug, your imagination running wild with scenarios of Wanda's anger. "She's probably going to kill me...or worse, sacrifice me to have her plants back!" you dramatically collapsed onto the couch, clutching a throw pillow to your chest. You stopped your tantrum. Suddenly, an idea struck you with the earlier words that came out of your mouth. You bolted upright on the couch, your eyes wide with realization.

"Sacrifice...summon…" you whispered to yourself. An evil grin spread across your face as you formulated a plan.

You rushed to the bookshelf, pulling out a dusty, ancient tome from the section Wanda had labeled Cursed Spells & Failed Experiments, you had a vague recollection of them attempting a summoning spell from this book before, with comical results.

You flipped through the brittle pages, your eyes scanning for the summoning incantation. You paused, remembering your previous attempt—Wanda had mispronounced a keyword, causing a burst of colorful smoke and a very confused parrot to appear instead of an entity you two intended to summon before you two bursted out laughing.

The spell was there, marked with a crude drawing of a demon and a large X through it. You snorted, remembering how Wanda had insisted that the X meant "extra powerful" rather than "do not attempt." You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the strange feeling brewing in your stomach, you're not gonna summon a demon right now, instead an entity that can revitalized Wanda's plant, some creature of sort.

You laid out the required component; a candle, a small dagger, and what the book vaguely referred to as the essence of the earth.

Taking a deep breath, you began to recite the incantation, your voice low and gravelly. The ancient words felt foreign on your tongue, but you pressed on, determined to see this through.

"Spiritus sylvarum…" (Spirit of the Woods)

The very fabric of Wanda's home began to tremble and shake. Pictures rattled on the walls, and the furniture groaned as if the house itself was protesting the unnatural summoning.

"Exumbrae ad me…" (Shadows to me)

You didn't stop, eager to complete the ritual. Your voice grew stronger, more confident, as you spat out the final words.

"Revigorare plantae et herbae, in nomine terrae monstrum, oh no wait, matris—wait what?" (Revitalize plants and herbs, in the name of a mother monster, earth)

The darkness in the room grew denser and more intense.

A wrong slip of word left your lips, a shockwave of dark energy exploded outward. The refrigerator rattled violently, and the fluorescent lights flickered ominously. You expected to see an ethereal nature spirit materialize before you. Instead, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the shadows, her eyes glinting with malice and amusement.

The figure solidified, revealing the demon in all her terrifying glory. Her skin was pale as bone, her features sharp and angular. Her auburn hair braided and she was clad in black armor that seemed to absorb the light. Her gaze fell upon you, her expression one of utter disdain.

Her gaze returned to you, her eyes roaming hungrily over your form. Her crimson gaze was like a physical caress, tracing the curve of your neck, the swell of your breasts, the length of your legs. Her lips peeled back from his teeth in a predatory grin.

She is hungry.

Her gaze never left yours as she crossed her arms over her chest, affecting an air of nonchalance despite the hunger burning within her.

"Why am I being summoned upon, princess?"

You backed away involuntarily, your breath hitching in your throat. Her presence was overwhelming, her power pressing against you like a physical weight. You stammered, struggling to find your voice.

"I-I... I summoned you because... because…"

Your words tumbled out in a rushed, panicked mess.

"Ididntsummonademon!"

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you begged, your voice thick with desperation. You weren't sure if you were more afraid of her terrifying presence or Wanda's wrath if she found out you'd tampered with her precious plants.

"Why am I being summoned upon?" she repeated again, much firmer and scary this time.

"Pleasefixmyfriendsplant!"

She watched you with a cruel smirk, clearly enjoying your distress. She took another step forward, closing the distance between you.

"Aww, is the little mortal upset about a silly plant?" she taunted, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

Her laughter echoed through the room, cold and mirthless. "You expect me, a mighty demon, to fix a mere plant?" she threw her head back, laughing harder at the absurdity of it all.

"Stupid, stupid humans," she muttered, shaking her head. "Risking their lives for something so trivial." She reached out, her long, pale fingers caressing your cheek, tracing the path of your tears.

"How adorable."

Her laughter subsided, her gaze once again turning hungry as she took in your terrified state. Your fear was intoxicating, feeding her hunger and satisfying her more than any pleas for help ever could.

"Oh, princess, you don't know how much your fear pleases me," she purred. She leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear. "You know what else would please me?" She whispered, her voice a dark, seductive purr. "If you'd make a bargain with me. Anything, in exchange for fixing that pitiful plant."

Her eyes glinted with eager anticipation as you nodded dumbly, your fear clouding your judgment. "Excellent," she hissed, her voice barely containing her glee. "A contract, at last! I've been so hungry for one."

"Hm, I do what you ask of me," she recited, her voice a dark rumble. "And in return, you give me something you own. Something precious to you." She paused, a wicked smile spreading across her face. She licked her lips, barely concealing her excitement as you nodded eagerly, surrendering yourself to the contract without a second thought. Your desperate obedience only fueled her hunger.

"Now let me see the thing that's worth risking your soul for."

You turned around, pointing a shaking finger at the pathetic plant sitting on the table. Its once-vibrant leaves were now shriveled and brown, the pot cracked, and the soil dry and lifeless.

"Magical, but finicky little things, aren't they?" she observed, circling the withered plant like a predator. "Out of the soil for too long, and they'll perish in an instant."

In a blink of an eye, the plant burst back to life, its vibrant green leaves unfurling as if they'd never wilted. She sneered, satisfied with her handiwork. She snapped her fingers, and Wanda's living room indeed, her entire house—was restored to pristine condition.

"There," you stared in disbelief, your mouth agape. That freaking quick?! "And I've done more than you asked of me," she purred, stepping closer. "I expect the same eagerness from you, princess." Her fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face up.

Your hand flew immediately to your neck, fumbling with the delicate chain until you pulled out an old, intricately carved locket. Tears welled in your eyes as you clutched it to your chest. "This...this is from my grandmother. She gave it to me before she passed away because it will protect me."

Her green orb eyes narrowed as she listened, a flicker of interest sparking in their depths. She stepped closer, looming over you. "Your grandmother's necklace, you say? How...sentimental." Her voice was a low purr, tinged with dark amusement.

The demon's gaze softened almost imperceptibly. She saw the pain and longing in your eyes, the struggle between your attachment to the heirloom and your desperate desire to have your friend's plants restored.

"And how was this trinket supposed to protect you?" her voice was gentler, curious. You took a deep, shuddering breath, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"My noo—my grandmother was a wise woman," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "She told me that as long as I wore it, I'd always have her love with me. That it would shield me from darkness." You looked up at her, tears spilling down your cheeks.

She listened intently, studying your face as you spoke. A flicker of something almost like sympathy crossed her features before being quickly masked. She turned the delicate necklace over in her hands, examining it closely.

"Your noona...she's found peace, princess. A paradise beyond the reach of this world's sorrows."

You stared at her, shocked. Your jaw hung open, and your eyes widened. You had grown accustomed to her cold indifference and mockery. But this...this was something else entirely. A demon, an ice-cold demon, was comforting you? The king of hell might need some reevaluation with his armies.

She uncurled her fist, revealing the unscathed necklace. To your surprise, she stepped closer, her chilling presence enveloping you. Gently, she lifted the necklace, her fingers brushing against your skin as she secured it around your neck once more. She lingered for just a moment, her hot breath ghosting over your skin as she fastened the clasp with a soft click.

"I-I'm...I'm still pure," you stammered, your cheeks flaming red as you confessed. It was the truth and a secret that not even your best friend knows. And why in hell did you even say that?

"There," she said, her voice back to its usual detached tone. "Now, keep that... memento of your grandmother's love. I want something else in return." Her gaze sharpened, refocusing on you. "Something...that you possess," she finished, her eyes gleaming with an unreadable emotion. "A promise, perhaps. Or maybe a secret." She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

Her eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across her face before her expression returned to its usual unreadable mask. "Interesting," she murmured, leaning even closer. "So, all this time, you've been... untouched." She reached out, her cold fingers gently tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze once more. "And why is that, little one? Why have you kept yourself...pure?" her voice was barely a whisper, her breath chill against your lips. "Is it because…you're waiting for someone special?" she finished, her eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Or perhaps…" her other hand came up to rest on your waist, her touch searing even through your clothes. "You simply haven't found anyone worthy of claiming your innocence yet?"

You turned your face away from her but her green orbs seemed to glow brighter. She leaned in closer, her gaze boring into yours, and suddenly, you felt a strange, invasive pressure against your mind. She was looking into your thoughts, seeing the truth laid bare.

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. You felt like she was peeling back layers of your soul, exposing your deepest fears and desires. Her hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly, and you found yourself leaning into her touch without even realizing it.

"Tell me, little one, have you ever toyed with your own innocence? Caressed your own flesh? Discover the secrets of your own body?" her words were like velvet-covered steel, coercive and alluring, drawing out the truth you'd never spoken aloud before.

She saw...everything.

Your reaction was immediate and visceral. Your breath hitched in your throat, and your heart skipped a beat as she spoke about your deepest secret.

She saw the night you'd snuck into your room, fingers trembling as you'd reached under your shirt to touch your small, untouched breasts. He saw your frustrated attempts to relieve the ache between your legs, your fingers fumbling and ineffective as you'd struggled to find any sort of release. Her lips curled into a wicked smirk as she withdrew from your mind, leaving you feeling violated and exposed. She brought her hand up to your face, her thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Oh, you poor, frustrated little thing," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All that fire, all that need, and nowhere for it to go. You'd touch yourself, so curious, so eager to learn... but your inexperienced fingers could never quite bring you the relief you craved, could they?"

"I will take your secret…and so is your purity."

Her eyes flashed with a predatory gleam as she sensed your hesitation and the war raging within you—the desire to submit to her dark temptations battling against your ingrained purity. She pressed her advantage, her hand sliding up your side to cup your breast through your shirt.

Shame and disgust at allowing a demon such intimate access warred with the undeniable pleasure of her touch. You felt pathetic, weak, as if you were betraying everything you stood for.

With a sudden, brutal move, she pushed your legs apart and shoved you back onto the couch, pinning your shoulders to the cushions. Before you could even catch your breath, she was kneeling between your spread bare thighs, her face mere inches from your dripping pussy.

You shivered at the touch, your breath growing shallow as the cool air hit your bare chest. She leaned down and whispered, "No one will ever care for you like I will, my precious little human." Her eyes gleamed with dark triumph as she finished unbuttoning your shirt. She pushed it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "That's right, my sweet. You're mine now, bound to me by contract until the day you die." She traced patterns on your chest, her fingers dipping down to your belly, then lower, to the tie of your pants. "What a delectable prize you are."

"Look at you," she hissed, "So open, so ready. You may have sold your soul, but your body was made for me."

She lowered her head, her cold tongue flicking out to lap at your heated flesh. You gasped, your hips bucking forward, only to be held down by her strong hands.

Your fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs as you gripped them tightly, torn between the urge to push her away and the insidious pull to spread wider and invite more of her touch. You had, after all, sold your soul to her, hadn't you?

You bit your lip to stifle a moan as her cool, silken demon tongue delved into your wet folds. She licked up your juices, then pushed the tip of her tongue deep inside you, fucking you with it as she sucked hard on your clit. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as she ate you out with a fervor that left you breathless. The sensation of her cold, demonic tongue inside you was unlike anything you'd ever experienced, and you found yourself pushing back against it, desperate for more.

"Oh God!"

"Even God won't help you right now princess…"

Your back arched, your body tension as an overwhelming wave of sensation crashed over you. You screamed, your voice hoarse with passion, as you convulsed against her mouth. She drank you down, her hands tightening on your hips to hold you in place as she continued to lap at your over-sensitive flesh.

She crawled up your body, she kissed and licked her way up your body, she left a trail of dark marks - hickeys and bite marks that would serve as her claim on you. She suckled at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, your lower belly, the undersides of your breasts. As she marked you, the dark bruises and hickeys seemed to glow with a faint, eerie light. The marks pulsed softly, as if infused with demonic energy. She claimed you as hers, marking you in a way that would be visible to all, a testament to her ownership.

"Mine."

She slipped off you, her eyes never leaving yours. "I want you ready for me, always," she said, her voice low and commanding. "When I come around, hungry...I expect you to be prepared. Understand?" she leaned down, her voice a silken growl against your ear.

"What's your name?" you asked, still weak from the pleasure.

"You'll never know." She said, her voice dripping with mocking sweetness.

In a blink of an eye she vanished, leaving behind an icy chill and an empty room. One moment she was there, her presence overwhelming, the next—nothing. No trace she'd ever been there, except for the glowing marks of ownership on your body.

You quickly gathered your scattered clothes, dressing hurriedly as you dashed out of the room. The cool air against your skin did little to soothe the heat that still coursed through your veins. You could feel the dampness between your thighs, a constant reminder of what had just happened.

Kneeling before the ancient book you had used for the ritual, you frantically flipped through the yellowed pages, your hands shaking. You scanned the text, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I have to break the contract…" you muttered, tears forming in your eyes as it darted back and forth, desperately searching for an answer.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you read the words, the implications washing over you.

"The contract can only be severed by a single path, when the summoner grasps the true name of the demon being they've bound, and utters it forthwith."

"You'll never know."

[leesromanova]

im sobbing

Sunlight & Sawdust

Epilogue previous chapter

Summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter. But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop for free. Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

Pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

Content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst, and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics. Alright, well. I’m crying because this is the end. I am so grateful for all the love and support.

Two months later…

Life had settled into something easy, something Joel never thought he’d have again.

It was in the small moments that snuck up on him when he wasn’t looking.

Stopping by your flower shop on his lunch breaks—not because he needed anything, but just to see you. To sit with you, sharing sandwiches wrapped in paper, listening to you talk about your day while he worked through a cup of coffee. Sometimes, Ellie would be there, her little feet swinging from the counter as she carefully arranged flowers, pausing only to ask Joel if dinosaurs would’ve liked flowers, too.

Joel never had an answer, but Ellie would always supply one, giggling as she made up some wild story about T-Rexes sniffing roses.

Most evenings, he’d end up at your place, easing into the rhythm of your life like he’d always been there.

Ellie had a habit of finding him the second he walked through the door, dragging him to the couch with a book already in hand.

She had favorites, of course—books about dinosaurs or space. Joel had read them all a dozen times over, but every time she looked up at him, wide-eyed, hanging onto every word, he’d start from the beginning like it was brand new.

More often than not, she’d fall asleep right there, tucked into his side, small fingers curled into his shirt. And every time, without fail, you’d appear in the doorway, arms crossed, a soft smile on your face.

"You spoil her, you know," you’d tease in a whisper, watching as he carefully shifted, lifting Ellie into his arms and carrying her to bed.

Joel would smirk, brushing a piece of hair from Ellie’s face as she settled into her pillow. "Ain’t spoilin’ her if she deserves it."

Then, it would be just the two of you, curling up in bed, his body solid and warm against yours.

You had a habit of playing with his hair, running soft fingers over his skin, and tracing patterns over his chest until his breath evened out. Then, he drifted to sleep with you safely tucked against him.

Sometimes, he’d wake in the middle of the night, feeling the gentle weight of your arm draped over him, the steady rise and fall of your breath.

Sometimes, that old familiar ache crept in—the guilt, the shadow of before. The thought was that maybe he didn’t deserve this, but then, he’d see you in the morning light, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep as you handed him a cup of coffee with a knowing smile.

Or he’d hear Ellie giggling as she ran through the house, telling him some nonsense story, looking at him like she’d known him her whole life.

And that ache, that gnawing feeling—it was replaced by something else.

By the echo of Sarah’s voice in the back of his mind.

It’s okay, Dad. You deserve to be happy.

So Joel believed it.

He hadn’t planned on letting himself have this. Hadn’t planned on getting too close, but then there was you and Ellie. You both ran to him without hesitation, seeking comfort, trusting him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. You had opened your life up to him, let him in, given him a place to belong again, and Joel couldn’t shut himself off.

Not when you had been so unwaveringly open with him. Not when Ellie beamed at him like he hung the damn moon, curling up at his side like it was the safest place in the world. Not when you looked at him like he mattered.

One night, as you lay together in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting golden light across the room, you had turned to him, voice barely above a whisper.

“I was scared.”

Joel had frowned, shifting to face you fully, his hand instinctively reaching for yours.

You blinked quickly, your lashes wet, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "When I first had Ellie. When it was just me, I was terrified of being a single mom. Of screwing her up. Of not being enough."

Joel felt his chest tighten, his heart ache at the raw honesty in your voice.

You swallowed, your fingers gripping his a little tighter. “I never thought I’d have this. Have you.”

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip on you firm but gentle, grounding. The vulnerability in your eyes and the quiet confession of fear wrecked him because he knew that feeling.

He knew what it was to worry that you weren’t enough.

He reached for you, pulling you against him and holding you close. His lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss on your forehead.

"I got you, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin. "You ain't gotta be scared anymore."

Your breath hitched, and Joel felt the way you melted into him and trusted him to hold not just your body but your heart.

His arms tightened around you like some part of him knew he needed to hold on, like if he let go, you might slip right through his fingers.

You exhaled softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It’s like we were made for each other."

Joel went still. The words wrecked him. More than when you’d first told him you loved him. More than anything else you’d ever said. Because you meant it.

His hand kept moving against your back, slow, steady circles, grounding himself as the weight of that realization settled deep in his chest.

He needed you. Ellie. This life and the thought of ever losing it. His heart clenched, a sharp, quiet panic threading through his ribs.

It scared him—more than he’d ever admit.

Then you shifted against him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and letting out a small, contented sigh. Your fingers traced absent-minded shapes against his chest, warm and familiar, like you belonged there, like you always had.

