purifiedclitoris69

[purifiedclitoris69]

It’s okay

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Black Widow!fem!Reader

Summary: falling out of love is okay, even if it does hurt.

Word count: 1,516

Warnings: angst. tiny bit of fluff.

Masterlist

The forbidden relationship between the two Black Widows where they kissed in the dark, held hands in secret, yearned for each other even when they stood side by side, became a relationship where they could do all of it in public and know that they wouldn’t be punished.

For ten long years they stood side by side, defending the other when needed, had each other’s back when on missions, it had been ten years full of love and affection - okay that’s a lie.

Maybe seven years or eight.

Neither one of them could pinpoint the moment where the love they had for each other dwindled, it just kind of happened - almost slowly and yet it didn’t seem to surprise either one of them.

There was no betrayal or accusations of cheating - there was never any doubt that they would do that to each other. There was no big argument that caused one to storm out of their room, no harsh words spoken or insults thrown at each other.

There was nothing that led to the breakdown of their relationship other than simply falling out of love with each other.

And that hurt more if they were honest.

They had known each other since they were children that went through so much tougher, the pain and suffering they endured was done together, escaping from the Red Room together, starting a new life with the Avengers even though Y/n was skeptical at first Natasha refused to leave her side stating that if she didn’t want to join than neither would she.

Their conversations once full of deep and meaningful words or talks about how their day went became pretty much non-existent. When they spoke now it was full of awkward silences as one tried to rack their brain to come up with something to fill in the awkwardness.

Once upon a time neither one could keep their hands off the other, it wasn’t always sexual but rather a comfort or a reminder that they were together just by simply resting a hand on the other's thigh or linking their pinky fingers together as they sat in comfortable silence as they read a book or watched a film. But now sex became almost a chore, kisses were quick, their hands now remaining to themselves.

For two maybe three years they kept it up, neither one wanted to be the one that said the words that would end everything they knew and grew to be comfortable with.

Both of them had tried to keep a hold of the love they had, even tried to force it but nothing they did worked.

It was a week after their eleventh anniversary - one that they didn’t celebrate because Y/n was on a mission with Steve and Bucky, the two super soldiers sharing a look of confusion as the woman didn’t make a run for it the second debriefing had finished like she always did to get to her other half, instead she told them that she would do the paperwork, waving them off when they asked if she was sure.

Stretching with a dramatically loud groan she checked the time on her phone, her eyes instantly closing in frustration. She hadn’t realised how late it was.

Pushing herself off of the semi comfortable chair, she made sure that everything was turned off before leaving the office and slowly made her way towards the bedroom she shared with her girlfriend.

Creeping into the room, making sure to keep her footsteps light as the last thing she wanted to do was wake up the redhead, noticing that the lamp was on she expected to find her girlfriend asleep - nearly screaming when she saw that she wasn’t.

Letting out a low chuckle, Nat smoothed out the blanket she had covered herself with. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” The redhead kept her eyes downward as Y/n changed into her nightwear, the air in the room became thick as the silence grew.

Choosing to sit on the chair near the bed Y/n twisted the ring gifted by Nat around her finger. There was so much both of them wanted to say but neither one wanted to break the other's heart. “Wh- what are you looking at?” She decided to ask breaking the tension - gesturing to the box sat upon her girlfriend's lap.

Lifting up something from inside the box Y/n sat puzzled by the small piece of paper. “Remember the first time we went to the cinemas? It was a completely new experience for us.” A small smile lit up her tired face. “Then you tripped up the step and dropped the popcorn.”

Groaning in embarrassment they both burst out laughing at the memory. “I couldn’t see where I was going!”

“Yeah, yeah.” She winked. “Remember getting told off because we couldn’t stop laughing?”

“Yes! They were so bossy!” Y/n laughed, prompting Nat to roll her eyes but couldn’t disagree with the statement. “Did- did you keep the ticket?”

“I’ve kept pretty much everything.” She whispered shyly. Pulling out a small very dried petal. “From the first bouquet of flowers you gave me.”

“You had been on a mission that went wrong, I wanted to cheer you up so I brought flowers because that’s what Tony does for Pepper when she’s sad.” The other Black Widow shrugged - remembering how lost and out of place she felt when she stood in the florist shop, listening intently as the shop owner explained the different meanings behind each colourful flower. “I had never seen you smile so wide before, and I was so proud of myself-”

“Then Tony mocked the bouquet because it was small.” Nat cut in. The redhead hated the way her girlfriend's eyes turned sad and the way she tried to make herself look smaller as the billionaire laughed loudly at the bouquet that Natasha proudly showed off. “I always hated him for that.”

Shrugging as if the laughter that came from the man she calls a friend didn’t still bother her. “He was right though, I should have gotten you a-”

“No. Don’t even say that.” She cut in again. “I loved them and all the rest that you got me over the years.”

“I know but-”

“No buts.” She smiled softly. Wanting to change the subject she looked through the box again, Nat pulled out a few prize tickets from the first time they went to an arcade. “I’m still pretty convinced you were cheating that day.”

“Wha- why? Wasn’t my fault you kept getting distracted!”

“Y/n you had over a thousand tickets within half an hour.”

“And? I was just better than you.”

Nat rolled her eyes at the comment but made no attempt to correct her. “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”

“It was, I don’t think we’ve ever laughed so much or-or even felt like we were just normal people.”

The redhead smiled sadly as her head bopped slowly up and down, as the room went silent she kept looking through the box, with each item she saw the more her heart ached, as each memory played on a loop around her head tears began to blur her vision - desperately trying not to let them fall down her cheeks. “Y/n-”

“I know. It’s okay.”

Hearing those words come out of her girlfriends mouth didn’t hurt as much as it should have, the reason the tears fell from her eyes freely was because it was confirmation that their relationship had come to an end. They may no longer be in love with each other anymore but that didn’t mean they didn’t have love for the other, Nat would forever consider the beautiful woman sitting on the chair across from her with her own tears falling down her cheeks - her best friend. She would still trust her to defend and have her back on and off missions. She would always be there if Y/n ever needed her.

Natasha would always have love for Y/n. Always. “I'm so sorry it came to this.”

Y/n would always have for Natasha. Always. “There’s no reason to be sorry. You know I will always love you, don’t you?”

Nodding with a sad smile on her lips, she hastily wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “And I will always love you.”

“So this is it?”

“I-” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she nods. “I’ll go and sleep else-”

The redhead quickly interrupts somewhat dreading the response she will get. “No stay, please. Just for one more night please let me hold you.” A small smile on her lips as her now ex-girlfriend, forever her best friend, nods with a smile on her own lips as the tears continued to fall.

Maybe one day they could fall in love with each other again, feel the spark they once had, go back to feeling whole when the other one is nearby, even learn new things about the other, maybe get the ending they both craved and planned.

Maybe.