Suddenly, the fear didn’t seem so big.

Joel let out a slow breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough with tenderness. “We were.”

You had been with Joel for a few months, though it felt like forever. Life had a way of slipping into place so naturally, so effortlessly, with him that you barely remembered what it had been like before.

Everything was simple.

It was not always easy because nothing with Joel came easily, but it was simple in the way that mattered. The way he made space for you in his life. The way you fit into it, like you had always belonged there.

But Joel still had his moments.

The nights he’d go quiet, his eyes distant, walls creeping back up before he realized he was doing it. Old habits were hard to break.

You knew that. So you didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t pry open the doors, he wasn’t ready to unlock. You just waited.

And slowly, he let you in.

You had been to Joel’s house a handful of times, but you had never stayed the night. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it was easier for Joel to stay at your place.

That was where Ellie’s books were stacked in a crooked pile by the couch, where her favorite stuffed giraffe sat waiting for her on her pillow.

That was where she felt safe, and Joel would never take that from her.

However, tonight was different.

Your mother had come into town and, much to your surprise, offered to watch Ellie for the night. You had hesitated at first—because as much as you wanted a night alone with Joel, it was hard to leave Ellie behind—but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

So here you were, standing on Joel’s front porch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his favorite western film in the other.

His brows lifted when he opened the door, amusement flickering in his deep brown eyes.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Ain’t I supposed to be spoilin’ you?”

You gave him a pointed look before brushing past him into the house. “Don’t start, handsome. My mom’s in town, and I wanted to see you.”

You paused just long enough to let the words settle before adding something softer and more honest. “I missed you.”

Joel shut the door behind you, following you into the living room with slow, deliberate steps. “We just saw each other yesterday,” he teased, though there was a warmth in his voice, in the way his lips quirked up like he liked hearing it.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against him. His body was warm, solid, and when he dipped his head, his lips skimmed the edge of your jaw.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

You exhaled a laugh, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. “You really wanna act like you didn’t miss me, too?”

Joel huffed, his breath hot against your skin. “Didn’t say that.”

“Mm-hmm.” You smirked, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Just admit it, Miller. You were lonely without me.”

Joel turned you in his arms, his eyes darkening just a bit as he studied you. “That's what you wanna hear?”

Your heart fluttered.

His hands slid lower, settling on the small of your back as he leaned in. His voice dropped to a slow, rough whisper. “Yeah, I missed you, too.”

"I figured so," you murmured, your fingers trailing along the bridge of his nose, then down to his jaw, memorizing every rough edge and smooth plane.

Joel's eyes fluttered closed momentarily, his expression softening under your touch. But when he opened them again, something knowing was in them, like he could already tell where your thoughts were headed.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice low, a hint of a warning in it. "Don't start all that."

You grinned, tilting your head as your fingers slid into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. "Start what?"

Joel huffed, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You know what."

Feigning innocence, you pressed closer, standing on your toes to brush your lips against his. "I just missed you, that’s all."

Joel let out a low chuckle, his hands tightening at your waist for a fleeting second like he was tempted—before he pulled back, shaking his head.

“Darlin’, if you wanna eat sometime tonight, we should start cookin’ before you go distractin’ me with those lips.”

You groaned dramatically, letting your forehead fall against his chest. “Ugh, Joel, c’mon. I came over here with whiskey and a movie, and you’re making me wait?”

His chest rumbled with laughter. “Ain’t makin’ you do nothin’.”

You lifted your head, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “Fine,” you relented, sighing like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “We’ll cook first. Then you can make it up to me.”

Joel chuckled, brushing a kiss against your forehead before stepping back and nodding toward the kitchen. “Atta girl. Now, you gonna help me, or you just gonna sit back and look pretty?”

You shot him a grin. “Can’t I do both?”

He shook his head, smirking as he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the kitchen.

The movie dragged on. It was a slow, dusty western that Joel was entirely absorbed in, but you? Not so much.

Your attention drifted, first to his lack of home decor—plain walls, minimal furniture, everything practical, nothing decorative. The most personal thing in the whole place was a coffee ring stain on his side table.

Then your focus shifted to something far more interesting. Him.

God, he was handsome even though he didn’t seem to think so. Even though he always scoffed whenever you told him. That dark brown hair, the streaks of silver at his temples. The firm curve of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders stretched against his worn-out t-shirt. And his eyes—those eyes—warm and deep, like aged whiskey, catching the flickering glow of the TV.

“You’re starin’, darlin’,” Joel muttered, not looking away from the screen.

You smirked, shifting closer to him on the couch, pulling your legs up to curl beside you. “Maybe I just like what I see.”

He let out a low grunt, still watching the screen. “Movie’s on, sweetheart.”

“I noticed,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder, deliberately pressing closer so he could feel your warmth against him. “But this is so boring.”

Joel exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Boring? This is a classic.”

“Hate to break it to you, handsome, but it’s just a bunch of cowboys staring at each other dramatically.”

“That’s called tension.”

“That’s called bad pacing,” you countered, letting your lips brush against his neck, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Know what’s not boring, though?”

Joel turned his head slightly, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were darker now, his jaw tense like he was fighting the pull of you. “What’s that?”

You swung a leg over his lap, straddling him with a playful smirk. “This.”

Joel let out a slow, controlled exhale, his hands automatically finding your hips. “Now, darlin’, I thought we were watchin’ a movie.”

Your fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt, dragging along the exposed skin of his chest. “I changed my mind.”

Joel swallowed hard, his grip tightening just a little. “That right?”

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Mhm. I think we should find something else to do.”

Joel’s smirk deepened as he traced his thumbs slowly over your hips. “You know, sweetheart, you’re makin’ me think you only came over here to get laid.”

You smiled against his lips, your fingers skimming up the nape of his neck, toying with the curls there. “Maybe I did,” you murmured, teasingly kissing his jaw. “Can you blame me?”

Joel sucked in a slow breath through his nose, his grip tightening.

“Don’t tell me you’re not into it,” you continued, shifting slightly in his lap, feeling the proof that he definitely was. “Because I can just—” You started to move off him, feigning innocence.

Joel didn’t let you get far. His hands clamped down on your hips, keeping you firmly in place. “Oh, no you don’t,” he rasped, voice dropping to that low, rough drawl that sent shivers down your spine. “I’m just tryin’ to be a gentleman, honey. But if I had it my way, you wouldn’t have made it through the door without me takin’ you on the floor.”

Heat flared in your stomach; your thighs squeezed around him. “That so?”

Joel tilted his head, his lips ghosting over yours, teasing, torturously slow. “Mhm. Think about it, darlin’. Door barely closed behind you, and I’d have you up against it—” His hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, pressing you closer until there was no space left between you. “Dress bunched up, legs wrapped around me—”

A quiet gasp slipped from your lips as he rolled his hips up into yours, slow but firm, dragging friction exactly where you needed it.

“Or maybe the couch,” he continued, voice like gravel, his mouth skimming along your jaw, down your throat. “Could’ve had you right here, ride me slow while that goddamn movie plays in the background.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Joel.”

He hummed in satisfaction at your voice's breathlessness and how you were already unraveling just from his words.

He leaned back slightly, dragging his lips just out of reach, the hint of a smirk still playing at them.

“Still wanna tease me about my movies, darlin’?”

You grinned, brushing your nose against Joel’s, your lips barely grazing his. “I’ll always tease, handsome.”

Joel huffed out a low chuckle, shaking his head, but his hands told a different story—gripping your ass with a firm squeeze that had you gasping. A squeal of surprise slipped from you before he swallowed it with a kiss, deep and possessive.

“Maybe I oughta teach you some damn manners,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with amusement but there was a roughness beneath it, a promise.

A delicious shiver ran down your spine. His words sent a spark straight between your thighs.

“Wait—” You barely had time to catch your breath before Joel’s hands gripped your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back. You landed against the couch with a soft thud, blinking up at him, breathless, dazed.

He didn’t waste a second. His mouth was on you before you could form another word, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Still feel like teasin’?” he drawled, voice rough as his lips traveled lower, over the neckline of your dress.

You exhaled sharply, arching into him. “Maybe,” you whispered, just to push his buttons.

Joel groaned, shaking his head like you were impossible, but the way his hands started working your dress higher, gathering the fabric in deliberate strokes, told you he was more than happy to take on the challenge.

He pushed the material up past your thighs, his fingers tracing feather-light over the tops of your stockings, before dipping lower, to where you were already warm and aching for him.

A pleased hum rumbled in his chest as he hooked his fingers under the band of your underwear, dragging them down inch by agonizing inch. “Damn, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “Already so wet for me?”

Heat flared in your cheeks, but you refused to look away, to let the weight of his gaze fluster you. “Told you I missed you,” you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, something dark flickering behind his eyes, before he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Then let me make up for lost time.”

With a swift tug, Joel pulled your underwear down your legs and tossed them behind him, not giving a damn where they landed. His rough hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing every slick inch of you to his hungry gaze.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest, his dark eyes locked onto you like you were the only thing that mattered. He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth, his breath heavy and uneven. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with want. “So damn pretty, honey.”

The warmth of his breath against your bare skin sent a shiver rippling through you. Your head fell back against the couch, anticipation building so fast it made you dizzy.

“Joel,” you whined, lifting your hips slightly, searching for friction, for relief. “Please.”

He hummed in amusement, his hands pressing firmly against your thighs to hold you still. “Always so needy for me, huh?” He leaned in, his nose grazing your inner thigh, his lips brushing featherlight over your skin, making you squirm. “You don’t gotta beg, sweetheart. I’ll always give you what you need.”

Then, finally, his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he wrapped them around your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with deliberate flicks of his tongue. A strangled moan followed, your fingers flying to his hair, tangling in the thick strands as heat coiled tight in your belly.

Joel groaned against you, the sound vibrating through every inch of your body. He licked into you, slow at first, savoring every little twitch, every desperate noise that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue, voice rough, wrecked. “Tastes so goddamn sweet.”

Your body arched, chasing more, needing more, but Joel kept you pinned, entirely at his mercy. “Patience, darlin’,” he drawled, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Ain’t lettin’ you go till I’ve had my fill.”

Your moans filled the dimly lit room, each one sweeter than the last as your fingers twisted in Joel’s hair, tugging desperately. You knew he loved this—loved tasting you, loved wrecking you with nothing but his mouth and hands until you were trembling beneath him.

His tongue dragged slow and purposeful over your clit before he sealed his lips around it, sucking just hard enough to make your whole body jolt. A broken cry left your throat, your hips lifting, but Joel’s hands pressed you right back down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“That’s it, honey,” he rasped against you, the heat of his breath making you shudder. “Take it. Let me hear you.”

He slipped two thick fingers inside you, the stretch making your breath hitch, your walls clenching around him. He worked you open, pumping them slow, curling just right, his lips never leaving your clit.

Your back arched off the couch, your thighs trembling around his head. “Oh, yes—fuck, Joel.”

He groaned at the way you said his name, the deep vibration shooting straight through you. His free hand slid up your stomach, splaying against your hip, holding you steady as he sped up, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue teased mercilessly.

You tugged harder at his hair, your legs threatening to snap shut around his head, but Joel only growled, his grip tightening. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Not till I feel you come all over my tongue.”

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body shaking beneath Joel as he lapped up every drop of your release. You gasped, a sharp cry escaping as your walls pulsed around his fingers, pleasure rolling through you in waves. But Joel didn’t stop.

He groaned into you, the sound low and rough, his tongue still flicking against your clit, his fingers still thrusting deep. Your body twitched, overstimulated, but he held you down, keeping you spread open for him.

“Joel—fuck, I—” You whimpered, tugging at his hair, trying to pull him away.

His grip on your thighs only tightened. “Just one more, gorgeous,” he murmured, the heat of his breath making you shudder. “Be a good girl for me.”

A helpless moan slipped from your lips as his fingers curled just right inside you, dragging against that perfect spot. He knew your body too well now—knew exactly how to push you past your limits. He flattened his tongue against your clit, sucking softly before flicking it just how you liked, coaxing you right back up to the edge.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs trembled. That unbearable pressure coiled in your belly all over again, impossibly fast.

“That’s it,” Joel rasped, voice dripping with pride as he felt your walls clench around his fingers. “Knew you had another one in you.”

A sharp cry tore from your throat as pleasure hit you again, your back arching off the couch. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, your whole body tensing before you shattered, your second orgasm ripping through you just as fiercely as the first.

Joel groaned against you, drinking in your pleasure like a man starved, only pulling away when you whimpered, your body spent and trembling beneath him.

He pressed slow, lazy kisses to the inside of your thigh, his voice thick with satisfaction. “There you go. That’s my good girl.”

You sighed, boneless against the couch, a lazy, satisfied smile curling on your lips. “God, I don’t see how you’re so skilled.”

Joel smirked, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb before licking it clean. “God’s got nothin’ to do with it, sweetheart.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes as you swatted at his bicep. “Smartass.”

Joel caught your wrist before you could pull away, his grip firm but warm. “Mm, that's the thanks I get?” He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, teasing but not quite kissing you yet. “Ain’t exactly fair, considerin’ I just had you fallin’ apart for me twice.”

Heat flushed through you again, but you refused to let him have the upper hand. You ran your fingers down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way his muscles tensed slightly under your touch. “Guess I’ll just have to return the favor, then,” you murmured, tilting your head, eyes flicking up to his with a challenge.

Joel’s smirk faltered briefly, his pupils darkening as he exhaled through his nose. “Now, darlin’, I was fixin’ to let you rest for a minute.”

You traced lazy circles over his stomach, slipping lower. “Who said I needed a break?”

His jaw ticked, his grip on your wrist tightening for a moment before he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You really are somethin’ else.”

“And you love it,” you quipped, grinning.

Joel sighed, feigning exasperation, but his smile gave him away. “Yeah, I do.” Then, in one swift move, he had you pinned beneath him again, his mouth finally capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss. “Now, how ‘bout you put that smart mouth to good use, huh?”

The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the bed. Joel slept soundly beside you, his arm draped over your waist, his breath slow and deep against your shoulder. He wasn’t a morning person—you had learned that early on. It took at least two cups of coffee and a solid ten minutes of grumbling before he was fully functional.

You smiled, taking a quiet moment just to admire him. The crease between his brows even in sleep, the way his lips were slightly parted, the warmth of his arm that, even now, instinctively tightened around you when you shifted.

Carefully, you eased out from under his arm, moving slowly so as not to wake him. You reached for the first thing you could find—Joel’s shirt from the night before—and slipped it on, the fabric draping over you like a second skin. Your underwear was kicked somewhere near the bed, so you stepped into them before padding out of the room, deciding you’d make him coffee. Maybe breakfast, if he had anything besides whiskey and canned soup in his pantry.

As you passed down the hall, one door caught your attention. It was cracked open just slightly.

Joel’s woodworking room.

He had shown it to you once in passing, never making a big deal, just a brief mention that he liked to carve. But you had seen how his hands lingered over his work and his voice softened when he spoke about it.

Pushing the door open a little more, you stepped inside. The scent of sawdust and varnish filled the space, and in the morning light, you could see the careful work he had put into the small figures on his workbench. Tiny animals, wooden stars, even a couple of intricate, half-finished pieces you couldn’t quite identify.

Your fingers traced over one of them, a small giraffe.

Ellie loved giraffes. A warm ache spread through your chest. Joel would never say it out loud, but he had made this for her.

As you glanced around, your eyes landed on a small set of drawers tucked into the corner of the room. You hesitated before pulling one open, half-expecting to find spare tools or scraps of wood. Instead, your breath hitched.

Photographs.

Some were newer—pictures of Ellie, a couple of you, and her at the shop that you hadn’t even known Joel had taken. But beneath those, slightly worn and curling at the edges, were older photos.

Sarah.

Your fingers hovered over one of the pictures, Joel grinning beside a teenage girl with warm brown eyes and the biggest smile. Another of her sitting on his shoulders, arms stretched out like she was flying. There was one of just her alone, a birthday cake in front of her, candles mid-flicker as she beamed at the camera.

Your chest tightened.

You had heard stories of Sarah and knew she had been Joel’s entire world before everything fell apart. He didn’t talk about her often, and you never pushed. But seeing these now—this quiet, tucked-away part of his life—made something in your throat tighten.

Your fingers traced over the edges of the photographs one last time before carefully placing them back, your heart still tight in your chest. But just as you started to close the drawer, something else caught your eye.

Ellie’s drawing.

The crayon-streaked paper stood out amongst the neatly stacked items, its colors vibrant against the worn wood. You picked it up gently, recognizing Ellie’s messy handwriting scrawled in the corner: “Thank you, Mr. Joel.”

A smile tugged at your lips.

The drawing was from months ago. Before you and Joel had even started dating, he had stubbornly insisted on helping you fix the broken floorboards in your shop. You had protested, of course, but he had just grumbled something about "not lettin’ you break your damn neck" and got to work.

Joel had kept this?

Your chest ached at the thought. Ellie’s version of him was a near-perfect representation. The slightly messy hair, the ever-present green flannel, the scowl that somehow still held warmth.

You placed the drawing down carefully, but your gaze landed on something else beneath it as you did.

A book. No, the journal you had given Joel for his birthday.

You had thought it was a terrible gift at the time. The man was a walking barricade of emotions, locked up so tight it was a miracle he ever let anything slip through. He had been opening up more since you started dating, but you had never expected him actually to use the journal.

Your fingers hesitated over the leather cover, your pulse quickening.

This was private. You were already pushing boundaries by being here and going through things that Joel probably didn’t even realize you were seeing. You should put it back and walk away.

And yet…

Your hands moved before your mind could catch up.

The journal flipped open somewhere in the middle, and your breath caught in your throat—something pink, delicate, pressed between the pages.

A tulip.

Your tulip.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you carefully picked up the journal, running your fingers over the petals. It had been months, so long that you had almost forgotten. You had worn the flower in your hair that day at the diner. Ellie had insisted on it, and you had forgotten about it.

Joel had noticed.

He had always noticed.

Even back then—before the first kiss, before the quiet nights curled up in bed together, before you realized you loved him—Joel had already cared.

More than you had ever known.

You swallowed hard, pressing the flower gently back into place, closing the journal with the same care as if it were something sacred.

Softly, you closed the drawer, momentarily pressing your hand against the wood before leaving downstairs. The house was still, the early morning light filtering through the windows in golden slants. You moved on autopilot, filling the coffee pot, as the rich scent slowly filled the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, your mind still stuck on the quiet revelations from Joel’s woodworking room.

He had always cared.

Even before you had realized it and fallen so hopelessly in love with him, he had already been there—watching, noticing, keeping little pieces of you tucked away like treasures.

The thought sent a deep warmth through your chest.

When you reentered the bedroom, Joel stirred lightly, his arm stretching across the sheets, blindly reaching for you. His brows furrowed when his hand met nothing but empty space.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you crawled back into bed, pressing against his warmth. A contented hum rumbled deep in his chest as he instinctively wrapped his arms around you, his grip tightening like he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

“Where’d you go?” His voice was thick with sleep, low and gravelly, the sound curling in your stomach.

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing his forehead softly. “Just making sure you had coffee.”

A small grunt left him, but you caught how his lips twitched at the corners.

“Mm. You’re too good to me, darlin’.”

Your heart swelled, partly at his words, but mainly at the overwhelming realization that this man had always been yours, even before you knew it.

You curled closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. “I love you so damn much,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Joel’s eyes fluttered open at that, deep brown meeting yours, hazy with sleep but sharp with something knowing. “I love you, too, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, certain, and unwavering. He studied you momentarily, his thumb stroking absent-minded circles against your hip. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

You shook your head, tracing his jawline with your fingertip. “I mean it,” you murmured, voice heavier now. “I love you.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, his expression shifting into something impossibly tender. He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his palm rest against your cheek.

“I know you do,” he said softly. “Just like I love you.”

You swallowed against the lump forming in your throat. He looked at you like you had given him something sacred, like you were something sacred.

Joel let out a small huff, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow. “Y’know…” He hesitated for a beat, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Been meanin’ to show you somethin’.”

You arched a brow, curiosity flickering in your chest. “Oh?”

Joel nodded toward the window, rubbing a slow hand down your back. “Out in the backyard. Was waitin’ for ‘em to bloom first, but… guess I could give you an early look.”

Your brows furrowed, but you allowed him to pull you from the bed, watching as he slipped his arms into his flannel before guiding you downstairs and out the back door.

The morning air was crisp, the soft hum of birds filling the quiet as Joel led you across the yard, right to a small patch of freshly turned soil near the fence.

Tulips.

Your breath hitched as you crouched down, fingertips hovering over the delicate petals just beginning to bloom. The same soft pink as the one you wore in your hair that day so many months ago.

You turned back to Joel, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you with a quiet anticipation, like he wasn’t sure what you’d say.

“You grew these for me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Joel shifted slightly on his feet, giving a slight nod. “Figured you got enough flowers at the shop,” he muttered. “But, uh… wanted you to have some here too.”

Emotion swelled in your chest so fast it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You surged forward, throwing your arms around him, burying your face against his shoulder. Joel stumbled back a step before his arms wrapped around you, holding you just as tightly.

“Joel,” you choked out.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. “I know.”

And he did.

He had always known.

taglist: @hermionelove, @niceforcum, @ashhlsstuff, @doeeyestoji, @12thatsanumber, @cherrygirl19, @thottiewinemom, @ladynightingale, @doodlebob-mp3, @alitaar, @starwarskawaii, @hduuc56, @naniiiii12, @possiblyafangirl, @alienjoel, @leesromanova, @kungfucapslock, @forpunishers, @yallgotkik, @cuteanimalmama, @worhols, @lumpatto, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @vickie5446, @its-in-the-woods, @onlythehobi, @ro-nahime-things, @ashleyfilm, @crlsummer

[leesromanova]

normalise being a teenage girl with an unhealthy obsession with the x reader tag

[leesromanova]

and the ladies say thank you to ryan coogler

[leesromanova]

[leesromanova]

scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that

[leesromanova]

“Before I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skillset. I didn’t care who I used it for, or on. I got on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me, he made a different call.”

NATASHA Romanoff & CLINT Barton in the Marvel Cinematic Universe [like my stuff? buy me a ko-fi]

[leesromanova]

[leesromanova]

The heart between us [One-shot]

[Pairing: Natasha x Fem!Reader]

Genre: Romance, Fluff

Summary: Natasha loses her mind in her infatuation with you and marks you like never before.

Word count: 1,500+

Estimated reading time: 6 min

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You groaned in slight discomfort as your fingers stilled in her fluffy hair.

It was a warm and cozy evening, the golden hour outside cascading through the open blinds, adding a gentle glow to everything, harmonizing your soul with the world, a gentle connection that kept you grounded and fuzzy at the same time. The city was quiet.

The episode playing on the laptop was so boring, Natasha had long lost interest, but you were trying to push through the filler episode in order to enjoy the main storyline that got you two hooked on the show.

You were laying down on your couch, pleasantly grounded by the weight of your girlfriend's body on top of your abdomen and thighs, her legs supporting her from the outer side of yours. She was technically on her knees. Her forearms buried under your back, palms on your spine, her face hovering above your cleavage, losing her mind in giving you kisses and hickeys.

You were both in your comfy pajama pants, covered to your waists under a fuzzy blanket, but she had your hand in her hair, her tank top on and your other hand on her waist, while you were only in your bra - your shirt thrown on the floor an hour ago, between the couch and table.

"Mh, Nat... Can you... baby, it's starting to hurt..." you gently pressed your head on hers, softly pushing her away, but still showing her that you still wanted her.

She slowly released your skin from her vacuum suction, so it wouldn't hurt even more if she let go immediately, and gently kissed the freshly bruised place, just touching your skin with her soft, plump lips.

"Sorry, my love. I'm just working on something." she kissed some of the other recent hickeys she painted just minutes ago, moved her lips up your neck and relaxed her body on top of you, nuzzling her head and breathing in the sweet, intoxicating signature scent of you.

You wrapped your hands around her, rubbing her warm torso up and down through her soft shirt with so much love and leaned your head on top of hers.

You moved your hand back up over her hair and suddenly you felt so protective, you wanted to save her from the world. You couldn't resist giving her a few firm pecks on her squishy cheek, making her smile. The domesticity of hugging a real, warm, living and breathing person, your person, who loves you the same way... indescribable. Some feelings just can't be put into words.

"I love you so much... So, so, so, so, so much." you hugged her tighter.

She made an affectionate noise. "I love you too, my darling." she turned her head and met your lips for a soft kiss that conveyed more love than any make out session could.

This was your life now. You were living the dream.

"Mhmhm" she giggled with a closed mouth while your eyes went back to the laptop screen. "You won't need jewelry tomorrow." her warm breath tickled your neck, you could hear the smirk in her voice as her sparkly eyes watched yours.

"Yeah, I gave up on the fancy outfit the moment you sunk your vampire teeth on me, you little goof." you gently ruffled her hair and kissed her temple, purposefully adding a tiny bit of pressure.

"Oh, no, no, wear it." she pleaded. "It's gonna be the hottest thing th- oh, fuuuck..." she closed her eyes and dropped her forehead on your shoulder, obviously imagining you. "Oooough, something low-rise... you need something low-rise, you're gonna be so hot..." she groaned and took a fast breath, continuing to speak through her teeth, "so mine, so obviously fucking mine..." she took a slow, exaggerated, deep breath and then loudly released it, overemphasizing how much you were driving her crazy and how much she was trying to calm herself down, hugging you tighter.

It was the ways that she told you she loved you without actually saying the words.

"I'm nobody else's, my sweet horndog." you smiled and tightened your hug too, smiling as you squished your cheek on that precious head of hers.

She bit your neck in response, making you gasp and softly moan with a small chuckle.

A minute or two passed and you got engrossed in the episode, because now your favorite character appeared in it.

You felt her eyes on you, then her head tilting and then a thin, fast-drying wetness trailing from your neck to your collarbone, your girl obviously returning to her art work.

"Are you gonna make me look like an alien?" you murmured, half distracted.

There was some sci-fi in the series you two were watching, so you were kinda referencing it, without having something specific in mind.

"Hmmm... that's a good idea for Halloween." she teased.

"Ah, no. Don't you dare..." you lowered your voice in a very warning tone and she chuckled.

"Kiddiiiing," she insisted and started kissing your cleavage between her words, "I'm just gonna, make you, really, really, really, really loved..." She rose up to kiss you on the mouth and went back down to resume sucking your skin. "But for the protocol - you're the one who placed that idea down, I gotta consider it." she murmured and you could feel her smirking.

You shook your head in amusement. "Me and my big mouth."

A few minutes later she shifted, rising on her elbows. She sat on your abdomen and you felt her hands slide out from under you and gently cup your breasts from below and the sides, careful to not stimulate you. The buzzing and flicking lights of the laptop became muffled, incoherent, unimportant in your mind.

"My work here is done. I can die happy, this right here was the purpose of my life."

You snorted and chuckled at her enthusiasm, looked at her and then followed her gaze, your laugh stilling.

"Oh my gooooood..."

A beat of silence.

"Nat! Oh my-... Holy-..." you were flabbergasted.

She's never done that many hickeys on you. And here she was, biting her lower lip, stifling her own laugh, eyes sparkling with love and mischief.

"Mine." she whispered.

You looked up at her with a parted mouth, thoughts gone.

"I found my true call." she shrugged, continuing to goof around. "About time, if you ask me." she rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance towards herself, then chuckled, breaking the facade.

You loved her goofiness. It was only you that was allowed to see that side of her. And it was only her that you allowed yourself to be truly yourself with. Both of you enjoying the freedom you had to be soft, gentle and vulnerable, but safe.

You looked down at your cleavage again, your lips pressing thin and eyebrows furrowing as your eyes got lost in the various hues of the giant outline of a heart, made out of hickeys. Big and perfectly centered and symmetrical. Those precise eyes and that capable mouth of hers... It was kinda beautiful. A bit too much, but beautiful indeed.

Or maybe you were biased because your favorite color was purple and your girlfriend was the one who did it.

It obviously meant a lot, but... very Natasha of her.

"You're not... mad... are you?" she asked sheepishly.

"I... no, no-no." you chuckled an exhale. "This is wild." you grinned and shook your head.

"Relatively tamer than our bdsm sessions."

You wheezed and closed your eyes, crinkling your nose and with a shaky hand pulled the pillow that was supporting your head so you could completely lie back down your vibrating body, meanwhile your redhead chuckled too.

You contemplated throwing the pillow on her, but you genuinely didn't wanna ruin the mood and softness of this cozy and relaxed atmosphere, so you plopped and steadied it on your head with your hands. You weren't really embarrassed, just playing around.

Her ability to blurt things out to you and catch you off guard was one of the reasons you fell in love with her.

You felt movement on top of you, her weight shifting.

She pushed the pillow with the top of her head, moving it towards the armrest and making you giggle. The messy on top of her head and her loving look made you grin.

She was adorable.

Your adorable.

"It suits you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." her eyes fluttered.

"Would you think the same if I do it to you?"

"Yeah, 'cause then we'd be matching."

You gave her a sleepy look with exaggeratedly pursed lips, but she grinned so big it narrowed her eyes with those beautiful wrinkles of happiness only you could awake. She let out a happy chuckle that made her sway a little.

God, she was so beautiful when drenched in happiness.

"You have no idea how much I love you, my squishy little baby!" Natasha cooed with a strained, goofy voice, squishing your cheeks with her palms and then started kissing them with loud, firm kisses, making you giggle.

Forever yours.

Forever hers.

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[leesromanova]

I am very very happy rn

Code red. pt 5 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI!, Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, heartbreak, Fingering, oral

Word count: 7,5k

A/n: Thank you so much for all your patience. It took a really long time, and it was hard to get back into the topic, but here it is now. 🫶🏼

Part 4

Addison always loved how quiet nights like this felt, how the world outside their bedroom seemed to blur and hush itself as if in reverence to the closeness they shared. The curtains were drawn, allowing only a faint golden streetlight to trickle into the room. Their bodies were tangled beneath the sheets, warm skin against warm skin, the hum of the air conditioning low and steady like a heartbeat.

Your breath fanned softly over Addison’s neck, uneven and quick from their kiss, and her fingers were still threaded in Addison’s hair as though you didn’t want to let go. Addison kissed you again, slower this time. Lips brushing gently, tasting of mint and nerves. She could feel you melt into her, the way you always did, like you belonged nowhere else.

But something felt…off. There was tension in your jaw, the slightest hitch in your exhale. You were responding, yes, but something in you felt guarded. Not cold, not distant, just…tucked away. Protected.

Addison pulled back slightly, enough to catch your eyes in the low light. “You okay?”

You blinked, like you were snapping out of a fog. You gave Addison a small smile, the kind that looked practiced. “Yeah.” you said too quickly. Then, softer, “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired, I think.”

Addison studied you for a moment longer. “You sure?”

You leaned in and kissed her again. “I promise. I’m just tired.” It was enough to make Addison nod. Enough to pretend she believed it.

They curled into each other after that, arms wrapped tight, legs tangled beneath the sheets. You rested your head against Addison’s chest and fell asleep in minutes, your breathing evening out in a rhythm Addison had grown to recognize, one of the few sounds in the world that ever truly settled her.

But tonight, she couldn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling in silence, listening to the low hum of the city beyond the windows, the occasional car passing on the street below. Her hand absentmindedly traced circles over your back. She should have been at peace. Tomorrow was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

So why did it feel like something was slipping through her fingers?

It started as a whisper of doubt, small, easy to ignore. But the longer she lay there, the louder it got. Does she want this? Is she marrying me because she loves me, or because it feels like the safe thing to do?

They had been through so much. The hospital. The trauma. The blood-soaked floors and sleepless nights. And Natasha. Always Natasha.

Addison had seen the way you looked at her. The way your voice softened around her name. The way your hands shook just after a shift when Natasha was hurt, or angry, or just not there. And yes, she knew what you’d been through, more than anyone else, Natasha had stood in the fire with you. But fire changes people.

And now here they were. One night away from vows and rings and promises. And Addison couldn’t help but wonder if you were still sorting through the ashes.

She turned her head slightly to look at her fiancée. Your face was relaxed in sleep, but even now, there was a crease in your brow like you were worried about something..dreaming of something painful or unresolved.

Her heart squeezed. She wanted to believe that love was enough. That time and safety and quiet mornings like this would be the cure. But deep down, she knew that healing wasn’t linear. And it didn’t always lead to her.

What if I’m just a chapter she needs to close? What if she’s still in love with Natasha, and she doesn’t even know it yet?

The thought terrified her more than anything. She didn’t want to compete. She didn’t want to win. She just wanted you to be sure. To be honest.

She lay there until the sky began to shift outside the window, until the soft blue of dawn painted the ceiling she’d been staring at all night. Her body ached with stillness, but she hadn’t moved. She couldn’t. She turned to you again, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. You stirred, murmuring something inaudible, but didn’t wake.

Addison watched you sleep for a few more seconds, then whispered to the quiet, “I hope I’m what you want.” It wasn’t a prayer. It was a plea.

The Ceremony

Addison had imagined this day so many times. The way you would walk toward her. The way your eyes would shine. The way their hands would tremble together at the altar, not from fear, but from love.

And for a moment, it really did feel like that. You looked beautiful, painfully, unfairly beautiful. There was a softness to you today, but something pulled behind your eyes. Still, you smiled when your fingers met. You whispered, “You make me feel safe.”

Addison had remembered that line, remembered your voice trembling in that on-call room, bathed in red lights and desperation. Back then, it was a lifeline.

Now, it sounded like goodbye.

The officiant’s voice was a distant hum in Addison’s ears. She tried to stay present, grounding herself in your touch, the warmth of your palm, the way your bouquet trembled ever so slightly.

But then..A shift. Chairs scraping softly. A body rising. A voice clearing. Addison didn’t have to look to know who it was. She felt it before she saw it. Like a shadow crossing over sunlight.

Natasha stood. There was something terrifying about how quiet the room went, how no one dared breathe. Addison turned slowly, like she already knew what was coming.

“I love you.” Natasha said.

No theatrics. No desperate pleading. Just truth, laid bare and raw in the middle of the most carefully planned moment of their lives.

And you..God..your face. Addison knew that look. It was the look of someone who had just remembered what their heart sounded like.

She let her eyes linger on you for one more second before she turned back to face the aisle. The officiant said nothing. No one moved. Time had stopped for everyone, except Addison.

Addison blinked. Her throat was dry, but her voice came out calm, even kind.

“Y/n..”

You looked at her, tears already welling, but Addison smiled, and it was the most painful one she’d ever worn.

“Go.” she said softly, so only you could hear. Your lips parted. A protest, maybe. A denial. But it never came. Addison gave a small nod, stepping back, gently slipping the ring from her own finger and folding it into your palm.

She turned, walking away from the altar before anyone else could speak. Before her knees gave out. Before the tears came. She made it to the back of the room, where the light from the chapel windows spilled onto the floor like a path she hadn’t wanted to take. She paused there, just once, looking back, not at you, not even at Natasha.