Tags: @bycinnamoons

[purifiedclitoris69]

༄ `. 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 & 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒

summary: natasha romanoff’s two-year-old daughter, nova, is just like her—guarded and slow to trust— but when nova's longtime pediatrician is replaced by the younger, warm-hearted dr. Y/N L/N, gaining nova's trust quicker than any other stranger did, something shifts.

genre : single mom!natasha, pediatrician!reader, non-red room past au. (age is non specified but reader is not past twenty-five)

warnings : fluff, slow burn(?), strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy & warmth, hurt/comfort, death mention (no need to freak out here, just read), fussy mini-widow.

word count : 3.2k // masterlist

an : pleeeaaaseee tell me i haven't been the only one craving for full fluff lately so im serving y'all some. also stan mama nat 100% !

Natasha stood in the middle of her living room, holding one tiny crumpled pair of pastel pink socks. Across from her was her two-year-old daughter sat on the floor in her diaper and nothing else, arms crossed, bottom lip out, expression fierce.

“Don’t want pink,” Nova declared, enunciating each word like a threat.

Natasha exhaled through her nose with all her will patience. “We’ve been through this, milyy. All the purple ones are in the laundry. The pink ones are clean, soft, and objectively non-threatening.” (sweetie)¹

“No!” Nova shouted. “Pink is ugly!” Though, the word sounded more like 'ugwy'.

“You said pink was beautiful yesterday.” Natasha squatted down beside her, her voice still calm — or, well, calm-ish. “You told Steve it was your ‘princess color.’”

Nova looked her straight in the eye. “I changed my mind.”

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something in Russian.

“We’re already fifteen minutes late, malen'kiy, and I will not let a pair of $3 Target socks be the reason we miss your check-up.”

The mini redhead, clearly unfazed by her mother’s internal spiral, picked up a stuffed giraffe and began chewing on one of its ears.

Natasha knew this battle. She knew it oh so well.

She’d fought aliens with less resistance than her daughter gave her over anything remotely involving clothes. But she also knew that at the end of the day, she was a puddle for this kid.

A helpless, hopeless puddle.

“Okay,” The elder sighed, standing up. “No socks. Go rogue. But you have to wear something, baby. Can we at least agree on pants?”

Nova considered this. “Dinosaurs.”

Recently, most things she liked where boy-ish due to constantly being around Nathaniel at the Barton's. He and Nova were bestfriends in the whole universe at this point and wherever Nate went or whatever he did, Nova followed.

Not even half an hour in the car :

“I swear on all that is sacred, Nova Rose Romanoff—if you throw that juice pouch one more time, I am turning this car around.”

A dramatic little sigh came from the backseat.

“No!” Nova shrieked.

“That's your third one,” Natasha muttered through clenched teeth, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Third. And it’s not even 9 AM. What happened to the child who loved apple juice yesterday?”

“Changed my mind,” Nova declared, legs kicking against her car seat like a storm.

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose at the red light. “You're two. You don’t have a mind to change.”

But Nova only huffed, her lips put in that usual exaggerated pout with crossed arms that amused the Russian. Nova was a sweetheart but could also be stubborn at times. And she didn't hesitate to be hard headed with her mama just to get the last word.

Oh Natasha cursed at herself from how excited and eager she was about getting a mini version of herself two years ago.

She regretted that now because it just seemed like fighting herself but a younger version.

This was her morning. A typical Wednesday. Natasha Romanoff, former top SHIELD agent and current certified toddler negotiator, on her way to what should’ve been a quick pediatric check-up—Nova had other plans.

“No juice, no socks, no talking,” Nova added firmly from the back. “Only Mama.”

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. “I am Mama.”

Mini Widow blinked, “Then just you. No Doctor Lady.”

Natasha frowned. “Since when do you not like Helen?”

“Don’t want.”

“Too bad. You’ve got a check-up.”

Nova crossed her arms. “Nova will bite her.”

“You will not bite your pediatrician. Biting doesn’t earn you candy, volchitsa.”

But Nova wasn't taking the interdiction. They arrived at the clinic a few minutes later — Nova attached at her mom's hip, hands gripping Natasha's shirt sleeve because her tantrums switched to her being clingy now.

The receptionist at the front desk greeted the Russians with a cheerful smile.

“Miss Romanoff, Nova, it's good to see you two again.” Natasha gave a small polite smile in return, only so because she was familiar to that receptionist. “Just a heads-up, Dr. Helen’s on leave for a few months. You’ll be seeing Dr. Y/N L/N today.”

Natasha blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Dr. Y/N. Helen’s niece.”

Natasha’s mind stuttered. Helen had always been steady. Older, gentle, just clinical enough to keep Natasha comfortable. Nova had barely warmed up to her. The idea of a new doctor, without warning, had Natasha’s protective instincts spiking like wildfire.

“Right,” She muttered. “Fine.”

“Romanoff?”

And here appeared someone who was definitely not Dr. Helen L/N like she, nor Nova, expected.

Natasha turned toward the soft voice — and her defenses faltered.

You, younger, fresher-faced, stood in the doorway wearing light blue scrubs covered in little whales, a clipboard in hand and an apologetic smile on your lips.

Despite so, she followed you after you nodded toward the consultation room and made your way back inside, the door left open for them to come in.

The consultation room looked the same as always — seafoam green walls, a faded Captain America poster on one side, a low exam table with crinkly paper.

“Sorry to surprise you,” You said. “Helen let me take over while she’s recovering. You must be Natasha — and this is Nova?”

“She’s...not great with change,” Natasha said, her voice dry.

“She doesn’t have to be,” You replied gently. Then you crouched down. “Hi, Nova. I know I’m not Dr. Helen, but I’m gonna take care of you today. Would it help if I let you pick the color of the stethoscope?”

Nova didn’t speak. She narrowed her eyes and Natasha held her breath.

You pulled a drawer open just enough for a rainbow of stethoscopes to peek out — bright red, yellow, purple, even a glittery one.

“This is a trap,” Nova whispered.

You grinned. “It’s not. But it is sparkly.”

And instead of doing so much as hiding behind her mother's leg or start to pick a tantrum over not wanting to be approached by a stranger, Nova crept forward slowly, like a suspicious cat, catching Natasha off guard. She pointed. “That one.”

“The purple one?” You asked.

Nova nodded.

“Solid choice,” You smiled. “I think purple’s the color of royalty.”

“She is that,” Natasha muttered under her breath.

From that moment on, Nova was suspiciously cooperative — by her standards. She tolerated the stethoscope, allowed you to check her ears (with some bribes). She even answered your questions, one-word at a time and even insisted on holding your hand instead of her mother’s.

However, threw a tantrum when you checked her heartbeat too long.

But you never flinched. You just worked around it, speaking softly, giving her control in little ways.

It worked.

She made you sit against the wall, clumsily dragging the tape along your arm.

Natasha watched it all from the corner. Her expression unreadable — but her eyes didn’t miss a thing.

“She’s spirited,” You said once Nova finally sat still, cheeks flushed from all her fuss and fun.

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Natasha replied. “Most people call her a gremlin.”

“She’s two,” You stated. “Being a gremlin is part of the job.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You have kids?”

“No. But I’ve been around enough toddlers to know they run the world.”

The Russian’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. It wasn’t a smile — not quite — but it was something close. “Not many people handle her like that.”

“She’s not difficult,” You added honestly. “She just needs to know I'm not faking it.”

That got Natasha’s attention.

Your eyes met hers, and for a second, the air shifted. So you kept going,

“Kids like her? They read people. If I'm not real, they won’t trust me. She trusted me today. Not fully — not yet, at least. But she didn’t bite me.”

“She did threaten to,” Natasha deadpanned.

You chuckled. “Progress.”

Nova suddenly climbed into Natasha’s lap, curling up against her shoulder with an exaggerated yawn. Natasha automatically wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her unruly curls.

“Tired already?” she murmured.

“I bite you later,” Nova whispered.

Natasha smirked. “Looking forward to it.”

You turned back to them with the updated chart. “She’s doing great. Still on the taller end of the spectrum, but healthy. Oh, and the sparkly band-aids? She can take two.”

Nova perked up immediately.

“Three,” She countered.

You leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Only if you promise not to bite your mom.”

Nova considered. Then nodded once.

Natasha watched the exchange, something warm blooming behind her ribs. And when you handed Nova the band-aids — purple, sparkly, with tiny bears — she watched her daughter’s face light up, and for the first time all morning, she felt her tension ease.

Natasha looked down at the toddler in her lap. Nova was peeling a band-aid and trying to stick it on Natasha’s cheek.

Nova Romanoff was a different child now. Well—not different. She was still dramatic, stubborn, and suspicious of anyone who came too close to her cereal bowl. But ever since she met you, she had decided that pediatric visits weren’t all that terrible.

Which both impressed and annoyed Natasha.

Impressed, because Nova wasn’t exactly the trusting type.

Annoyed, because—well. Because Natasha wasn’t sure why it annoyed her.

Two weeks after that first visit, Nova skipped into the clinic wearing matching socks (a rare feat) and handed you a crumpled sticker she’d saved from home.

“It’s a giraffe,” She declared. “Because your neck is long.”

Natasha almost choked on her coffee. You just laughed like it was the best compliment you’d gotten all day.

A month later, Nova insisted on drawing you a picture. It featured a vaguely human blob and Natasha didn’t ask questions.

By the third visit, Nova was sitting calmly on the exam table, letting you check her ears while humming some nonsense song she’d made up.

“Do you bribe her?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes as Nova happily let you touch her hair (which she never let anyone except her mama do).

You gave her a look. “Just magic,” You replied with a small smile. “The good kind.”

Natasha hated how easily you smiled.

No—she didn’t hate it. She just… noticed it too much for her liking.

She noticed the way you talked to Nova like she was a person, not a checklist, not an obligation.

The way you remembered little things—like that Nova hated cold stethoscopes and loved green lollipops. The way you never looked at Natasha like she was some intimidating figure with a history, but just a mom trying to juggle a complicated toddler and too much coffee.

The crush snuck up on her. Quiet. Persistent. Inconvenient.

She told herself it was just admiration or professional respect.

Hormones, maybe.

But it was a week later when the random run-in happened.

Natasha wasn’t planning on going into the bookstore while it was raining, but Nova had seen a plush unicorn in the window and launched into a full dramatic plea to “rescue it from the loneliness.”

So there they were—Natasha in jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap pulled low. Nova bouncing beside her with the unicorn clutched tight to her chest.

They were turning down an aisle when the elder redhead heard your voice.

“I know I said one book, but it’s three for two. That’s like financial responsibility, if you think about it.”

You were talking to yourself. Or to your basket. Either way, it made Natasha pause.

You hadn’t seen her yet.

She watched you for a moment longer than she meant to—sleeves pushed to your elbows, your face lit up softly by the overhead light, hair always pulled up in that lazy but somehow flawless ponytail. There was a little crease between your brows as you tried to decide between two picture books.

Nova didn’t hesitate. “DOCTOR GIRAFFE!”

You got startled, almost dropping the books. Then you turned—and grinned.

“Well if it isn’t the Romanoffs,” You spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Unicorn emergency,” Natasha deadpanned.

You nodded solemnly. “Those are the most serious kinds.”

Nova marched forward. “Look! Her name is Rainbow Power. She needs to read books or she’ll be lonely.”

“Sounds like she’s going to need at least two stories a night,” you said, crouching to eye-level.

Nova lit up like a lantern. “Three.”

“Now you’re just negotiating like your mother.”

Natasha, from behind, cleared her throat. “She gets that from someone else.”

You stood and gave her a knowing look. “Right.”

There was a pause. A quiet, soft moment that neither of you filled immediately.

“I didn’t know you liked this place,” You said after a beat.

Natasha shrugged. “It’s close. And Nova likes the kids’ section.”

You glanced at the overflowing display of picture books and then back at her. “Well, next time you come, let me know. I’m here more often than I’d like to admit.”

Nova tugged on your sleeve. “Can Rainbow Power and I read with you?”

You looked at Natasha.

She blinked. “Oh. I—”

“I mean, only if you don’t mind,” You stated, voice easy. “We could grab the little beanbags in the corner. No pressure.”

Natasha looked at Nova. Then at you.

Then at Nova again, whose face had the kind of hopeful look that could shatter steel.

“…Sure,” Natasha said slowly. “Why not.”

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a few pages read in quiet voices, with Nova nestled between you on one side and Natasha on the other. The sound of the rain outside softened everything.

You let Nova “help” you turn the pages and didn’t correct her when she misspelled an unknown word you read because, yes, the little one picked-up on words and expressions very fast for her age. Natasha noticed the way you smiled, the way you listened. Really listened.

It wasn’t dramatic or heart-pounding. It wasn’t some movie-worthy lightning strike.

But by the time Rainbow Power had been tucked into Nova’s arms and three books had been read twice, Natasha realized something kind of terrifying:

She wanted to see you outside that clinic again. For no medical reason whatsoever.

And for Natasha Romanoff, that was a problem.

Natasha had faced aliens, robots, espionage, and near-death missions.

But nothing —nothing— was as nerve-wracking as standing outside a pediatric clinic with slightly sweaty palms, wondering if she should pretend she just forgot to reschedule a check-up for Nova. Again.

“She’s not even going to be in today,” She muttered to herself, leaning against the wall with her phone out, pretending to scroll. “This is dumb.”