Just at the space between you. And she smiled again, this time with no bitterness. Only ache. Let her go, she thought. Let her be brave enough to choose what scares her, because maybe that’s the only real kind of love there is.

Then she left. Not because she wanted to. But because she loved you enough to.

A Few Weeks Later

Hospitals don’t pause for heartbreak. They don’t slow down for regret or love or fallout. People bleed regardless of who stood up at whose wedding. People die. People live. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead just the same.

Addison was gone. No goodbyes, at least not the kind people talked about. Her office cleared out overnight. A clean break, like a ghost. Some say she transferred to a private practice in Chicago. Others didn’t ask. The halls that once echoed with her clipped heels felt…emptier.

People whispered. Nurses by the elevators. Surgical residents around vending machines. But not everyone knew what happened. Not everyone had heard Natasha say “I love you” like a gunshot across an altar.

But you had. You heard it in your bones. You replayed it every night since, like a wound you couldn’t stop touching. Sometimes, you thought you imagined it. But then you’d walk the halls and see Natasha, leaning against a nurse’s station, reading a chart with one hand and sipping her too-hot coffee with the other, and it all came flooding back.

It didn’t feel real until it happened in daylight. The first time you ran into each other was two days after the wedding. A post-op floor, late afternoon. You were leaving, fingers still stained with the marker from rounds. Natasha came around the corner at the same time.

You stopped. Just for a second. Your heart crashed against your ribs. Natasha looked tired, shadows under her eyes, her hair pulled back with one loose strand falling over her cheek. She looked like everything you had ever wanted.

“Hey.” Natasha said, her voice low. Gentle.

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Hi.”

Neither moved. The hallway buzzed quietly, monitors, beeping, an intern’s laughter from down the hall. Natasha stepped aside, letting you pass.

But you didn’t move. You stared at her, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to say something. You wanted to touch her. But the air between you was thick with too much.

Natasha was the one who finally broke it. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“I just…” Natasha looked away, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I couldn’t watch you promise your life to someone else. Not when I-”

“You love me.” you said. “I know.”

Silence. Then you smiled, sad and small. “You broke her.”

Natasha flinched.

“She loved me. I did love her.” you said, voice cracking like glass. “But not like this.”

There it was again. That this. This ache in your chest, the way your body responded just by being near Natasha. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

Natasha didn’t speak. She just looked at you like she was holding back every emotion she’d ever swallowed down. Her jaw clenched. Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers twitching slightly like they wanted to reach out and didn’t dare.

You stepped closer. It wasn’t romantic. Not yet. Just…close. “I still don’t know if we’re ready for this.” you whispered.

Natasha nodded. “Neither do I.”

“But I want it anyway.”

Your hands brushed, barely, and that single second of contact was enough to set every nerve in your body on fire.

Then footsteps. A nurse coming around the corner. Natasha stepped back again, a wall returning between you. And just like that, it was over. For now.

You passed each other in the halls more often after that. It felt unintentional. It wasn’t. You found yourself taking long ways. Natasha lingered at stations longer than she used to. Your glances were longer. Your silences, louder.

Some noticed. Some didn’t. Dr. Bailey gave Natasha one hard, disappointed look during a trauma consult and didn’t speak to her for the rest of the shift. Jo had taken you aside one day, tried to ask how you were holding up, but you just nodded and said you were “okay.”

That was the lie you were living in now: okay.

But inside, you were anything but. You were burning. Every time Natasha leaned over you to glance at a chart. Every time your hands brushed reaching for the same surgical tray. Every time you heard that deep, rasped voice say your name in passing..You were drowning in what if.

You hadn’t kissed her since the wedding. Hadn’t touched her beyond accidental brushes. But every part of you was waiting..aching, for when you did.

Because this wasn’t a clean love. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was broken. Haunted. Tangled up in grief and guilt and a thousand unsaid things. But it was yours. And somehow, that made it the most real thing you’d ever known.

It started like any other day in the hospital. Rounds. A consult. A triple espresso. Natasha had barely glanced at her schedule, just another emergency trauma to scrub in for. Chest trauma, GSW to the right lung. She barely noticed the OR assignment.

Until she stepped into it. Room 6.

Her breath caught before she even realized why. The sterile light. The exact angle of the surgical tray. The same wall. The same beeping monitor.

Her hands trembled in their gloves. No. Not here.

She shut it down, buried it deep. There was no time. The patient was crashing, and she had to keep her head clear. She moved like instinct, the way she always did, pushing through the nausea curling in her stomach.

Then the door opened, and you walked in.

Scrubbed in, eyes bright with determination. And for a split second, just one, Natasha saw blood again. All over the floor. All over you. Your body pale and shaking, a bullet lodged beneath your ribs, the shooter screaming. Natasha standing between you.

“Scrubbed in for the assist.” Your eyes already locked on Natasha’s with that soft smile you always gave her before a surgery. And in an instant-

“Out.” Natasha snapped.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Out of this OR. Now.”

She didn’t mean for it to come out so sharp. But her chest was tightening and her hands were shaking, and she needed you out of that room before she collapsed in front of everyone.

You stepped forward, voice low. “Nat, what’s going on?”

“I said get her out!” Natasha barked, eyes back on the surgical field.

You froze. You’d never heard Natasha use that tone with you. Never felt so dismissed, so unwanted. Without a word, you turned and walked out, jaw clenched, confusion and anger flooding your chest like acid.

You waited. In the corridor. You didn’t know why, should’ve left, should’ve cooled off. But something about the way Natasha had looked at you…It didn’t feel like rejection. It felt like fear. But fear of what? When Natasha finally emerged, peeling off her cap and mask, you were on her in an instant.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed.

Natasha looked startled. “Y/n-“

“No. Don’t ‘Y/n’ me. You called me for that surgery. You asked for me. And then you kick me out like I’m..like I’m some kind of mistake?”

“Don’t do this here.”

“No, exactly here. Because I need to know, are we doing this or not?” Your voice cracked at the edge. “You say you love me, you stand up at my wedding, you wreck my entire life for me, and now I’m not even allowed in the OR with you?”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were!” Your voice cracked, barely kept under control. “You say you love me, and then treat me like I’m something you can’t even look at!”

Natasha’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with something you couldn’t read.

“I’m not some fragile kid you have to protect from everything!” you snapped. “I deserve to know why you-”

“Do you know what OR that was?” Natasha interrupted, voice low, sharp as a scalpel.

You stopped. “What?”

“Do you even know what room that was?” Natasha asked again, breath shaking now. “Do you remember the last time you were in there?”

You blinked. “No, I don’t-”

Natasha didn’t wait. She grabbed your wrist, not rough, not unkind, and pulled you into an empty on-call room. The door clicked shut behind you. You pulled away, furious and hurt. “What is this? You don’t get to shut me out and then just-”

“I almost lost you!” Natasha said, voice ragged.

You froze. Natasha looked at you, really looked at you, and all the walls were gone. Her hands were shaking. Her breathing uneven.

“That was the room..” she whispered. “The day of the shooting. You were brought in there. Bleeding out. And I..God, I was holding pressure on your wound and screaming at people to move, to help, and then the shooter…”

She paused, swallowing hard, eyes wet now. “He came in. Gun in his hand. Pointed it at you, at me. I thought, I thought he was going to kill you in front of me. You were barely breathing, and I couldn’t-” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t do anything. Just press my hands into your body and hope it was enough.”

“I..I was told some of it.” you said softly. “That I coded. That it was close. But you never…you never told me everything.”

“No.” Natasha said, meeting your eyes now, voice low, rough. “Because I couldn’t. Because I see it in my head every damn night.”

Your anger dissolved into silence. Tears were rising fast in your throat now too.

“I didn’t push you away because I don’t want you.” Natasha whispered. “I pushed you away because I couldn’t breathe. Because the thought of seeing you fall again, bleeding, and being helpless again-“

She reached up, gently, as if asking permission, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “..terrifies me.”

You swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a breath. “I’m okay. I survived.”

“I didn’t.” Natasha whispered. “Not really. Not until now.”

Silence fell between you, heavy, but softer now. You reached out, slowly, taking Natasha’s hand in yours.

“Next time you’re scared.” you said, “tell me. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m trying.” Natasha said, voice thick. “It’s just… new.”

“Next time you’re afraid.” you whispered, “you tell me.”

Natasha nodded, breath shaking. “I will.”

“Good.” you said, voice breaking. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The sun was melting into the horizon as the day finally began to settle. The hospital, usually alive with the clatter of gurneys and clipped footsteps, had quieted. The worst had passed. Most of the staff had gone home. You walked slowly down the long hallway toward the exit, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and your chest still full of residual emotion from everything that had unraveled just hours ago.

The weight of the day pressed on your back: the look on Natasha’s face in the OR, the yelling, the tears in the on-call room.. You adjusted your coat as you reached the front doors, eyes low, ready to disappear into the cool spring air.

But when you stepped out into the evening, you stopped short. There, leaning against a car like a scene from a dream, or a movie you didn’t remember buying a ticket to, was Natasha Romanoff.

Still in her dark coat, arms crossed, hands tucked under her arms. Hair a little windblown. Eyes tired, but soft in that way that made you forget every coherent thought.

Natasha straightened when she saw you. “Hey.”

You blinked, surprised. “Waiting for someone?”

Natasha gave a small smirk. “Just a beautiful, terrifying girl I might be falling recklessly in love with.”

You snorted despite yourself, shaking your head, the edges of your mouth lifting. “Still mad at you.”

“I know.” Natasha said, taking a step closer. “I deserve it. But I’m hoping you’ll let me make it up to you. There’s this place across town. Best pasta in the city. And wine that might be strong enough to make you forget the last twelve hours.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You asking me on a date?”

“I’m asking you to let me love you outside the hospital walls for once.”

That line made your chest ache in the best possible way.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, staring at the woman who, a few weeks ago, blew apart your life with three words in front of a full chapel. And now she was here. Not running. Not hiding.

Showing up.

“Fine.” you finally said, lips twitching. “But if the wine sucks, I’m walking home.”

Natasha smiled. “Fair.”

She opened the passenger door for you, not with dramatic flair, but with quiet reverence. You rolled your eyes at the gesture, but you didn’t protest. You slid in, the familiar scent of leather and Natasha’s cologne wrapping around you like a memory.

The ride was quiet for a while. Not awkward. Just… full. Full of what you’d said earlier, full of what you hadn’t. The city passed you by, golden and pink in the fading light.

Natasha’s fingers tapped the steering wheel. “I kept thinking about what you said earlier.” she murmured. “About pushing you away. About hurting you.”

You looked over, face softening. “You didn’t mean to.” you said. “I know that now. But God, Natasha, you scared me. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I had to start bracing for losing you again.”

Natasha nodded, jaw tight. “It scared me too. Not because I don’t want this, but because I do. So much it’s messy and terrifying. You weren’t just a moment. You’re…everything.”

You turned to the window, blinking back the unexpected heat in your eyes. “Why didn’t you ever tell me all of it?” you asked quietly. “About the shooting. About that day.”

“I think I was waiting for you to walk away.” Natasha admitted. “So I kept parts of it to myself, just in case. Like if you didn’t know how bad it was for me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much when you left.”

You looked at her, stunned. “I gave up everything for you.”

“I know.” Natasha said. Her voice cracked. “And I’m trying to believe I deserve that.”

The place was small, warm, tucked away on a side street. Candlelight flickered from each table. It smelled like garlic, wine, and basil. Comfort and romance in equal measure.

You were seated in a quiet corner. The server seemed to recognize Natasha, maybe not by name, but by presence, and left you alone after taking your order.

The first few bites were eaten in silence. You could feel Natasha watching you across the table, but not in a predatory way. More like she was memorizing something. Holding onto the rare peace between you.

Finally, Natasha spoke. “I’m sorry about the wedding. About the way I did it.”

You looked up, surprised. “You regret saying it?”

“No.” Natasha said quickly. “Not for a second. But I regret how much it hurt you. And Addison. You deserved something better than chaos. I didn’t mean to steal your choice. I just-”

“You didn’t.” you said softly, setting your fork down. “You didn’t steal anything. You gave me clarity. That whole day, I kept thinking something felt wrong. And then you said it. And I knew.”

Natasha’s shoulders dropped a little. “Do you ever… wish you’d stayed? With her?”

You met her eyes and shook your head. “I felt safe with her. I loved her. But when you stood up, I felt alive. And I haven’t stopped since.”

The silence stretched again, this time heavier with emotion. Natasha leaned forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m in love with you.”

You smiled gently, eyes glistening. “I know.”

“No.” Natasha said. “I mean, I’m in love with you in a way I didn’t think I could be. Not after everything. Not with the blood and the grief and the guilt. But you, God, Y/n, you made it through the worst of me and you’re still here.”

“I’m here because I love you too.” you said. “Even when you’re distant. Even when you’re scared. Even when you don’t know how to let people love you back.”

Natasha looked away for a moment, blinking fast. You reached across the table and took her hand. No grand speech. Just a soft, grounding touch. Natasha turned her palm upward and laced your fingers together.

“I want more nights like this.” Natasha said. “Dinner. Quiet. Real life. I want to learn how to do that with you.”

“Then let’s learn,” you said. “One night at a time.”

The apartment was dimly lit when you got back, the city casting long shadows across the floor. Natasha unlocked the door, stepping inside with you trailing behind, fingers brushing as you entered. She kicked off her boots and turned back to you, with that look again. That quiet, reverent one.

“Come here.” she said, barely above a whisper.

You stepped closer, heart fluttering. Natasha cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs gently stroking your cheeks like she was learning you all over again. “I thought I knew what love felt like..” she murmured. “But then you came into my life like a fucking meteor. And suddenly nothing else measured.”

You laughed softly, breath shaky. “You’re such a sap when you’re tired-”

Natasha kissed you, slow, deep, with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. Her hands slid to the back of your neck, holding you there like she couldn’t bear for you to pull away.

You didn’t rush. Clothes came off gradually, drawn out between kisses and soft laughter and little sighs of I missed you even though you’d been side by side all day. Natasha peeled off your shirt with deliberate slowness, her hands warm as they roamed bare skin, rediscovering what had once been instinctual.

You made it to the bed half-dressed, tangled in limbs and emotion. Natasha leaned down, brushing her lips across your collarbone. “No rushing tonight. No giving back. I don’t want anything from you but your sounds, your breath, the way you fall apart for me.”

You whimpered softly at that, already breathless before anything began. Natasha took her time. She mapped every inch of your skin with her hands first, no goal in mind, just memorizing. She kissed your neck, your shoulder, the curve beneath your ribs, whispering into each press of her mouth.

“This skin.” she murmured, fingertips sliding up your waist. “I’ve held it when it bled. I’ve watched it heal. I want to keep it safe now.”

Your breath trembled. Natasha moved lower, down to your thighs, nudging them apart with reverence more than hunger. She settled between them but didn’t touch yet. Just looked.

“You’re so beautiful..” she said softly. “Not just your body. You. The way you care. The way you carry pain and still smile. The way you let me be soft when I forgot how.”

You reached down, fingertips brushing Natasha’s cheek. She leaned into the touch before pressing a kiss to your palm, then slowly moved lower. When she finally touched you, tongue warm and slow, fingers gently pressing into soft heat, it wasn’t with urgency. It was worship.

You moaned, back arching slightly. Natasha’s voice came low against you: “That’s it. Let me take care of you.”

Her fingers were deep now, steady, curling in that way she knew, slow and sure. Her mouth was soft around you, teasing and tasting in waves—not to push you too far, but to keep you right there, in the space between pleasure and surrender.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your other hand tangled in Natasha’s hair, grounding yourself in her.

“I’ve got you..” Natasha whispered between strokes, her lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “I want you to let go. For me. Just feel me. Nothing else matters.”

You whimpered, your voice cracking. “Natasha…”

She reached up with her free hand, locking your fingers. “I’m here. Look at me.” she whispered.

You opened your eyes, met hers, and that was what undid you. The pleasure hit like a tide, deep, intense, drawn out. You gasped, your entire body trembling, thighs shaking, heart racing. Natasha never looked away. She stayed there, eyes locked, fingers and mouth guiding you through it until you finally collapsed into the mattress, every muscle unspooled.

She was beside you in seconds, pulling you in, wrapping arms around you. You curled against her chest, still trembling, your fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like you didn’t want to be anywhere else. Natasha kissed your temple. Then your forehead. Then held you tighter.

“You don’t owe me anything.” she whispered. “You’re enough just like this.” You let out a shaky laugh into her neck. “You’re dangerous when you’re sweet.”

Natasha smiled softly, brushing hair from your face. “I’ll be dangerous for you. But I’ll always be sweet to you.” You stayed like that, quiet, hearts beating in sync, no masks, no defenses. Just Natasha and you, together, seen and safe.

You woke to the feeling of warmth. Natasha was wrapped around you like a blanket, one leg slung lazily over yours, her face tucked just beneath your chin, breath warm against your skin. Your hands were still intertwined, held between you like you’d never let go.

You smiled into the soft mess of red hair and didn’t move. For once, there was no rush. No trauma pager. No pounding adrenaline. Just the quiet hum of a Saturday morning and the slow, steady rhythm of someone you loved breathing beside you.

After a few minutes, Natasha stirred. She didn’t open her eyes, just groaned softly, her nose brushing your neck. “Too early..” she mumbled.

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “It’s nearly eight.”

She made a faint grumbling sound, then kissed your collarbone in lazy retaliation. “Still too early.”

But after a moment, she opened her eyes and looked up, bleary and adoring. “Morning.”

“Morning.” you whispered back.

You stayed like that for a few more moments, smiling, warm, limbs tangled under the covers, until Natasha finally pulled back and sat up, stretching like a cat.