Because ever since the bookstore run-in, Natasha hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

It wasn’t just the way you made Nova feel seen and safe. It was the way you talked to her, too. Like she wasn’t broken or sharp-edged. Like you liked her just the way she was, awkward silences and all.

So yeah. Maybe she wanted to see you again. Not as Dr. Y/N. Not as Nova’s pediatrician.

Just you. Y/N.

She exhaled slowly and walked toward the clinic doors before she could talk herself out of it. Again.

You were at the front desk, head tilted toward the receptionist as you scribbled something down. You looked up when you heard the soft chime of the door.

Your smile appeared instantly. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite mother.”

Natasha blinked. “You... say that to all the moms?”

You grinned. “Only the ones who have daughters with opinions about giraffes.”

She didn’t know what to do with that, so she nodded like that meant something.

There was a beat of silence. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leaned slightly on the counter.

“Everything okay with Nova?” You questioned gently.

“Yeah,” Natasha said quickly. “No check-up today.”

You arched a brow. “Then what brings you in?”

Here it was. The moment.

Natasha had practiced this. Sort of. She’d stood in front of the mirror and said ‘Hey, do you wanna grab coffee sometime?’ about six different ways, all of which made her sound like she’d been hit on the head recently.

But now?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing came out.

“Uh...” She started, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to your face.

You waited, patiently soft.

“I was just—nearby. And I remembered that Nova left one of her, um… plushies. Here. Maybe.”

You blinked. “Oh? Which one?”

“Uh. The… purple one?”

You turned to look behind the desk. “Do you mean the sparkly goat that she tried to trade me for three dinosaur stickers?”

“…Possibly.”

You retrieved the plush and set it gently on the counter. “She’s been safe and sound. We gave her honorary staff status.”

Natasha huffed a laugh. “Good. She’s a tough negotiator.”

Another pause.

You tilted your head. “Was that all?”

She had to ask. Now or never.

Natasha cleared her throat. “Actually—there was something else.”

You straightened slightly.

“I was wondering,” She said slowly, cautiously, like the words might turn and bite her, “if… sometime soon… if you wanted to get a coffee.”

You blinked again.

Then smiled.

Natasha panicked. “For Nova. I mean. Obviously.”

Natasha pushed on. “Like—for Nova to be around other adults. Or whatever. She needs social enrichment, and you’re good with her, and you like books, and—coffee—do you like coffee?”

You nodded slowly, huffing a chuckle. “Yeah. I do.”

“Great,” Natasha said, as if she’d just run a marathon. “That’s good.”

There was a moment of silence. Then your lips quirked.

“Natasha,” you said gently. “Are you asking me out?”

Natasha froze.

You watched her, head tilted, kindness glowing in your expression. “Because if you are, you don’t have to make it about Nova. I’d say yes.”

Natasha stared.

“You would?”

You laughed. “Is that surprising?”

“I don’t—usually do this.”

Your voice dropped an octave. “Ask people out?”

“Yeah. Especially not doctors.”

You leaned closer, resting your elbows on the counter. “Especially not ones your daughter wants to share juice boxes with?”

“She never offers juice to no one,” Natasha said solemnly. “Not even her aunt.”

“Wow,” you teased. “I’m honored, then.”

Natasha rubbed the back of her neck. “So... uh. Saturday? Coffee?”

“Saturday,” you confirmed. “Text me?”

She nodded. You handed her the sparkly goat plush and slid a small card with your number across the counter.

“I’ll see you then,” you said, smiling like you already knew it would go well.

Natasha turned to leave, goat in hand, face slightly flushed.

From the car, Nova clapped her hands as soon as Natasha opened the door.

“Did you ask?”

Natasha sighed. “Yes.”

Nova leaned forward with wide, expectant eyes. “Are you gonna kiss her face?”

“Not yet.”

Nova slumped dramatically. “Then what was the point?”

Natasha had changed her shirt three times.

And by changed, she meant stood in front of her mirror and stared at herself in increasingly uncharacteristic sweaters before giving up and putting her black leather jacket over a soft green tee that Nova called “the nice one.”

“You look like a sandwich,” Nova had declared, munching toast in her pajamas. “That’s good.”

“Thanks?” Natasha muttered.

Now she was sitting across from you in a cozy, not-too-loud, not-too-crowded coffee shop tucked beside a bookstore. You were already there when she arrived — somehow both casual and radiant in a dark wool coat and soft scarf. You’d greeted her with that easy smile that made her forget basic words.

She’d brought Nova’s sparkly goat plush in her bag, just in case she needed a conversation starter.

So far, she hadn’t needed it.

“I’m glad you called,” you said, sipping your drink, warm mug between your hands.

Natasha glanced at you. “Yeah. I, uh… I’m glad you said yes.”

You gave her a look that was kind and teasing at once. “I don’t make a habit of saying no to smart women with adorable daughters and terrible flirting skills.”

Natasha huffed. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You tried to blame your attraction on a plushie.”

“I panicked!”

You grinned, and Natasha couldn’t help but return it. This was easier than she thought it would be. Less terrifying.

You talked. About Nova, about books, about how you once tried to volunteer at a wildlife rescue and got bitten by a duck.

Natasha laughed out loud — not just the quiet breathy laugh she gave people who expected her to be human. A real one.

You looked at her like the sound made your chest warm. And maybe it did.

“I think she likes you,” Natasha said quietly, eventually, her coffee going lukewarm in her hand.

���Nova?”

She nodded.

“She doesn’t like many people.”

Your smile softened. “I noticed. She reminds me of you. The way she watches first, then chooses. The way she doesn’t pretend to like people she doesn’t trust. But once she’s in… she’s in. Loyal. All heart.”

That made something tight and tender twist in Natasha’s chest. She looked down, unsure what to say.

“I like her,” You added gently. “A lot.”

Natasha looked up.

Your expression was soft. Honest.

“I like you, too,” You continued, voice quieter but honest.

And just like that, she wasn’t nervous anymore. She was just—warm. Surprised by how easy it felt to be seen like this. Genuinely.

She opened her mouth to say something — she didn’t know what yet — when your phone buzzed on the table.

You glanced at the screen, the easy light in your face faltering.

Natasha caught it instantly.

“Everything okay?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The phone buzzed again. Same name. You swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” you said under your breath, already reaching for it. “It’s the hospital. Where my aunt—where Helen is.”

Natasha sat straighter. Her voice was steady, low. “You should answer.”

You did.

“Y/N L/N speaking,” you said gently. Then a pause. A longer one.

Natasha couldn’t hear what was said, but she didn’t need to. She saw it in your face — the slow, unraveling expression. The way your hand clutched the phone just a little tighter.

Natasha sat up slightly, noticing the change in your posture — the way your shoulders drew inward, bracing.

Your face froze.

The warmth of the café blurred into the background. Natasha could hear the blood rush behind her own ears as she watched your expression fall.

Your voice cracked, so quiet. “What?”

Another pause.

Then, shakier, “When?”

Your hand, gripping the phone, trembled slightly. Natasha reached out on instinct, her fingers brushing yours across the table — steady, grounding.

You finally nodded, though your eyes were wet. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll be there.”

You hung up slowly.

Natasha didn’t pull away. “Y/N?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. Just a few seconds of shallow breathing. And then, quietly, as if afraid saying it out loud would make it more real:

“It was the doctor...”

Natasha’s chest tightened.

“Helen, She—” You blinked quickly, trying to hold it together. “She passed. A few minutes ago. Complications from the surgery last week. It wasn’t supposed to be—she was recovering—she was—”

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha said softly, voice low, warm.

There was a beat of silence. Then you stood abruptly, grabbing your coat, your phone. “I have to go. I need to—tell my mom. I need to be with her. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Natasha said, rising with you. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

You shook your head, head spinning. “No—no, it’s fine, I can—”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

That silenced you.

You nodded, eyes glossy.

“I didn’t—” Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t ready.”

Natasha reached across the table without thinking, hand finding yours.

You didn’t pull away.

“She was stubborn,” you said quietly, blinking fast. “She’d been sick a while. But she kept joking about living to a hundred. I really thought we had more time.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said again, and she meant it with everything she had. “I can drop you wherever you need.”

You smiled, shakily. “Thank you.”

She drove you in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty — just soft, full of understanding. When you reached your apartment, she put the car in park and turned toward you.

“I’m here,” she said. “Okay? If you need anything.”

You nodded. “I know.”

A beat of quiet passed.

Then you leaned in and hugged her — not long, not lingering. Just real.

You stared at her, eyes glossy and wide, and then nodded. You exhaled, shaky and heavy.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was a good coffee,” she said, softly.

You gave a tiny nod. “I’m sorry the date ended like this.”

“It didn’t end,” Natasha said gently, watching you. “It just paused.”

You looked at her, startled.

“I’ll wait,” she added. “As long as you need.”

For the first time since the call, something warm flickered in your eyes. You reached out, pressed your hand lightly to her arm.

“Thank you, Nat”

Natasha sat in the car long after you left, staring out the windshield, her heart caught somewhere between grief and something softer.

The funeral was small.

Helen had never wanted something grand. She hated pomp, avoided big parties, and always joked that if more than twenty people cried at her funeral, she’d come back and haunt them out of embarrassment.

Still, when you saw the turnout—old colleagues, a few former patients, your mother with red-rimmed eyes clutching tissues in one hand—you wished she could see it. The quiet reverence. The soft way people spoke her name.

The flowers were lavender, her favorite. The casket simple. She would’ve liked that. No drama. Just love.

You stood at the front with your family, hand squeezing your mother’s as the minister spoke.

But your eyes kept drifting back.

To Natasha.

And Nova.

The redhead sat near the back, dressed in quiet black. Her expression was unreadable to most, but you could tell—there was softness in the way she held Nova close on her lap, fingers gently stroking the girl’s back as she clutched a small bouquet of lavender sprigs in her chubby hands.

Nova had insisted on bringing them. Said they were “for the nice lady who always smelled like books.”

Natasha had tried to explain death to her. The finality of it. But Nova, being Nova, had decided she didn’t like final things.

“She’s just sleeping in the stars now,” she told Natasha with a frown. “We should still bring flowers.”

So they did.

After the service, you moved outside with the others. The overcast sky had held off for most of the morning, but a light mist had begun to fall. It wasn’t cold—just gently mournful, like the weather knew not to shout on a day like this.

Natasha approached as the crowd started to thin.

“Hey,” she said softly.

You turned. The moment your eyes met hers, the grief cracked your composure. You didn’t sob, but you blinked too fast and clutched your arms like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

Natasha didn’t hesitate.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

You sank into her without thinking. She was solid. Quiet. Steady.

Nova reached up with her little bouquet and pressed it gently to your arm.

Your throat burned as you knelt to her level, taking the lavender with trembling fingers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said, voice breaking.

Nova hugged you, small arms warm around your neck. Natasha watched her daughter with something soft in her eyes, like she couldn’t believe how easily she’d chosen you.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” Nova whispered. “You’re my doctor friend.”

You smiled through the ache. “I’m really lucky to be your doctor friend.”

Natasha gave you time, didn’t push, just stayed by your side as people offered their condolences. She was your anchor without trying to be.

Eventually, when only a few people remained, she touched your shoulder gently.

“Want me to walk you to your car?”

You nodded.

The walk was quiet. She carried Nova, who had started yawning, cheek pressed to her mother’s collarbone.

“I wasn’t sure I should come,” Natasha admitted, keeping her voice low.

You glanced at her.

“I’m glad you did,” you said honestly.

“She meant something to you.”

You nodded. “She raised me. My parents were around but… Helen was constant. She’s why I went into medicine. Why I even thought I could do it.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first, just listened.

“She must’ve been proud.”

You looked at her.

“She was,” you said. “She told me that. But I don’t think I ever told her how much she meant to me. Not really.”

“She knew,” Natasha said quietly. “Because I see the way Nova looks at you. And the way you look back.” Natasha offered a small smile. “It’s the same way you probably looked at Helen.”

Your eyes filled again. But this time, they didn’t spill. You breathed through it.

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” you asked softly. “Just for tea or something. Nova can nap if she wants.”

Natasha hesitated. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I’d like the company. And I think Nova wants more cookies.”

Nova stirred on her shoulder at the word cookies but didn’t protest. She just murmured, “Only if she makes the round ones.”

You smiled. “I always make the round ones.

And just like that, you left the funeral behind — not the grief, not the loss, but the moment — stepping slowly toward something that felt a little like healing.

A few weeks after Helen’s funeral.

Grief wasn’t loud. It came in stillness. In the half-sipped tea you forgot on the windowsill. In the voicemail you kept replaying just to hear the voice again. But it didn’t stop life.

You had gone back to work. Your patients needed you. Nova needed you. And — though you never said it aloud — you needed them too.

Especially Nova. And her mother.

It had started with Natasha picking Nova up after a check-up and asking if you wanted to grab lunch — “for Nova,” she’d said, like it wasn’t obvious she needed the pause too.

Then a few shared weekends — trips to the park, early brunches where Nova smeared syrup on both your sleeves. Movie nights with blankets and popcorn and a fussy two-year-old who always ended up asleep in one of your laps.

And slowly, quietly, without much fanfare, you and Natasha just fit.

Not in a whirlwind. Not in a fairytale.

But in the way you leaned toward each other when you laughed.

In how Natasha always texted you when Nova said something funny — she just told a pigeon to “get therapy” because it kept pacing.

In how she learned how you took your latte and always handed it to you without asking.

And in the way your apartment now had Nova’s favorite cup and spoon in the cabinet.