You watched her from the pillow, half in awe. “You’re unfairly attractive in the morning.”

Natasha smirked over her shoulder. “Flattery this early? What do you want?”

“Coffee.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “You’re lucky I love you.”

She padded off to the kitchen, hair a sleepy mess, wearing only one of her shirts. You followed soon after, sliding onto a stool at the counter while Natasha moved through her kitchen.

“Mugs are in the cabinet, sleepyhead.” Natasha teased, pouring two cups with steady hands. “And I made toast.”

You blinked. “You made toast? And didn’t burn it?”

Natasha turned, faux insulted. “I’m a highly trained trauma surgeon. I think I can handle bread.”

You giggled, taking the offered mug. “Thank you.”

You ate quietly for a few minutes, coffee, buttered toast, shared glances over the rim of mugs. Then Natasha cleared her throat, eyes down but smile tugging at her lips.

“I forgot to tell you.” she said. “There’s a new intern rotating with me starting today. From Boston Gen.”

You raised a brow. “Already getting transferred? Must be fancy.”

“She’s supposed to shadow me to learn some minimally invasive techniques we’re testing in trauma cases.” Natasha took a sip of her coffee, then looked up, a little too casual. “I might’ve also… requested a change in her schedule.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of change?”

“She’s working a little more…on your floor.”

You tried not to grin. “So she’s shadowing you but you’re staying near me?”

Natasha shrugged, not even pretending to be subtle. “What can I say? You make lunch breaks better.”

You laughed into your coffee. “God, you’re so soft now.”

Natasha leaned across the island and kissed you. “Only for you.”

They walked to the car with hands brushing, smiles shared, and the kind of quiet that only comes from knowing you don’t have to fill every silence. Natasha drove, of course, controlled and confident behind the wheel, one hand always on the gearshift, the other occasionally slipping over to rest on your thigh during red lights.

You fiddled with the radio until you found a mellow playlist, something warm, acoustic, the kind of thing that sounded like the morning felt.

As you pulled into the hospital parking lot, Natasha parked, but didn’t move to get out. Instead, she turned to you and took your hand, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You know..” she said softly, “I still get that feeling when I look at you. Like I’m getting away with something I don’t deserve.”

You turned to her, eyes shining. “You deserve this. You deserve me. Every morning. Every night. You don’t have to question that anymore.”

Natasha kissed you again, soft, slow, grateful. Then you got out of the car, walking toward the hospital side by side, not touching, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t need to. The space between you was already full.

And when you stepped into the building, past the chaos and the clipped voices and the beeping monitors, Natasha looked over her shoulder, just once, and smiled. You smiled back.

The resident lounge was buzzing with end-of-rounds energy. Lab coats flung over chairs, scrubs wrinkled from too many hours, and half-drunk coffee cups balancing dangerously on clipboards.

You sat at the back table with your colleagues. You were laughing over something Marcus had said about the vending machine eating his badge when Riya leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Okay, so what’s going on with you and Dr. Romanoff?”

You blinked, pretending to feign confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Riya said, grinning. “She literally walks through the trauma wing like she’s in a noir film and only softens when you’re around.”

“Is she as scary up close as she looks from far away?” Ellie asked, clearly fascinated. “Or like…a sexy scary?”

“Both.” you muttered into your coffee, which earned a chorus of oohs and laughter.

“She’s been in a better mood lately..” Marcus observed. “And you’ve been glowing.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks pink. “Can we not analyze my love life at the same table where we eat pudding cups?” But you were smiling.

An hour later, you were elbow-deep in a procedure in Room 212, an emergency laceration irrigation on a trauma patient who was more combative than expected. It wasn’t major, but it was messy, tissue bleeding fast, and your hands were starting to cramp from the angle.

“Shit..” you muttered under your breath, adjusting your grip. “Clamp. No! damn it, not that one-”

“Here.” said a calm voice behind you.

A gloved hand reached forward, taking the instrument you were fumbling with and gently sliding it into place, just so. The pressure changed. The bleeding stopped. The wound opened perfectly.

You looked up, startled. The woman beside you was composed, maybe a few years older than you. Dark curls tucked into her surgical cap, brows furrowed in quiet concentration. Her movements were clean, flawless. Her hands didn’t shake. Her technique was textbook, but refined.

“Didn’t mean to step on your toes.” the woman said softly, stepping back as you finished suturing. “Just figured you could use a third hand.”

You blinked. “No, that was..thank you. Seriously. You saved me at least twenty minutes of cursing and gauze.”

The woman gave a small smile, offering her gloved hand. “Dr. Leena Roux. I just transferred in. Trauma rotation under Dr. Romanoff.”

Your brain clicked into place. This is her. “The one from Boston Gen?” you asked, unpeeling a glove.

“That’s me.” Leena’s smile widened. “She speaks very highly of you, by the way.”

You blinked. “Of me?”

“She said you don’t just know the steps, you know why they matter. That’s rare.”

You felt your face warm, both at the compliment and at the fact that Natasha had spoken about you like that.

“Well.” you said, clearing your throat, “I’ve heard good things about you too.”

Leena tilted her head slightly. “I hope I live up to the legend.”

Later, you stood finishing your chart, when Natasha appeared like she always did, quiet, assured, presence wrapped in black scrubs and unreadable expressions. But when she saw Leena standing beside you, Natasha’s face softened.

“There you are.” Natasha said to her intern, then to you, “She find her way to you already?”

“She did.” you said, glancing at Leena with a little smile. “She’s good. Really good.”

Natasha nodded, subtly proud. “She’ll be shadowing the floor more often. I figured you two might learn something from each other.”

“Happy to.” Leena said.

And for a brief second, you saw Natasha through Leena’s eyes, sharp, brilliant, quietly magnetic. But you didn’t feel threatened. You felt proud.

Because you knew Natasha. You knew the way she curled into your body at night, the way she whispered I’ve got you when no one else was listening. And even with someone else nearby, someone just as capable, you knew where you stood.

Still, you couldn’t help the way your curiosity piqued. Leena’s style was clean, measured. Her surgical decisions were precise, strategic. You weren’t drawn to her in the way you were drawn to Natasha, but you were intrigued. Impressed.

Leena caught your eye, like she could read your thoughts. “If you ever want to compare notes, or technique, I’m happy to trade.”

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

Natasha watched you with a small, knowing look, half fond, half amused. And then, softly, almost teasingly, she murmured to you, “Don’t fall in love. I’m very possessive.”

You smirked. “Relax. I’m professionally curious.”

“Mm. That’s how it starts.” And with a shared glance and a quiet laugh, the day moved on.

But against Natasha’s intentions, you and Leena ended up paired for a consult in the ICU. Leena asked sharp questions, offered insight without overstepping, and when they left the room, you found yourself smiling. Just in the way people do when they feel seen by someone speaking their language.

“Dr. Y/l/n?” Leena asked that afternoon, catching you by the nurse’s station. “Would you mind showing me your notes on the anterior laparotomy case? Your approach was cleaner than what I’ve seen.”

You blinked. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll pull it up.”

You spent fifteen minutes going over it, shoulder to shoulder, leaning over your tablet, trading technique and short jokes. It was easy. Natural. Friendly. But when Natasha passed you in the hallway, not saying anything, just one quick glance, you felt the pause in her step.

By Day Four, it became a pattern. You didn’t seek Leena out, but she found you everywhere. At the coffee cart. At the lab. At the board. Your conversations were always professional, cases, methods, technique. But Natasha began noticing the little things.

The way you laughed around her. The way Leena lingered after saying goodbye. The way Leena’s eyes sometimes flicked between you when Natasha entered the room, like she was sizing up something unspoken.

That night, in the privacy of your shared silence at home, Natasha finally spoke. “She likes you.”

You looked up from your tea. “She respects me.”

“Same difference.” Natasha muttered.

You tilted your head, amused. “Nat.”

Natasha didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I do. I just…I see the way she looks at you. Like she wants something she hasn’t earned.”

You set your mug down. “Do you think I’d give her anything to take?”

Natasha was quiet for a second. Then she shook her head. “No. I just hate the feeling of someone circling something that’s mine.”

Your heart stuttered at the word. Mine.

You crossed the distance between you, slid into Natasha’s lap, cupped her face. “You don’t have to stake your claim.” you said. “I already chose you. I keep choosing you.”

Natasha rested her forehead against yours, her breath unsteady. “I know. I just…I don’t always know how to share you. Not even professionally.”

Days later, Natasha’s jealousy didn’t come out in eye rolls or sharpness. It came out in awareness.

She started showing up at your side more often, reviewing cases, joining check-ins she normally wouldn’t. She didn’t interrupt Leena and you, but she was present. Watching. Listening.

And you noticed.During one shared case, you leaned in and whispered, “You do realize you’re hovering?”

“I’m supervising.”

“You’re brooding.”

“I’m being thorough.”

You smiled. “You’re adorable when you pretend you’re not jealous.”

Natasha’s voice was low, amused, but firm. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re literally standing between me and her like a bodyguard.”

“Coincidence.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before walking away. Natasha watched you go.

It was the kind of surgery that left you focused, but breathing. A bowel resection, delicate but routine. Natasha and you were scrubbed in side by side, working in perfect rhythm. It had become your unspoken language.

Natasha passed you a retractor without being asked. You anticipated her next stitch before she voiced it. Silence in the room felt like safety, not tension. Just the soft hum of the monitor, the steady beep of a life held between hands.

You were deep in the procedure when the OR door opened behind you. “Apologies for the interruption.”

You didn’t look up, too focused on the sutures, but Natasha turned her head slightly. Leena stepped inside, fully scrubbed and gowned, her eyes bright behind her mask.

“I’ve got OR 4 in ten.” she said, speaking low and professional. “Just had a quick question about that arterial clamp you mentioned this morning. You said you’d walk me through it after shift?”

Natasha nodded once. “Right. I remember.”

Leena hesitated. “Are you free this evening? Or should I catch you before morning rounds tomorrow?”

There was nothing suggestive in her tone, just honest curiosity. But something about the timing, the ease with which she asked, the slight glance toward you, Natasha didn’t pause.

“No, I’m already busy tonight.” she said, eyes still on the patient. “With my wife.”

Your hands faltered. Just a second. Just a stutter in the motion of your needle holder. Leena blinked. “Oh. Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not. I’ll find you tomorrow morning,” Natasha said, smooth and unreadable.

Leena gave a clipped nod and slipped out just as fast as she’d come. The door closed.

And the OR was silent again. Except now, you could hear your own heartbeat. Wife.

You didn’t dare look at Natasha, but you could feel her watching, quietly, like she was gauging the damage she’d done with a single word. You placed your final stitch, fingers trembling slightly. You set your tools aside and straightened, your voice quieter than usual.

“You said that like you’ve said it before.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “I have.”

You looked at her now, really looked. Your heart was in your throat. “Why?”

A pause. Natasha stepped closer, but not too close. Just enough that you had to meet her eyes.

“Because that’s how I see you.” she said softly. “Not a girlfriend. Not a phase. Not some complicated thing I can’t name. You feel like home. Like a partner in every way.”

Your breath caught. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say. All you knew was that the word wife hadn’t scared you like you thought it might.

The monitor beeped steadily beside you. And without another word, Natasha reached over, brushed her gloved fingers against your forearm, a touch too brief to be noticed by anyone else, but enough to steady you. Enough to say this is real.

At the evening, you sat cross-legged on Natasha’s couch, your hair damp from the shower, wearing one of Natasha’s old sweatshirts and a pair of shorts that didn’t quite belong to you either. The living room was quiet, just a soft lamp on in the corner, the muted flicker of the city outside the window, and the familiar hum of Natasha in the kitchen.

She was making tea. Not because you needed it. But because she always made tea after a long shift, and tonight wasn’t different, except that it was.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it. My wife.

The word hadn’t left your mind since you’d heard it in OR. Since it fell from Natasha’s mouth like it was natural, like it was true, and had been for a while.

And maybe it was. The kettle clicked off. A few seconds later, Natasha walked in with two mugs, her hair still wet at the ends, her face clean and soft in the warm light. She handed you a mug and sat beside you, one leg tucked beneath her, mirroring the way you always ended up, close, comfortable, quietly wrapped around each other.

You didn’t speak right away. You took a sip. Then another. You stared at your mug, then glanced up, your voice quiet but clear.

“Did you really mean it?”

Natasha looked over. “Mean what?”

You met her eyes. “What you said. In the OR.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat, and you felt your heart swell so fast it almost hurt.

“You didn’t say it like you were trying to make a point.” you said softly. “You said it like it was…just true.”

Natasha leaned in a little closer, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, her knuckles gently brushing your shoulder.

“Because it is.” she said. “I’ve been through a lot in my life, you. But you’re the first thing I ever chose without fear. Not because I needed you. Not because you saved me. But because I see you. And I want every version of you, angry, messy, brilliant, kind.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t have to say it just to make me feel safe.”

“I’m saying it because you are my safe.” Natasha said. “And I want you to know, if someday you want to make it official, if you ever want that word to be real, not just something I say in passing…”

She hesitated. “I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”

The words landed like something final. Something whole. You blinked back sudden tears, laughing gently through your nose. “You really know how to sneak that in, don’t you?”

Natasha smiled. “Didn’t say I was proposing. I’m just…telling you what’s real.”

You set your mug down, turned toward her fully. You took Natasha’s hand and laced your fingers together, then pressed your forehead against hers.

“You’re real.” you whispered. “This is real.”

Natasha nodded. “So real it scares the shit out of me.”

“Good.” you murmured. “Me too.”

You kissed, not rushed, not heavy, just quiet and sure, like you were sealing something. Natasha pulled you close and you stayed like that for a while, curled together on the couch, warm tea forgotten.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice soft against Natasha’s shoulder.

“I don’t need a ring yet. I don’t need a dress or a crowd.”

Natasha’s hand traced lazy patterns along your back. “What do you need?”

You looked up at her, eyes shining. “You. Just you.”

Natasha leaned down and kissed you again, longer this time. When you pulled apart, she whispered, “Then you’ve got me. For good.”

Outside, the city went on. Inside, you stayed wrapped in each other, quiet, certain, and finally, finally home.

-

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[leesromanova]

HEHEHEHEHEHE I LOVE GAY DRAMA

Friends Don't Kiss

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Friends spend time together. They share inside jokes, quiet moments, maybe even late-night movies. And sometimes…they kiss. That’s normal. Right? At least, that’s what Natasha keeps telling herself.

Warnings: fluff, light angst

Words: 4140

“Would you kiss me?”

Steve chokes on his coffee, spluttering mid-sip. He coughs violently, thumping his fist against his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

Across the kitchen, Natasha doesn’t flinch. She stands coolly with a mug in hand, one hip leaning against the compound’s countertop, her expression unreadable.

“You know,” she adds, far too casually, “as a friend.”

Steve finally manages to recover, blinking at her like she’s grown a second head. 

“I’m gonna need a little more context.”

Natasha shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere past him. 

“Just making a point. I’ve kissed you before. We’re still just friends.”

“That was different,” Steve says slowly, carefully, like he’s not entirely sure where this conversation is headed. “We were on the run. It was for a mission.”

“Right,” Natasha nods quickly, seizing on that. “Exactly. So sometimes a kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Steve sets down his coffee, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Did you kiss someone, Nat?”

She scoffs immediately, a sharp breath meant to dismiss the question, but her shoulders stiffen, betraying her.

“No,” she says too quickly, brushing past it. “Why would you ask that?”

Before Steve can press further, the kitchen door slides open.

You step in, pausing just briefly when your eyes meet hers. A flicker of something passes between you—then it’s gone, replaced by your familiar, easy smile.

“Morning,” you say, grabbing an apple from the counter before sliding easily into the space beside her. “You two solving world peace already?”

Natasha’s grip on her mug tightens. Her pulse trips over itself at your closeness, at the casual brush of your shoulder against hers.

“Morning,” she mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” Steve returns your greeting while watching both of you now with a curious gaze, noticing the subtle shift in the air. 

You shrug lightly.

“Decided to turn in early last night,” you respond before turning to Natasha. “Sorry, I didn’t see you when you got back, Nat.”

Natasha shakes her head, brushing off the apology.

“It’s fine,” she says simply. 

But it’s not. Not really. She had looked for you last night when she came back from her mission, hoping for your usual smile at the hangar. Instead, FRIDAY informed her you were already asleep. She’d swallowed her disappointment and told herself it didn’t matter.

Natasha takes another sip to keep herself occupied from further conversation. Unfortunately, it seems you have no intention of letting her do that.

“Can I have some?”

Natasha glances at you with a raise of her brow, and you give her a small smile as you nod at the mug in her hand.

“There’s more brewing,” she responds, gesturing to the coffee machine in the corner.

You don’t move her gaze from hers.

“I know,” you grin. “But I want yours.”

Natasha sighs, long-suffering but fond, and hands it over.

You take it with a bright smile in thanks, drinking the last of it with satisfaction.

Natasha watches you as you finish, her lips twitching slightly into the ghost of a smile before she can stop it.

Something about that simple exchange makes the room feel smaller. 

Steve observes you two quietly, picking up on the subtle tension that hums under the surface like a taut wire. You and Natasha have always been close. That’s not new. But something feels different now.

“Well, I’m heading to the training room,” you announce, handing Natasha back the mug and tossing the apple in your hand once before catching it again. “See you two later.”

You’re gone before either of them can respond.

The silence that follows stretches.

Steve leans against the table, watching the doorway you disappeared through before turning his eyes back to Natasha. 

“So,” he says, voice even, “something you’d like to share?”

Natasha scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pivots to rinse out her mug. 

“This has nothing to do with her.”