On a quiet Sunday evening, the three of you sat on your couch. Nova was curled between you, cradling a stuffed dinosaur you’d won her at a spring fair. She was almost asleep — half-lidded, thumb in her mouth, one hand tangled in your sweater.

Natasha’s voice was quiet.

“She didn’t used to be like this.”

You looked over.

“She hated new people. Didn’t even let Clint hold her until she was almost two.”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair from Nova’s cheek. “She’s still selective.”

“Exactly. That’s what gets me.” Natasha tilted her head slightly toward you. “She trusts you. Just clicked with you. It scared me at first.”

You blinked. “Scared you?”

“I’m not used to… things happening easily. Or quickly. Or softly.” Natasha looked down at Nova, then back at you. “You were soft with her. Patient. The kind of love that doesn't ask anything in return.”

Your heart ached in a good way.

“I liked you too before I even realized I did,” she said, almost like a confession. “And then you lost Helen, and you let me be there — even when you didn’t want to talk. That meant something.”

You watched her. “You mean something to me, too.”

Silence settled again, but it was warm.

Nova shifted in her sleep, turning into Natasha’s side with a little sigh. Natasha reached over and gently covered her with a throw blanket.

“She asked me last night if you were family,” Natasha murmured.

Your breath caught.

“And I told her… ‘not yet.’”

You smiled. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Then you better ask her fast.’” Natasha looked over at you, the corners of her mouth lifted. “So… I’m asking.”

You tilted your head, heart thudding softly. “Asking what?”

“To be part of your life. For real. Not just parks and tea and polite texts. I don’t want to just orbit around you anymore.”

You studied her — the nervous flicker in her gaze, rare and raw. The honesty. The slight tremble of her fingers as they brushed against yours.

“I don’t want that either,” you whispered.

And then, quietly, with Nova fast asleep between you, Natasha leaned in.

It wasn’t a movie kiss — no swelling music, no dramatic lighting. Just lips that found yours like they’d always known the way. Slow. Sure. Finally.

When you pulled back, Natasha rested her forehead against yours, exhaling something like relief.

Nova stirred.

Natasha blinked down at her, and you both waited — but all she did was mumble, “Can I have pancakes for dinner?”

You both laughed.

“You spoil her,” Natasha said with affection.

“She spoils me,” you replied.

And with Nova snuggled safely between you, the three of you sat in the dim, quiet room.

Not quite perfect. Not quite healed.

But together.

And that was enough.

an : oh, i love nova soo much already :((

[purifiedclitoris69]

[purifiedclitoris69]

Emergency Contact🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Paramedic!Reader

Summary: A Black Widow and a paramedic walk into a crisis… sparks fly and every date ends in explosions, sirens, or stitches.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and medical content, body horror/injuries, hospitals, near death experiences.

A/N: i said i was uploading only once per day but then i accidentally deleted a whole story and decided i want to put everything out there before i do it again:(

Of course today had to be the day you told the team you’d be fine riding solo. Short-staffed or not, you were more than capable of handling the small-scale emergencies that flared up around upstate New York on a near-daily basis. Until, of course, it wasn’t a small emergency but something that looked a lot like a war crime.

The call comes in, location just ten minutes out, backup en route. You slam your foot down on the gas. By the time you arrive, your adrenaline is already racing through your veins.

The devastation hits immediately. No warning, no time to process. Smoke hangs heavy, sirens scream from a distance and wounded voices cry out, all blending into a blur as you scan the area, trying to decide who needs you most.

That’s when you see him. Some unhinged wannabe waving a makeshift weapon, ranting about Captain America and world domination, flanked by a small army of fanatics armed with explosives, guns, and blades.

You breathe deep, slide out of the ambulance and immediately start shouting into your radio, directing incoming medics to where they’ll be most needed. You begin triage, weaving through crushed vehicles and debris, the smell of burning rubber thick in the air, your body running on instinct and urgency.

You drop to your knees beside a fallen officer, checking vitals, calling in for immediate medevac. The sirens are louder now, help is coming but for the moment, it’s just you, your training and the will to keep people breathing.

Then she arrives.

A flicker of black tactical gear cuts through the smoke like a shadow. Her presence is deliberate, almost haunting. Blood streaks down one temple, someone else’s, not hers and her eyes are scanning the chaos like she’s already piecing it all together.

“Who’s in charge here?” Her voice cuts through the noise, low, rough, and commanding. She eyes the wounded and then you, crouched over your kit bag

You look up, meeting her gaze. “I am. Unless you’re about to tell me otherwise.”

Something flickers across her face. Amusement? Respect? Maybe both. “There’s a structural weakness under the café.”She says. “You’ve got five minutes before it collapses.”

Your stomach knots. “Then you’d better help me move people.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

No questions. No attitude.

She lifts a wounded civilian with effortless ease, movements smooth and surgical. You admire watch her for a moment too long, almost forgetting the bleeding officer in your arms.

For a moment, everything feels suspended as the structure above you, creaks threateningly but you don’t stop. Not even when she assures you she can manage the last ones, you continue in sharp focus.

You don’t get her name that day. She’s already vanished into the smoke and shouting by the time backup arrives, a simple nod of respect in your direction before she disappears.

Later, someone tells you her name.

Natasha Romanoff.

And somehow, it stays with you, burned into the back of your mind.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You see her again three weeks later.

A warehouse raid has gone sideways. The kind of barely-contained disaster the Avengers occasionally ‘assist’ the NYPD with. The air is thick with smoke and metal, fire curling through the rafters, the scent of scorched debris clawing at your throat as you work fast, kneeling beside a young woman who clearly made a bad jump.

She’s semi-conscious, breath shallow, eyes fluttering. A deep gash stretches across her side, blood soaking into the concrete. Her femur’s bent wrong. She’s losing too much and way too fast. “How’s it looking, Doc?”

“Like you took on a scrapyard with no backup and lost.”

“Ha.” Her voice is dry, weak. “I like you. And that means something. I don’t like anyone. Except my dog.”

“You have a dog?” You keep pressure on her side while your hands work to assess the rest. Distraction is key, your training runs through your brain. “Name?”

“Fanny.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about her.”

You almost smile, almost but there’s too much blood running down your forearms to relax.

Then all of a sudden, she’s there.

Natasha drops into a crouch beside her sister like she stepped out of the smoke itself. Blood streaks her arm, soot across her face. She doesn’t speak at first, just scans her quickly with that same quiet intensity she carried the first time you met.

“She’ll be okay.” You assure, firm and even as you press into the wound, slowing the tide. The reassurance is more for Natasha than Yelena now.

Her eyes move from her sister to you. “She’s not like the others.” Natasha murmurs. Her voice is lower, protective in a way that feels primal.

You nod. “I know.” You’ve already heard the name shouted over comms but you test it out as her eyelids flutter. “It’s Yelena, right?”

Yelena stirs, just enough to find her sister’s eyes. A faint smile forms on her lips, like she’s finally safe.

“She didn’t ask for this,” Natasha speaks again. There’s something tight in her voice, like she’s barely holding back everything else she could say.

“You didn’t either.” Your voice is quiet but you don’t push further.

You refocus. “Okay, Natasha. We need to get her to the ambulance now. Her bleeding isn’t slowing enough. I need her stable, fast.”

She snaps to attention. “What do you need?”

“Wrap this just above the wound, tight enough to slow the bleeding but not enough to cut off circulation. Then pack it. Gauze is in the kit.” You barely finish the sentence before she’s already moving.

She’s efficient, clinical even. No hesitation as she does exactly what you ask of her.

You lay a sterile dressing over the wound, tape it down, then grab an oxygen mask, fitting it over Yelena’s face as she starts to fade. The air here is thick with smoke and heat. You can see her struggling.

“You can stay with her.” You say, voice firm as you begin to lift. “We’re moving now.”

With Natasha’s help, you ease Yelena onto a board, carefully immobilizing her leg. Natasha’s hands stay near, protective even in small movements. She watches every second like she’s analysing it, counting every breath Yelena takes.

Through the haze, you spot the ambulance. Two medics run toward you and you sag in relief. “What have we got?”

“Deep lateral wound, likely punctured muscle, possible fractured femur. She’s anemic, already hypotensive, you should start fluids now. She’ll need a transfusion.” You pause just long enough to lock eyes with one of them. “Saint Vincent’s. Trauma unit is waiting.”

“Copy. Team’s ready.” The medic’s already unpacking IV lines, sterile wrap and more blood stop. He looks to you. “You coming?”

You shake your head. “You’ve got it.” You’re needed here. Too many others are still waiting.

“I-”

“She should go.” You cut in, turning to Natasha. She looks pale, not from injury but something deeper. “Go with her. I’ll let your team know where you are.”

She doesn’t argue. Just nods once, something unreadable flickering across her face before she climbs into the back.

You pause at the door. “Take care of her.” You tell the medic, firmer than you mean to.

Then you close the doors, step back into the smoke and watch the ambulance vanish into the city.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You don’t expect to see the inside of Avengers Tower ever. But when a diplomat takes a hit to the lung during an attempted assassination, the call is clear. Nearest trauma facility, top-level clearance. Apparently, that means here.

Maybe it’s because he’s a diplomat. Or maybe it’s why he was targeted. Either way, no time for questions. You stabilize him in the back of your rig and hold on as your shift partner speeds through restricted streets straight to the back entrance of the most secure building in Manhattan.

You’re barely through the doors before a doctor, Dr Cho someone had muttered behind you, has already started setting up what looks like some sort of robotic surgical unit that makes even your most advanced trauma gear look medieval.

“You did great.” A male nurse comments, clapping your shoulder with a rehearsed kind of cheer. “But we’ve got it from here.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s not wrong. What are you going to do against a robot chamber that literally regenerates tissue?

You linger for a moment longer but then start walking out. Your blue uniform sticks out like a bruise against the suits and agents bustling through the halls. You keep your head down as you reach the elevator, trying not to look like you’re scoping out the place.

Just as the elevator doors open into the foyer, you nearly jump out of your skin.

“She said you might still be here.”

Natasha. Again.

She’s leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. No blood. No grime. Her hair’s brushed back, face clean. Somehow she looks even more dangerous like this, like contained chaos in civilian clothes.

“She?” You manage.

“Yelena.” She shrugs. “She’s getting her stitches out and saw you in the Medbay.”

You swallow. “She’s alright?”

Natasha nods. “Thanks to you.”

You shrug it off. “Just doing my job.”

“You always say that?” She asks, stepping a little closer.

“Only when it’s true.”

There’s a beat of silence where her eyes don’t leave yours.

“You always this calm?” She asks, quieter now.

“Only when it matters.” She smiles at that, looking at you in appreciation.

Just before she disappears again, you hear her say it, so quiet that you’re not sure you were meant to catch it at all.

“Thank you.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You’re pinned in the back of a collapsed transport, exactly one month later.

A botched extraction in lower Manhattan, disaster pressing in from every side. Your unit was called in for emergency evac, and instinct took over the second you saw hesitation in the others, new recruits maybe, or just frozen in the moment. They hesitated at the entrance, eyes wide, unsure.

You didn’t.

You moved. And fate, with its usual poor timing, answered by letting the floor drop out from under you.

A thunderous crash.

Then darkness.

Now you’re buried beneath what used to be the second story, trapped with four civilians and one injured, bleeding Avenger.

Your eyes sweep down your own body first, a small checklist in your head.

No major blood, no visible organs. But your shoulder screams, a sharp, white-hot pain that pulses deep. Dislocated. You know the feeling and you unfortunately know what comes next.

You grit your teeth, breathing slowly through the dizziness. Nausea churns in your gut as you spot jagged metal sticking out just beneath your collarbone. You don’t have the luxury of panic. You brace yourself against a bent support beam, grip your injured arm, and with one sharp breath.

Crack.

The pain hits like lightning. You swallow the noise that wants to tear out of you and let the heat wash over.

You stand, shaky but you make it on to two feet. Your training kicks back in as you scan the others, analysing who needs help first. One broken leg, a few concussions, a dislocated wrist, deep lacerations. Nothing major.

“Okay.” You rasp. “If you’re bleeding, stop it. Anything deep, press on it. Hard.” They nod.

They trust you. Your uniform, your voice, it’s all they have right now.

And then your eyes find her.

The redhead in the catsuit. Romanoff. A shard of some kind of shiny metal is lodged in her thigh, blood pooling fast. Her breathing is shallow, her hands clenched in pain. Her face is tight with effort but she hasn’t made a sound.

You kneel beside her and press your hands into the wound, firm and steady. “Hey. You with me?”

She grits her teeth. “You again.” She mutters, voice low and strained. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“We really do.”

“Did I just watch you reset your shoulder?”

“Would you believe me if I blamed it on blood loss?”

“No. But your lying’s as bad as your ability to take a compliment.”

You work quickly, ripping fabric from your shirt to start wrapping the wound. Her blood is hot against your skin. “You’re bleeding too fast, Romanoff. I need to-“

She grabs your wrist before you can finish. Her grip is strong, but there’s desperation beneath it. “Don’t leave me. Her voice is barely more than a whisper but it cuts right through you.

She doesn’t crack. But it’s enough to feel the weight in her voice, the fear trembling beneath her words.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You promise, steady. “But you need to stay awake. Talk to me. Keep fighting.”

And she does.

She murmurs stories. Some about Yelena, some about one time in Budapest, broken memories laced with fire, explosions and some man called Clint. You keep pressure on the wound, keep your breathing even, it’s all you have to offer her right now.