Her tone is dry and dismissive. But her mind betrays her.

She remembers the way the two of you had been curled up on the couch in the common room just a few nights ago. 

A rare, quiet evening with no missions, no alarms, just shared stories and laughter over absurd field mishaps. Your knees touching hers. Her arm draped along the back of the sofa. 

You leaning closer, head tilted back slightly as you laughed, completely at ease.

Natasha remembers the way her fingers twitched with the urge to touch you. 

How, without quite realizing it, her hand lifted to cup your cheek. 

The moment stretched, her breath caught, and then she leaned in.

The kiss was soft, hesitant in the way that Natasha had not fully comprehended what she had done.

When she does, she goes to pull away when you suddenly kiss her back.

Your hand had come up, anchoring against her shoulder, the other sliding to the back of her neck as you deepened it, slow and sure. 

Then, the elevator chimed.

And the moment shattered.

Instinctively, Natasha pulls back, jumping to her end of the couch by the time the other team members come into the room. 

Next thing she knows, you were swept up by a conversation with Wanda while Natasha sat there frozen, lips parted, heartbeat wild, her hand brushing over her mouth in disbelief. 

The warmth of your kiss still lingering on her skin like a brand.

You never brought it up again.

Neither did she.

And now, days later, she finds herself standing in the kitchen convincing herself that friends kiss sometimes. 

That it doesn’t have to mean anything. That it didn’t mean anything.

“Sure, Nat,” Steve says slowly, watching her a little too closely now. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything...”

Natasha relaxes slightly, but before the relief can take hold in her mind, Steve continues nonchalantly.

“…unless you want it to.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her jaw sets just slightly as she stares into her empty mug. Then, with a sigh, she curses herself for even asking Steve.

His words just brought up a flurry of new problems for her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

She did it again.

She’s doing it again.

What started as a simple spar at your request had quickly escalated—one move leading to another, until she had you pinned flat on the mat. Her knees straddled your hips, hands locking your wrists above your head with effortless control.

You were both breathless, sweat-slicked skin flushed from exertion.

Then you smiled up at her, teeth flashing, that same teasing spark in your eyes that always got under her skin, and Natasha couldn’t look away. Couldn’t think past the heat in her chest. Her gaze dropped, lingering on the curve of your parted lips as you panted beneath her.

And before she could stop herself, she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was hungry, claiming, as if making up for every second she hadn’t let herself think about the feel of your lips since that night on the couch. Her grip loosened, hands sliding from your wrists to your sides, fingertips brushing over the sliver of skin just above your waistband.

Like before, you didn’t pull away.

Instead, your arms curled around her shoulders, pulling her closer with a quiet urgency. 

Her mouth moved against yours again, and again—slow, deliberate, until your breath caught and you exhaled her name in a moan that made something in her pulse stutter.

“Natasha…”

Her name on your lips.

It cracked through the haze like a whip.

And she freezes.

Reality slams back in, fast and merciless. 

Natasha pulls away suddenly, breathing hard as her eyes search yours. Her hands lift, hovering like she wasn’t sure where to place them anymore.

“Shit,” she mutters, shaken. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

You blink at her, dazed and confused, lips still parted.

But before you can say anything, the door slides open.

“Damn,” Sam’s voice calls out as he steps into the training room, towel slung over his shoulder. He pauses at the sight, then lets out a low whistle and smirks.

“Give her a break, Romanoff. She’s already red in the face.”

Natasha straightens back instinctively, only to realize the flush on your face wasn’t from exertion.

You let out a breath of laughter, dragging a hand through your hair. 

“I’m fine,” you say, voice light, easy. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your palm lightly taps Natasha’s thigh—a subtle, casual cue.

She blinks at you, still hovering above, startled by how calmly you are taking all of this. Then she shifts, climbing off with fluid grace, but her mind still reels. 

Why weren’t you reacting differently? Why were you acting like what just happened between you two was normal for friends?

You push yourself to your feet and turn to offer your hand down to her.

Without hesitation, she takes it.

Your grip is warm and steady as you help her up. Before she can say anything, you brush your hand over her shoulder, flicking away the dust from your earlier scuffle. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, you pat her cheek twice, a gentle, reassuring touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, softer this time.

And then you walk off coolly and composed, leaving her standing there.

Staring.

Processing.

“What the hell…” Natasha mutters under her breath.

Sam moves beside her, picking up a dumbbell nonchalantly like he hadn’t just walked in on something.

“Hey, Sam?” she asks, still staring after you. 

“Yeah?”

“Friends can kiss, right?” she asks. “Like… that’s a normal thing friends do sometimes?”

Sam pauses mid-curl and turns to look at her with a slow grin. 

“What kind of friends you got, Romanoff?” he chuckles. “’Cause I’d love an introduction.”

Natasha doesn’t respond.

Her eyes are still locked on the door you disappeared through, her thoughts a whirlwind of tangled lines she couldn’t figure out how or if she wanted to untangle.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The movie plays on, its flickering light casting soft shadows across the darkened room. But Natasha isn’t watching it.

She’s trying to. Or at least pretending to.

Her eyes are on the screen, but her mind drifts, tangled in thoughts she can’t quite sort through. The question loops endlessly in her head like a broken reel.

Can friends kiss? Should friends kiss? Did it mean anything?

You shift slightly beside her, and the motion draws her out of the haze. Then comes a soft sound—a small yawn, muffled behind your hand. 

Natasha glances down at you.

Your head rests gently against her shoulder, your body curled comfortably into the side of hers. You’ve been like that for most of the movie—close, warm, familiar. Nothing new for the two of you. 

But now, it feels different. Everything feels different.

She tilts her head toward you slightly. 

“We can stop here if you want,” she offers, her voice low. “You’re tired.”

You shake your head with a sleepy smile, eyes barely open. 

“It’s fine. It’s almost finished anyway.”

Natasha studies your face for a moment longer, searching for something beneath your words. Then she relaxes, leaning her head against yours again, letting the rhythm of your breathing soothe her.

But only a few minutes pass before she feels your body grow heavier against her, your breath evening out. She shifts subtly to glance at you, and sure enough, your eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

A quiet exhale escapes her lips.

She lets the laptop finish playing the credits, then carefully reaches over to close it, setting it on the nightstand without disturbing you too much.

As she leans back again, her eyes linger on you, peaceful and completely unaware of the storm still quietly waging inside her.

She hesitates.

You’d probably sleep better in your own bed. Less risk of a sore neck.

“Hey,” she whispers, brushing her fingers lightly against your arm to wake you. “Want me to carry you to your room?”

You stir, eyes fluttering open, still half-lost in sleep. You look up at her, your gaze soft and unguarded.

“Can I sleep here?”

Natasha stills.

The way your face is tilted toward hers makes her heart stutter. You’re so close, lips parted slightly, your breath warm against her cheek.

Her fingers tighten against the sheets.

She should say no. But she doesn’t.

“…Sure,” she says instead, voice barely audible.

You smile in that sleepy, content way that always makes her chest ache, and shift to lie back more fully on the bed, your head finding the pillow beside hers like it’s always belonged there.

Natasha stays seated for a moment, just watching you. Studying the soft lines of your expression. The trust etched so easily into every part of you.

Then your eye cracks open, lazy and amused, and you pat the empty space beside you.

“Come on,” you murmur. “You should sleep too.”

Natasha swallows.

She moves beneath the covers slowly, cautiously, like the sheets might burn her. The moment her weight settles, you immediately scoot closer, nuzzling into the curve of her body with a comfort that’s almost too much.

She freezes.

Her arms hover mid-air, unsure where to land. Her instincts war with her confusion about the situation.

But then you sigh softly, and it eases something in her. She lets her arms wrap around you, tentatively at first, then fully. Her hand rests lightly against your back.

Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to.

Her heart beats too loud. Her thoughts race too fast.

But your breathing, soft and steady, grounds her.

You’re not overthinking this. You’re not avoiding eye contact or spiraling like she is. You’re just there. 

Maybe she is overreacting.

So she presses her lips to the top of your head, just barely a kiss, light and reverent.

And tells herself it’s fine.

That it’s just something friends do.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The corridor outside the tech lab is mostly quiet, the hum of machinery muffled behind glass walls. Natasha had only meant to drop by to check on some routine data upload from her last mission, but she slows as she rounds the corner and catches sight of you through the glass.

You’re leaning against the counter in the lab, your stance relaxed, familiar. A quiet, polite smile plays on your lips as you speak to one of the newer lab techs, who is a little awkward in their stance and clearly trying to flirt.

Natasha pauses at the entrance, something instinctual anchoring her in place. 

“I just figured,” the technician says, nervously fidgeting with their hands, “maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?”

Natasha blinks. Her fingers tighten unconsciously around the datapad in her hand.

You let out a soft chuckle, not unkind. 

“That’s sweet,” you say, your tone warm but edged with gentle finality, “but I’m actually already seeing someone.”

Natasha frowns, her heart skipping heavily.

Since when?

The lab tech falters only slightly, nodding good-naturedly.

“Ah. No worries. It was worth a shot.”

“We could still be friends,” you offer kindly.

They chuckle lightly as they gather their things, nodding in agreement.

“Well, if they mess up,” the tech jokes, “you know where to find me.”

You smile again, a brief lift of your brow.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They leave, footsteps fading down the hall.

Natasha stays frozen for a beat longer, her brain racing as she tries to understand. A strange, unfamiliar tightness lingers in her chest, something sharp and green and burning low.

Why didn’t you ever tell her you were seeing someone?

The question echoes through her like a bruise, throbbing harder the longer she thinks about it.

A few seconds pass before she finally moves, stepping into view from where she’d been half-hidden around the corner. Her approach is quiet, boots soft on the tile, but you look up at the sound anyway.

“Nat, hey,” you greet, still casual, like you hadn’t just said something that made her stomach drop unexpectedly.

Natasha crosses her arms across her chest.

“Were you ever going to introduce me to them?”

You blink at her, brow furrowing.

“Who?”

“The person you’re seeing.”

There’s a flicker of confusion in your expression, your head tilting slightly as if trying to piece together something obvious that you’ve somehow missed.

“That’d be…difficult,” you answer slowly.

Her heart skips again—this time not from surprise, but from something closer to hurt. 

“Why?” she presses, a little sharper now. “You don’t want them to meet your friends?”

Your mouth parts slightly. You study her, eyes narrowing faintly, not in anger, but in realization. 

“Is that what you are?” you ask quietly. “Just my friend?”

Natasha hesitates. Her arms tighten around herself, defensive.

“I thought I was,” she says with a shrug that tries too hard to be casual.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it feels like it stretches forever.

You nod slowly, the movement small and almost imperceptible. 

“Right,” you murmur. “My mistake.”

And even though you smile, easy and familiar, there’s a flicker behind it. Something small and wounded that vanishes just as quickly as it appears. Like it costs a little more this time to offer it.

“I thought we were something more.”

Natasha’s lips part in stunned silence.

You shake your head slightly, not in denial, just…regret. 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Before she can find her voice, before she can reach out and ask what you mean—what she means to you—you step past her.

“I’ve got to prep for my mission,” you say quietly. “I’ll see you after, Nat.”

And then you’re gone.

The hallway seems impossibly still.

Natasha doesn’t move.

She just stands there, frozen in place, her eyes still on the space where you’d been just seconds ago.

I thought we were something more.

The words echo in her chest like a hollow ring of glass about to break.

Natasha presses a hand lightly to her sternum, as if she could push the ache away.

But it lingers. Deep and burning.

She knew it.

She knows it now more than ever.

Friends don’t kiss.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hangar is nearly silent at this hour, long past the time anyone should still be awake.

But Natasha is.

She leans against a metal railing in the far corner of the bay, arms crossed loosely, her mind racing in quiet loops. The empty stretch of concrete around her does little to ease the restless energy in her body. She’s been replaying your last conversation for hours now, trying to decipher what it meant, what you meant.

The distant hum of turbines pulls her attention up.

The Quinjet descends slowly, its engines quieting as it settles onto the landing pad. Her spine straightens involuntarily. She catches herself smoothing her palm against her thigh, like she’s bracing for something.

The ramp lowers with a hiss, and then there you are.

You spot her the moment you step down.

Your steps falter just a bit, surprised but not displeased. Your expression shifts into something soft and unreadable before you offer a faint smile.

“Hey,” you greet lightly. “You’re still up?”

Natasha picks up on the subtle wariness in your voice. Not distrust, just a layer of confusion she knows she put there.

“I wanted to talk,” she says, quieter now, her arms unfolding slightly. “If that’s okay.”

You pause. Then, after a breath, you nod.

“Yeah… we probably should’ve had this talk before I went around thinking we were something other than friends,” you joke, a little self-deprecating, but not cruel.

Natasha winces, her mouth twitching. She knows she earned that.

You exhale and tilt your head toward the hallway. 

“Come on. Let’s talk in my room. I need to get this mission stink off me.”

She follows without hesitation, grateful for the return of your usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, you do,” she quips back.

You gasp in mock offense, throwing a look over your shoulder. 

“Wow. Brutal honesty? No mercy, huh?”

Natasha just smirks. “Would you prefer lies?”

“Only the flattering kind,” you call as you enter your room.

Natasha follows in after you with a small chuckle. She sits at the edge of your bed, hands in her lap, waiting as you disappear into your bathroom. She hears the rush of water from the shower and feels oddly tense like she’s waiting for a mission to start, but this one requires emotional precision she hasn’t quite mastered.

When the bathroom door finally opens, and you emerge, a towel draped around your shoulders, skin still damp and fresh from the steam, Natasha’s thoughts short-circuit for a moment.

Her gaze catches on the curve of your neck, the soft line of your collarbone—

She tears her eyes away, scolding herself silently.

This is exactly how things got so muddled.

You shoot her an amused look as you dry your hair with the towel. 

“You gonna stare all night or talk?”

Natasha clears her throat, suddenly focused on her hands again. 

“Right. Sorry. I just…wanted to ask something.”

You toss the towel aside as you nod.

“Ask away.”

She hesitates. 

“Why…why did you think we were dating?”

You blink, surprised at the question. Then you let out a soft breath and sit beside her on the bed.

“Well,” you begin, voice easy but edged with a thread of honesty, “months ago, you asked me to go to the Avengers Festival with you. We spent the whole day together. Just us.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” Natasha replies quietly.

“I did. And I was even more excited when I thought you were asking me out on a date.”

You glance at her, gauging her reaction.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line. 

“Only it wasn’t… to me.”

“Right,” you say, a hint of disappointment in your tone before you continue with a sigh. “But then you invited me to that new restaurant for dinner the next night.”

“You mentioned it once. I thought you’d want to go.”

“I did mention it. To Wanda. I didn’t expect you to remember something I had said in passing.”

Natasha lowers her gaze. 

“I do,” she murmurs.

You smile faintly. 

“Then came movie nights. Every week. Just us.”

“You hadn’t seen any of the classics. I thought it’d be fun.”

“And it was,” you say before teasingly adding as you lightly nudge her shoulders. “Especially learning you know all the lines.”

There’s a pause. Then your voice softens.

“Then…you kissed me.”

Natasha’s breath catches.

“Twice,” you continue.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Three times,” you correct with a small smile, “if we’re counting the one where you got nervous and bailed halfway through, settling for the top of my head instead when you thought I was asleep.”

Natasha swallows, stunned into silence.

“Well?” you ask gently. “You gonna explain? Because last time I checked…”

You shift toward her, slow and deliberate.

“…friends don’t kiss.”

She searches for an answer. Any answer. But none of them feel true. Not the ones she told herself, not the ones that let her avoid the real thing.

“These past days I've been trying to convince myself that kissing didn’t have to mean anything,” Natasha admits, voice small. “That I could just…”

She trails off.

“Avoid what you actually felt?” you offer, your tone gentle, not accusatory.

She meets your eyes then, and something in her cracks. 

“Maybe I just didn’t want to admit I wanted something more. Because if I did…and you didn’t…”

“I did,” you interrupt softly.

Your hand lifts to her hair, your fingers brushing a few loose strands back, tucking them gently behind her ear.

“I do.”

Her breath trembles.

You stroke her cheek with your thumb, grounding her.

“No more mixed signals, Nat,” you say with a playful edge, though your eyes are sincere. “You’re gonna have to be more direct, or I’ll start thinking I made it all up.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. Her hands slide to your waist as she pulls you closer, steady and sure.

“Tomorrow night…will you go out with me?” she murmurs.

You grin, raising a brow.

“On a date?”

She nods, smiling now too.

“On a date.”

You lean your forehead against hers.

“Then I’d love to.”

There’s a beat of stillness, warmth blooming in the quiet between you. Then Natasha’s gaze flicks behind you toward the bed and back at you, one brow rising.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

You raise an amused brow.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

You smirk playfully.

“Because, in case you’re unsure…” you whisper, tilting your head closer to hers. “…friends don’t typically sleep with each other either.”

Natasha’s eyes sparkle, a soft smile forming on her face.

“Then it’s a good thing,” she says, drawing you in, her voice a low murmur at your lips, “that we’re not just friends anymore.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: a little something as I procrastinate on my series 😅 thank you for reading!

[leesromanova]

I AM VERY HAPPPY RN. 

Omg I just read the tape we erased and OHHHHH MY GODDDDDD soooooo good amazing 10/10 I loved it sm. Could you possibly do like a one shot maybe of what happened when they were drunk? Like I just wanna know how reader ended up with a bite mark on her ass 

I’m so glad you enjoyed it, my love!! And as requested here is the ‘making of the tape’ ❤️ xx

The Making of the Tape

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.7k

(Men and minors DNI — 18+ WLW content)

The night started simple, innocent even. You and Natasha had just gotten back from a recon mission in Prague that got you and the team no where. You’d both showered, and ‘regrouped’ back in the common room.

That was when the first bottle of vodka got brought out. Natasha displayed it like it was her prized possession, “This one is a Beluga Gold Line. Costs more than your rent. Comes with its own little hammer to break the wax seal—because apparently, drinking vodka should feel like opening a damn sarcophagus.” She joked as she opened the cap, pouring you both two shots.

“If that your way of telling me I should ask Fury for a raise?” You tease her, to be honest, you weren’t listening to a thing she was saying, just staring at the way the dim lights cause her face to light up like she’s an ethereal goddess- what?! Are you crazy, this is Natasha, a girl. You obviously don’t like girls.

The shot glass is put in your hand and you don’t even realise you’ve both drank them by the time she’s pouring another one for the both of you.

By the time the bottle is empty, you’re both slurring your words, you’ve managed to shuffle a little closer to her to the point your thighs are pressed together. You can’t tell if Natasha is looking at you weird or if it’s the alcohol, but whatever it is made you lean in towards her. And she let you.

Your lips crash together in a mess of drunkenness and pent up feelings, her tongue is sliding into your mouth like it belongs there, and in this moment it does. She doesn’t hesitate. Her leg swings over your lap, knees planted by your hips, hands mapping your body like it’s all she’s ever known. Your hands, however, find their way to her waist, pulling her flush against you.

Her lips leave yours to find your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. She’s whispering something, but you can’t hear it over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

Her hands find yours, slow and deliberate, guiding them to the waistband of her shorts. It’s not rushed — it’s permission. An invitation. Your fingers hesitate, just for a second, before you curl them under the fabric.

She doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head in one smooth motion. You barely have time to process the sight of her — bare, beautiful, confident — before she’s tugging at yours too, stripping away any remaining space between you.

Your fingers dip under the safety net of her shorts, passing through the almost forbidden territory as you

Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of her shorts — and then her underwear — your breath catching as you feel the heat of her. But you hesitate, nerves twisting in your gut, unsure if you should keep going.

Natasha doesn’t say a word. She just takes your wrist gently, firmly, and pushes your hand further against her, eyes locked with yours like she’s daring you to second-guess it.

You start simple, circling her clit with such gentleness as though you might break her if you press too hard. Apparently you were doing something right as Natasha’s breath hitches and her hips roll against your fingers. That was the confidence booster you needed, the of your fingers nudge against her entrance not yet pushing in, a smirk graces your lips as you notice the stern expression on her face.

She leans her head down to your ear, whispering in a sickening sweet but incredibly slurred tone “Don’t tease me, baby.” That alone makes you blush, a shiver running down your spine and settling in your core. You push your fingers inside, curling against that sweet spot as if you’d done it a million times before, which you hadn’t, you were purely going of instinct right now.

It didn’t take long for Natasha to come undone, whether it was the look of pure concentration on your face or your ‘natural skill’, but that didn’t matter to you.

Natasha barely catches her breath. Her chest is still heaving when she stands, hands slipping beneath your thighs and lifting you in one smooth, determined motion. Your legs instinctively wrap around her waist, arms around her shoulders like muscle memory.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The only sounds left in the room are your breathing and the quiet hum of the compound around you, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.

She carries you out of the common room like it’s the most natural thing in the world — leaving behind the empty vodka bottle, your tangled shirts, and every rule of friendship you’ve just broken. But none of it matters. Not when she’s carrying you to her room.

The door shuts with a quiet, final click — and before you can even register the sound, Natasha has you in her hands again. There’s no hesitation this time, no lingering pause or gentle easing into it. She crosses the room like she owns it — like she owns you — and suddenly you’re airborne, laughing out a surprised sound that’s swallowed by the soft thud of your body hitting the bed.

You land sprawled on your stomach, arms sinking into the duvet, hair falling into your face. You push up slightly, turning your head to look at her — or try to. But she’s already climbing over you, already grabbing at your hips like they’re handles made just for her.

Her hands slide down, hot and certain, gripping your ass with both palms. There’s no finesse to it. She squeezes like she means it, like she’s been thinking about it — and honestly, maybe she has. You let out a breathy laugh, still catching your breath from earlier, and shift beneath her hands just to feel the weight of her palms move with you.

“Bit handsy, aren’t we?” you murmur, your voice muffled by the sheets but laced with a familiar kind of snark — the kind that always earned you an eye-roll during sparring, or a shove during debriefings. But this time, she doesn’t shove you. Doesn’t roll her eyes.

She bites you.

Hard.

Her teeth sink into the flesh of your ass, sudden and sharp, and you jerk against the mattress with a breathless gasp — not out of shock, but pleasure. Pain-tinged, electric pleasure that shoots straight through your spine. You can feel the imprint of her bite, heat and pressure blooming beneath your skin.

“What the fuck—” you breathe, half-laughing, half-moan.

But Natasha doesn’t let up. One hand stays splayed over your hip, steadying you, the other sliding up your spine with a kind of lazy reverence — like she’s admiring her work. You glance back at her, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, and she just smirks down at you.

“You were asking for it,” she says, voice low and smug. Her thumb presses lightly against the reddening mark she’s left behind. “Consider it a souvenir.”

Your heart thuds in your chest — not just from arousal, but from the dangerous realisation that there’s no going back. You’re not sure there ever was a line between you. And if there was… she’s just bitten right through it.

Her hands pull your shorts and underwear down in one swift motion, throwing them onto the floor of her bedroom without a care in the world, all she can think about is making you come undone.

Over.

And over.

She flips you over. Not gently, not roughly either. The perfect balance between the two. Her head makes its way back up to yours, your lips crashing together again.

The kiss quickly turns more heated as Natasha’s control starts to slip. Her hands are now roaming over your body, touching you with a new sense of possessiveness.

Her lips break away from yours to trail along your jawline and down your neck, leaving a trail of marks in their wake. Her body presses against yours, every inch of her desperate for more.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” She breathes between kisses.

A low and pleasurable hum escapes your mouth as your back arched up against her lips.

Natasha’s kisses move further down your body, her lips and tongue trailing over your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts. She lingers there for a moment, the heat of her breath against your skin making you shiver.

Her hands are roaming over your thighs now, gripping onto the bare flesh tightly as she continues to mark you up. She takes her time, savoring every bit of you she can claim.

Without another word, her head dips down between your legs. The feel of her tongue is too much and too little at the same time, which only causes a whine to escape your throat.

Natasha grins at your reaction, her tongue stopping briefly so she can tease you a bit. “So responsive…I’m going to enjoy making you fall apart…”

She almost purrs, her hands sliding up your thighs to hold your hips steady. She looks up at you, her eyes dark with desire as she slowly starts to take you apart, tongue exploring you with a practiced ease.

The rest of the night is a blur, well, the whole night is a blur, but specifically the parts where she takes you over the edge to the point you’re actively trying to push her away.

When she does relent and back up, her arms wrap around your waist, pulling your nude body flush against hers. And you fall asleep, in the arms of your best friend… well, who was your best friend.

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

You wake up to a familiar scent—lavender and leather, something sharper underneath. And not your own shampoo. Which is weird, because this is not your pillow. Not your room. And definitely not your bed. You blink into the soft cotton, blinking away the crust of sleep, the throb of a hangover pounding at the inside of your skull like it’s trying to get out. Something’s wrong. Not oh-I-drank-too-much wrong. Not where’s-my-phone wrong. Something more serious.

Because you’re naked.

Fully, absolutely, no-socks-even naked.

And this is Natasha Romanoff’s room.

You sit up slowly. Very slowly. Like the world will tip over if you move too fast. The sheet slides off your bare shoulders and—yep. There they are.

Marks.

Everywhere.

Your collarbone. Your chest. Down your arms. Even lower. You don’t look too long, but your inner thigh looks like someone made out with it like it owed them rent.

You stare at nothing for a long moment.

Then say, very quietly: “…fuck.”…

[Masterlist]

[leesromanova]

AGHHHHH IM CRYING AGHHHHH

The Tape we Erased

Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

Summary: After a drunken night neither of them remembers, you and Natasha wake up in bed together — naked, marked, and silent. Best friends. Supposedly straight. You agree never to talk about it. But the footage doesn’t lie. What started as a mistake slowly unravels everything you thought you knew about your feelings for her — and hers for you. Avoidance turns to longing, silence turns to ache, until one quiet confession finally breaks the tension. This time, you’re awake for it. And this time, it’s not a mistake.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: brief angst, avoidance/miscommunication, internalised confusion about sexuality, mentions of weight loss, mild deceptions of emotional withdrawal, first time wlw (r)

(WLW content- Men and minors Dni)

You wake up to a familiar scent—lavender and leather, something sharper underneath. And not your own shampoo. Which is weird, because this is not your pillow. Not your room. And definitely not your bed. You blink into the soft cotton, blinking away the crust of sleep, the throb of a hangover pounding at the inside of your skull like it’s trying to get out. Something’s wrong. Not oh-I-drank-too-much wrong. Not where’s-my-phone wrong. Something more serious.

Because you’re naked.

Fully, absolutely, no-socks-even naked.

And this is Natasha Romanoff’s room.

You sit up slowly. Very slowly. Like the world will tip over if you move too fast. The sheet slides off your bare shoulders and—yep. There they are.

Marks.

Everywhere.

Your collarbone. Your chest. Down your arms. Even lower. You don’t look too long, but your inner thigh looks like someone made out with it like it owed them rent.

You stare at nothing for a long moment.

Then say, very quietly: “…fuck.”

The door to the en-suite creaks open and Natasha walks out in a towel, hair wet, face flushed from steam, skin glowing like she’s walked off a runway and not, presumably, done unspeakable things to you while you were blackout drunk. You don’t know what expression you expected her to have—maybe smugness, maybe regret. But the way her eyes widen when she sees you says everything.

She doesn’t remember either.

“Shit,” she mutters.

You echo it, because there’s nothing else to say.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You end up in the kitchen twenty minutes later, both in your worst loungewear like you’ve regressed to hungover uni students. You avoid looking at each other. She cooks eggs. You make the toast, which you promptly burn, because your hands are still shaking. Coffee helps. A little. But there’s still this massive, smothering tension in the air.

And you’re still so naked under this hoodie.

“So,” Natasha finally says, chewing like the eggs offend her. “How drunk were we?”

You poke at your plate. “Drunk enough that I remember literally nothing. Like… not even vibes. Just darkness. Brain gone.”

She makes a noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite relief. You steal a look at her, try to gauge if she’s freaking out as badly as you are. She’s got that blank expression on, the one she uses in briefings and fights and when people get too close. You’re best friends—you know her tells. You know she’s quietly imploding.

Your mouth moves before you can stop it. “I mean, judging by these—” You pull the collar of your sweatshirt down slightly to show her the edge of a very angry-looking hickey. “—I think at least one of us had a hell of a time.”

Her face goes scarlet. “Please never say that again.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, laughing weakly, because humour is your default defence mechanism when your reality starts cracking like old paint. “Someone was enthusiastic. I have a bite mark on my ass. My ass, Nat.”

She makes a strangled sound like she’s swallowing a laugh and a scream at once.

Then the thought hits you, and it lands like a rock in your chest.

You look up. “Wait… doesn’t the common room have cameras?”

She freezes. Doesn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” you say. “It does. You’ve said it before—Tony has them everywhere. Even here. Are you telling me there’s a recording of us—?”

“Absolutely not,” she says, eyes wide. “We’re not doing this.”

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “Aren’t you just a little curious?”

“No. I want it to stay a mystery. Like a blackout horror movie.”

“Natasha.”

She closes her eyes like she’s trying to will you out of existence. “Fine. One look. Then it gets deleted. Forever.”

You nod, trying to hide your grin. You’re totally chill. Completely unaffected. Just curious. Because you’re straight. Obviously.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sit beside her on the couch, legs pulled under you, blanket around both your laps like that will protect your friendship from the trainwreck about to happen. The screen flickers on.

“JARVIS,” you say, too casually, “can you pull footage from last night’s common room? Starting around… 9 p.m.?”

“Confirmed,” the AI responds. “Shall I begin playback?”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

“Yes,” you say over her.

She sighs like she’s aged five years.

And then it begins.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It starts tame. You and Natasha sitting on the couch, drinks in hand. Laughing. Loud. Leaning into each other. You’re close. Too close. You remember this part, maybe. Sort of. The way her hand brushed yours. The way you nudged her shoulder. The way she was already a little too comfortable curling her legs into your lap.

Then you start touching. Hair. Knees. Her hand slides up your thigh and you don’t push it away.

Then your shirt’s gone.

Then hers.

Then she’s on top of you. You’re in her lap. Your mouth is on her neck. She’s laughing, breathless, flushed. Your hands are under the waistband of her sweats. Her hips roll up. You hear a moan and only realise it’s you when Natasha makes a noise next to you on the couch.

You pause the video.

Silence.

You turn to her very slowly. “We made a sex tape.”

“This is not a sex tape,” she says through gritted teeth.

“This is a CCTV sex tape in Tony Stark’s common room,” you whisper. “That is worse. That is so much worse.”

You stare at yourself on the frozen screen. Sweaty. Shirtless. Looking like you want to devour your best friend.

You’ve never slept with a woman in your life. Never wanted to. You’ve said that. Repeatedly. With confidence. With certainty.

So why does your stomach flip like that?

Why are you still kind of dizzy from the sight of her mouth against your throat, her hands on your hips, the sounds you were making—

“JARVIS,” Natasha croaks, “delete all footage from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m., yesterday. Immediately.”

“Footage deleted,” JARVIS confirms.

You exhale. Collapse into the cushions like your bones have turned to liquid. You feel nauseous. You feel high. You feel like you’re falling backwards into something very large and very dangerous.

“We can’t ever talk about this,” you say.

“Agreed.”

“Like, ever. Not even in passing. Not even jokingly.”

“Especially not jokingly,” she says.

There’s a pause.

And then you both start laughing.

It’s too much. It’s hysterical. The kind of laughter that comes right before a full-blown panic attack. You double over, face in your hands, wheezing. Natasha’s shaking beside you, shoulders hunched, hands over her eyes.

“I bit you,” she gasps. “Why would I do that?”

“I moaned,” you groan. “Like, actual softcore levels of moaning.”

“You straddled me in pyjamas.”

“You pulled my hair!”

“You liked it!”

“Stop!”

More laughter. Collapsing into each other, gripping your sides.

And then, slowly, breath returning, the laughter fades.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You stare at the blank TV screen. Something silent settles in the room. Not awkward. Just… delicate.

You break it first. “We’re best friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re gonna keep being best friends?”

“Of course.”

“So that was… an accident.”

“Drunk mistake.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You nod. Like if you say it enough, it’ll become true. Like it’s not still sitting under your skin, all heat and confusion and maybe a little bit of longing.

“Pinky swear,” you say, offering your finger.

Natasha stares at it like it’s a grenade.

Then, with a sigh, she loops her pinky through yours.

“Deadly secrecy,” she says.

“Bury-it-under-a-shallow-grave secrecy.”

You both nod.

It’s a pact.

It has to be.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Later, Bucky sees you limping slightly down the hall and raises an eyebrow.

“Yoga injury,” Natasha says smoothly, passing him.

You nod too hard. “Yep. Definitely yoga. Bad downward dog.”

Bucky shrugs and keeps walking.

Natasha smirks.

You glare at her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You never talk about it again.

Not once.

But sometimes, she’ll glance at you in the middle of a movie night, and you’ll see her eyes flicker down to your neck. Like she’s remembering. Like she’s not supposed to.

And sometimes you still hear the echo of her voice in your ear, that slurred Russian endearment you didn’t even realise you knew.

You’re still straight. Obviously. Totally. Mostly. Probably.

You don’t talk about it.

You don’t even think about it.

Except when you do.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Natasha’s good at burying things. Lives, missions, guilt. Feelings.

She tells herself she’s buried this, too.

Except she hasn’t.

Because it keeps coming back in flashes. Not even the good parts. Not the sex. Just the look on your face when you paused the footage—laughing, half-horrified, half-gleeful. You looked at her like you’d won something. Like you’d stolen a secret. And maybe you had.

Maybe you’d stolen her.

She can’t stop thinking about the way you touched her. Not even the memory of the touches—just the look in your eyes on the screen. Like you were starving. Like you meant it.

That’s what haunts her.

Because Natasha has always been attracted to women. She’s known it since she was twelve. She’s dated them. Slept with them. Loved one or two, even if she never said the words. But she never let herself think of you that way—not seriously—because you were you.

Straight. Untouchable. A little reckless, a little clueless, always warm, always there.

You flirted with everyone, but it was always harmless. Always safe.

She thought.

And now she can’t stop thinking about the way you said ours. “Our sex tape.” Like it was a thing you’d made together. Like it mattered.

You said you were straight. Again and again. Drunk, sober, laughing over dinner. “Not my thing,” you’d say when she teased you about some actress, brushing it off like it wasn’t even a question.

And yet.

And yet.

Natasha wakes up three nights in a row thinking she feels your mouth on her throat. Her hips jerking against phantom fingers. Your voice in her ear, slurred and aching: God, you feel so good, Nat.

She’s not imagining that.

She knows she’s not.

But she can’t say anything. Because you’re still doing the thing—playing it off, being casual, being you. Still laughing about it when it comes up in the smallest ways. You elbow her at breakfast when someone on the news says the word “tape” and go, “Not ours, though.”

And she laughs. She does. She laughs because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

But she thinks about the way your hips rolled down onto hers like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

And then she starts wondering—was it? Was it your first time?

You said you were straight. But you didn’t act like it. Not that night. Not with her.

Maybe that’s what’s ruining her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

She tries.

She really tries to forget.

She throws herself into sparring. Takes extra missions. Works through lunch. Avoids the common room unless it’s empty. Watches you from corners and shadows like you’re a threat she hasn’t decided how to neutralise.

You’re not even doing anything. That’s what makes it worse.

You’re just… being you.

Messy hair, too-loud laugh, feet on the furniture, casual as ever. You joke. You poke. You steal fries from her plate. You fall asleep with your head on her shoulder during movie nights like nothing happened.

Like your teeth were never in her shoulder.

Like you didn’t whimper her name against her throat.

Like you didn’t grab her face with both hands and kiss her like she was air.

She’s drowning in it.

And you don’t even seem to know.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It finally cracks on a night when the compound is quiet and the hallway smells like rain.

You find her in the gym, well past midnight, hitting the bag like it owes her something.

You watch her for a while before saying anything.

“You’re mad at me.”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. “No, I’m not.”

You walk in anyway. Drop your bag by the wall. “You’ve been weird.”

She keeps punching. Keeps not looking at you.

You fold your arms. “Is this about that night?”

Nothing.

“Because you’re acting like I killed your dog.”

That gets her. She snorts, stops, breathes heavy. Lets the bag sway.

You step closer. “I get it. It was a mistake. You don’t have to keep punishing me like I ruined your life.”

She turns slowly. Wipes sweat from her brow. Her eyes are dark. Dangerous.

“You didn’t ruin my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s silence. Long. Tight.

Then she says, low and rough, “You kissed me first.”

You blink. “What?”

“That night. You kissed me first. I watched the tape.”

“I—” you falter, “I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, you did.”

She steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“You kissed me first. And then you said my name like it was the only word you knew. And then you looked at me like you wanted me.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were you,” she says sharply. “You were you, and you knew what you were doing.”

You back up a step. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?”

You bite your lip. “I’m not… I don’t do that.”

“You did.”

“Yeah, but I’m not—”

“Not what?” she demands. “Not gay? Not into girls? Not into me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

She softens then. Just slightly.

“It’s not about labels,” she says quietly. “I don’t care what box you think you fit in. I just know how you made me feel. And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen anymore.”

You swallow. “Why now?”

She looks away. Her voice goes smaller. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m tired of pretending it didn’t mean something.”

You stare at her.

And it hits you all at once—how close she is. How wrecked she looks. How scared.

Not of you. Of what she’s saying. Of being wrong.

You could lie.

You could say it didn’t mean anything. That you were drunk and stupid and it was a blip, a hiccup in time.

You could say you’re straight and you always will be.

But the lie sticks in your throat.

Because your body remembers.

You remember the feel of her hands gripping your thighs, her mouth dragging open-mouthed kisses across your chest, the low growl she made when you pulled her hair.

You remember thinking, mid-kiss, God, this is Nat. This is my Nat.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like falling.

So you don’t lie. But you don’t confess, either.

You just say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And Natasha exhales. Not relief. Just… release.

“Me neither,” she murmurs. “But I’m still here.”

She steps back. Gives you space. Doesn’t push.

“I won’t bring it up again,” she says. “But I had to say it. Just once.”

You nod. Almost imperceptibly.

And she leaves the gym, sweat-soaked and silent, like she just handed you her heart in a body bag.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Two weeks.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a pity-like on your stupid sarcastic meme in the group chat.

Natasha Romanoff, former best friend and maker of your “not-a-sex-tape,” has gone dark on you. You know she’s still in the compound—JARVIS told you when you asked if she was on mission. But it’s like she’s erased herself from your orbit.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be mad. Hurt. Guilty. Relieved.

You just feel hollow.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You weren’t together. You never were. You were friends, drunk, confused—nothing more. You’ve had meaningless flings. You’ve had blurred lines before. But this is Natasha.

You’ve never had silence with Natasha.

You think maybe that’s what’s killing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The final straw comes on a Sunday.

You pass her in the corridor.

Or rather—you don’t.

You hear her voice at the end of the hall, laughter in it, soft and easy. You freeze. You wait. You hope she’ll see you. Say your name. Even scowl. Something.

But she doesn’t.

She turns the corner, laughing with Sam, eyes shining, and never even looks your way.

And something in you shatters so quietly it doesn’t even echo.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t go to Wanda right away.

You sit on it. Let it curdle. Try to swallow it down like spoiled milk and pretend it’s still edible.

It takes you three days.

And then you knock on her door like a ghost.

She opens it barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair messy, no makeup—so soft and real it makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” she says, gentle as wind. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. Just step in and sit on the edge of her bed like your body is moving without permission.

She doesn’t push. Just closes the door and sits cross-legged across from you, waiting.

And you break.

“I think I fucked everything up.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Tell me.”

So you do.

You tell her about the night. The drunkenness. The tape. The moaning, the biting, the laughing, the pretending.

You tell her about the fight. The hallway. The way Natasha said “You kissed me first” like it meant something.

You don’t cry. But your voice wobbles.

“I told her I didn’t know what I was doing. And I meant it. I still mean it. But she’s been avoiding me ever since, and I feel like—like I’ve lost her. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m more upset because I lost my best friend… or because I think I wanted more.”

Wanda doesn’t speak. She lets you fill the silence.

And you do.

“I always said I was straight. I believed it. Still kind of do. Or did, I guess. But that night…” You laugh—shaky and bitter. “That night didn’t feel like a mistake. And not just because the sex was good, which it was, obviously, I mean it’s Natasha—but because it was her. And it felt like—”

You pause.

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “Like something that was waiting to happen.”

Your eyes snap up. “Yes.”

She nods. “And now she’s gone.”

You nod back, helpless. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling. I keep thinking maybe I made it up. Maybe I wanted something she didn’t. Or maybe she wanted something I couldn’t give.”

“She wanted you,” Wanda says gently. “I saw it. I’ve felt it. For a long time.”

Your stomach twists. “Then why is she avoiding me?”

Wanda’s eyes are sympathetic. “Because you said you didn’t know what you were doing. Because you never told her if you regretted it. Because she’s scared she misread you.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. It’s not like I woke up the next day suddenly into women. It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Wanda says. “But hearts aren’t logical. And Natasha… she doesn’t risk them often. You’re not just someone to her.”

You flinch. “Then why won’t she talk to me?”

Wanda gives a small, sad smile. “Because she thinks talking to you might hurt more than silence.”

You let that sit. Heavy. Dense.

“She looked at me like I mattered,” you whisper. “Like I was hers.”

“You are,” Wanda says.

You shake your head. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to be. But you do need to tell her you’re still there. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s nothing more than that.”

You nod slowly.

Feeling unprepared and even more confused than before.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It’s been a week since you told Wanda.

You haven’t really left your room since.

Not in any meaningful way, anyway. You go out once a day, at most, grab something from the kitchen that barely qualifies as a meal, then disappear before anyone can talk to you. Sometimes you reheat leftovers and let them go cold in your hands. Other times you just stand at the counter until your chest starts to ache, then walk away. The others have stopped trying to stop you. You suppose they think you’re busy. Or brooding. Or just being you.

You’re not.

You’re… stuck.

Wrapped in a knot of thoughts you can’t undo, spiralling slowly inward.

You’ve never been good at sitting still with feelings, and now they’re the only thing left in the room.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You keep trying to rationalise it, make it make sense.

You and Natasha were always close. You’ve shared beds after missions. You’ve fallen asleep with your head in her lap more than once. She used to let you paint her nails while she complained about Clint. You used to steal her hoodies, and she used to steal your fries.

It was always touchy. Soft. Familiar.

Comfortable.

It was never supposed to hurt.

But now it does. It hurts every time she walks into a room and doesn’t look at you. Hurts every time you hear her voice down the hall and your chest clenches like it’s trying to keep itself from saying her name.

Hurts to realise you can’t un-know what she tastes like. Or what she sounds like with your name in her mouth like a secret.

You thought it was platonic.

You wanted to think it was platonic.

But you keep dreaming about her.

Keep waking up flushed and guilty and alone.

And that doesn’t feel very friendly.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

She hasn’t been in the same room as you since that morning in the kitchen—since you both laughed awkwardly about your accidental sex tape and agreed, without saying it directly, to pretend it never happened.

You don’t think she meant to cut you out of her life.

But she has.

She’s been avoiding you so obviously it’s almost funny.

You catch glimpses of her sometimes, in passing—leaving the gym as you walk toward it, stepping into the elevator just before you round the corner. A shadow of her in every doorway you’re too slow to reach.

But she’s not ignoring you.

Not really.

Because she’s still looking.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You notice it in the little things. You left a mug in the kitchen—one you always use, the chipped ceramic one with the whale tail handle—and the next day it was washed and back in your cupboard. You’re the only one who ever bothers to clean up after you. No one else would’ve cared.

A few days ago, you passed Steve in the hall. He gave you that tight-lipped smile of his and said, “Natasha mentioned you’ve been keeping to yourself. You alright?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t press.

You think she’s been asking around.

You think she’s been trying to spot you without seeing you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You spend hours sitting on the floor of your room with your back to the bed, your knees pulled up and a hoodie wrapped around you like armour. It’s hers—dark grey, oversized, still faintly scented like something warm. She gave it to you two years ago after a mission in the Alps, when you’d taken a fall through thin ice and come out shaking and soaked to the bone. She tossed it over your head like it meant nothing, said, “Don’t freeze to death before debrief, dumbass.”

You never gave it back.

You told yourself you liked the way it fit. That was all.

Now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You’re not sleeping much. Or at all.

The thoughts won’t shut up long enough to let you rest. You cycle through the same ones on repeat, trying to make them mean something. Trying to figure out when exactly things changed.

Was it in Prague, when she kissed your forehead after a night op?

Was it in that bar in Berlin, when she danced with you like you were the only one in the room?

Was it on movie nights, when she always pulled you into her side before the opening credits even rolled?

Or had it always been like this?

Had you just been too afraid to look at it straight on?

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The worst thing is you still want her here.

Even now, even after everything, you miss her.

You miss her laugh. You miss the way she teases you, always two steps ahead. You miss the way she used to throw popcorn at you during bad horror movies and tell you to shut up when you overanalysed the plot.

You miss your best friend.

But now you’re not sure if that’s all she was.

You don’t know what she is to you anymore.

You don’t know what you are to her.

And that unknowing—that—is what’s undoing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The knock comes just after eight.

You’re sitting in the dark again, curled up on your bed with your back to the door, wearing her hoodie like a second skin and cradling a half-finished mug of lukewarm tea. You haven’t spoken to anyone in days.

The knock is soft.

Hesitant.

You freeze.

A second passes.

Then another.

Then a voice, low and uncertain: “It’s me.”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

You think maybe if you’re quiet enough, she’ll go away. You’re not sure you can handle this. You’re not sure you can breathe with her in the room.

But the knock comes again.

“Please.”

When you open the door, the light from the hallway stings your eyes.

Natasha stands there in a faded tank top and joggers, barefoot, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she regrets this already. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, her jaw tight. But her eyes—they soften the second they land on you.

You know what she sees.

The tear-burns drying at the corners of your eyes. The sleeves of her jumper pulled down over your fists like you’re hiding in it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

She just stares for a moment, taking you in, like she wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like it hurts her to see it.

Then, quietly: “Can I come in?”

You nod without meaning to.

She follows you inside like she’s holding her breath.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, legs folding under you automatically, and she hesitates before lowering herself beside you—close, but not close enough to touch. She doesn’t look at you. Her hands rest between her knees. Her body is angled slightly away, like she doesn’t know if she’s welcome here.

You want to touch her so badly it aches.

You want to pull her close and feel her settle into your side like she used to. You want to bury your face in her neck and inhale the comfort you’ve been missing for weeks.

But you don’t move.

And neither does she.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

It’s quiet. Careful.

You nod again, eyes fixed on your knees. “I’ve been fine.”

You haven’t.

She doesn’t push. Just hums, soft and non-judgmental.

“I was going to check on you sooner,” she says, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. “I kept meaning to.”

You wait for her to say but I didn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have to.

You look at her from the corner of your eye. The low light of your bedroom makes her look smaller than usual. Her posture’s curled in on itself, defensive. Or maybe nervous.

Natasha Romanoff. Nervous.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so fragile.

“What changed?” you ask quietly. “Why now?”

She shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “I didn’t see you all week.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I know.”

And that’s it. Just that. I know.

She doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t explain. Just owns it.

You almost wish she’d lie about it.

You don’t want to believe she had to choose to look for you.

You want her to have missed you.

You want her to—

“I missed you.”

You blink.

She’s looking at you now. She says it like it’s nothing.

Like it’s just a fact.

“I missed you,” she repeats. “Every day.”

You say nothing.

Your chest is filling with something you can’t name, something trembling and sharp at the edges. Something that wants to burst free.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

“I kept thinking about that night,” she says, voice softer now. “Trying to make sense of it. Wondering if I should’ve stopped us.”

You glance at her. Her brows are drawn in like she’s been stuck in this thought for days.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” she murmurs. “And neither were you.”

You feel your throat close a little.

“I think—” She breaks off. Sighs. “I think I wanted to believe we were more gone than we were. So I could tell myself it didn’t mean anything.”

The ache in your chest flares.

“And it did,” you whisper.

She nods.

You stare at her, stunned at the honesty in her face. No mask. No joke. Just… her.

She’s laying the pieces out for you.

All you have to do is say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out raw. Desperate. You didn’t mean to say it like that, like your ribs were cracking under the weight of it.

But maybe that’s the only way it could’ve come out.

Natasha freezes.

You stare down at your hands in your lap, blinking back heat in your eyes. You wish you’d eased into it. Said it pretty. Said it soft. You wish—

Her hand brushes yours. Then finds it. Her fingers curl around yours like they belong there. Your heart stutters. You look up. And she’s already leaning in.

The kiss is gentle. Quiet. Full of hesitation and history.

Her lips find yours like they’ve done it before—like they remember you.

There’s no firestorm this time. No drunken frenzy. No bite, no grab, no frantic unzipping of clothes. Just lips and hands and a slow ache in your chest that says home.

Her hand cups your jaw and your eyes flutter shut. You melt into her without a second thought, without even a choice. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around hers.

And it feels… right. Uncomplicated. Like this has always been waiting.

When you part, she keeps her forehead pressed to yours. Her breath warms your cheek.

“I knew,” she murmurs.

You frown faintly. “What?”

“I knew. Not that night. Before.” She breathes out a little laugh, short and self-deprecating. “I think I always knew.”

You want to ask why she never said anything. But you already know. The same reason you didn’t. You thought it was platonic. You wanted it to be platonic. Because that would’ve been easier. Because this? This changes everything. And somehow, it feels like you’ve never been more okay with that.

She kisses you again.

But it’s not gentle, not this time.

There’s something desperate in it, something deeper — not rough, but urgent. Like she’s only just allowed herself to want this, and now she’s starved.

You respond without thinking.

Her mouth moves against yours with more meaning, more ache, and when her hands find your waist, your ribs, the side of your neck — you let her. You open to her like it’s instinct, like your body remembers her even if your memory pretended to forget.

Clothes come off slowly.

Not in a frantic way, not like last time. You take your time now. Eyes on each other. Lingering touches. Bare skin unveiled like something sacred. Her fingers trail your spine. Your breath catches. She whispers your name like it’s a confession, and when you tilt your head back and exhale, her mouth finds the hollow of your throat like it belongs there.

You melt for her. You burn.

Your bedsheets get ruffled. Pillows shoved out of the way. Her hands never leave your skin, not for a second. You’re not drunk this time — you feel every press, every kiss, every moment with aching clarity.

You give yourself to her like it’s the first time.

Because it is.

This time, you’re awake for it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sleep tangled up in each other. Her arms around your waist. Your head buried in her collarbone. Her heartbeat against your ear, steady and human and soft.

There’s no shame. No dread in your gut. No fear of what tomorrow will mean.

You don’t stay up all night replaying the footage in your head.

Because this time, there is no footage.

No witness.

Just her. Just you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The morning sunlight is softer than it was three weeks ago.

It bleeds across your floor in gold, catching on the outline of her shoulder where the covers have slipped low. Her skin is marked — lightly scratched and bitten in places where you’d been too caught up to think. And you know you match her now.

You wake in a bed full of heat, skin to skin, and you don’t flinch.

You don’t panic.

You just… lie there. Still. Warm. Whole.

Your cheek is pressed against her bare shoulder. Your legs tangled under the duvet. Her breath stirs your hair every so often. She hasn’t woken yet — or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

It’s peaceful.

It’s right.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You lie like that for a while, unmoving.

Your muscles are sore. Your throat’s dry. Your heart feels raw, but not in a bad way. More like you cracked open last night, and now everything else feels sharper. Realer.

Natasha shifts a little behind you and her arm curls around your waist without needing to be asked.

You close your eyes.

You wonder if she’s thinking the same thing you are — that this is where you were always supposed to end up. That maybe, despite everything, despite the silence and the fear and the three weeks of pretending… this was inevitable.

Maybe you both just needed to get out of your own way.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t speak yet.

There’s no need.

Not now.

Last time, you woke in this bed naked and marked and full of questions. You spent the whole day terrified that it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

This time, you don’t even need to look for answers.

She gave them to you last night.

In the way she touched you.

In the way she looked at you like you weren’t a secret.

In the way she kissed you like you belonged to her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You shift a little, slow and careful, to face her. The duvet slips off your bare shoulder. She blinks awake at the movement — or maybe she was already awake, just like you.

Her eyes meet yours. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You just smile, small and honest. She mirrors it.

Then her hand reaches to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a full-body warmth curling through your chest.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it.

And she meets you halfway. The kiss is soft this time. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just real.

[Masterlist]