Above you, the rescue effort begins. Fire crews calling orders. Ropes and stretchers lowered. Paramedics waiting.

The others go up first. One by one, lifted to safety.

But you stay with her. They could have been rescuing for hours or a mere ten minutes, you have no idea. You just concentrate on keeping her breathing.

By the time they reach you, the wreckage above has cleared enough for daylight to pour in. You’re the last two pulled out.

Once you’ve reached the top, assured colleagues that you’re ok even with a small piece of jagged metal protruding from your collarbone. You move through crowds of firefighters, cops, medics, even other Avengers. But Natasha’s gone.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It’s much later when you find her again.

You’d dodged every attempt to haul you back to the hospital and instead made your way to the Tower, bluffing your way past security with a vague ‘request’ buried deep in post incident chaos. They bought it. Mostly. Maybe they were just tired of you dripping blood and gravel all over their polished floor.

Now you’re walking the corridors, through high-tech labs, sterile med bays, past dazed agents and equipment that looks more like it belongs to an alien than the medical unit, searching. Until you spot him again.

That same smug nurse.

“You make a habit of showing up here now?” He calls out, eyebrow cocked.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” You reply, keeping your voice polite but clipped.

He eyes your limp posture. “You look like you belong on the other end of the IV.”

“Yep. Definitely does look that way.”

“So what are you doing here instead of, I don’t know, your own hospital?”

“I’m looking for Natasha Romanoff.”

That stops him short. He tilts his head like he’s just solved a puzzle he didn’t like the answer to. “Agent Romanoff doesn’t do autographs, selfies, or fan mail. So if you’re about to pull out a sharpie and a headshot-“

“I’m not a fan.”

“Oh. Right. So a journalist pretending to be a paramedic? What’s next, you gonna explain what an IV stands for?” His laugh borders on mocking and it takes everything in you not to deck him with your non-dislocated arm. Not that you’d make it far in your condition.

“I know her-“

“And I know Beyoncé-“

You blink slowly. “Seriously?”

“Oh, of course. We braid each other’s hair at SHIELD sleepovers. Totally normal.”

You don’t even bother hiding the eye roll. “Look, I just want-“

“Hey! Look who it is!” A familiar voice cuts in before you can finish. “Want me to return the favor? I’m fantastic at sutures.”

Yelena appears, a ball of chaos in combat boots, looking a hell of a lot better than last time. No blood, no bandages, just a mischievous grin and a dangerously sharp sense of timing.

She pauses, eyeing your shoulder. “Oh. That metal looks nasty. I could help yank it—”

“Yelena.” You breathe out, half in relief, half in desperation. “I’m looking for Natasha.”

“Ah. Yes. She’s fine,” Yelena replies with a casual wave. “Still annoying but that’s a permanent condition. Leg’s healing great, though. She’s going to hate two weeks of downtime but Helen says-“

“Yelena!” You interrupt, sharper this time. “Can I see her?”

Before she can answer, the nurse chimes in smugly from the side. “Ma’am, it’s family or Level 8+ clearance only—”

You snap. “Oh my god. Can I see her or not? Do you hear yourself right now?” You bite out, heat rising to your face. “I have a piece of metal in my collarbone, I’m pretty sure I’ve half smoked my lungs and I—”

The hallway tilts.

Your voice fades under the ringing in your ears. Everything sounds underwater. Yelena’s voice is faint, concerned. “Are you okay?” But you can’t answer. A hand reaches toward you as your knees start to give.

And your last coherent thought before everything fades to black?

Please, for the love of God, don’t let that smug son of a- be the one who catches me.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The first thing you feel is the dull ache in your shoulder as the fog starts to lift, your body sinking into a bed that’s much softer than the standard-issue ones at your hospital. You can still feel the weight of your uniform against your skin, meaning you haven’t been out long.

With a soft whimper, you blink against the blur until your vision steadies.

“Welcome back.”

That voice, husky and unmistakable. You turn your head to the left and there she is. Natasha, seated beside you. Her posture is relaxed but her eyes are focused, steady. She’s been waiting.

“Took you long enough.” She says with a smirk, reaching out to gently brush the hair from your face.

Your body protests as you shift slightly. Every muscle aches, your shoulder throbs and the lingering nausea clings to your ribs.

“Heard you made quite the scene out there.”

“Yelena?” You rasp, your voice dry.

“Isn’t it always?” she replies, reaching for a water bottle on the floor beside her. You take her in fully now, no catsuit, no weapons. Just soft cashmere, an IV in her arm, a thick bandage wrapped around her thigh and tiny sterile strips scattered across her skin like fragile battle medals.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, offering you her water bottle and helping you take a sip.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re an idiot.” She glares but it’s teasing. “Didn’t they teach you in med school that to save lives, you kinda need to keep your own intact?”

You smile, faint but real. “Yeah. I know. I just had to make sure you were okay.”

She exhales slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re not just a medic.”

“No. But that’s the part of me that saves people.”

She’s quiet for a beat. Then, softly. “You saved me.”

You nod once. “Then it was worth it.”

She studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, almost wary.

“You ever get tired of running into danger for people you barely know?”

You smirk. “Only when they don’t look at me like that after.”

She lets out a laugh, soft and real.

Maybe you’ll see her again.

You think you will.

This time, you want to.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Just a few days later, you’re back on shift, restocking IV kits in the supply hallway when the nurse at the front desk chokes on her gum.

“Uh… you have a visitor?” She says, eyes bugging wide.

You turn and immediately smile.

Natasha Romanoff, in a leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, looking like she stepped off a magazine cover and didn’t bother to care. Cool, effortless, infuriatingly composed.

“Didn’t think I’d find you this easily.” She says, striding further down the corridor, away from curious eyes.

You raise a brow. “Government databases help.”

“Also, Yelena.”

You can’t help but smile. “Recovery not treating you well?”

“Yelena seems to think I need constant supervision during downtime so I escaped.”

You gesture toward the kits. “So what is this, a check-up or a patch job?”

“No.” She laughs. “Well, unless nerves count.”

You straighten just slightly, heartbeat skipping.

“I came to ask if you’d like to go on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes. With me.”

“With you?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure you recovered from that concussion?”

You smirk. “I have one condition.”

“Let’s hear it.” She folds her arms, ready for a fight and a joke in equal measure.

“No blood. No explosions. No hospitals. Just a date. Quiet. Normal.”

You both know ‘normal’ isn’t your thing or hers. But something in her expression softens, a flicker of hope you weren’t expecting.

“I’m in.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Dinner is almost perfect.

You’re laughing over a bottle of red wine, the conversation easy and warm. Natasha is different tonight, she’s still guarded but the sharp edges of her are dulled by comfort. The tension in her shoulders has eased, her fingers occasionally brushing yours in casual, loaded glances.

Then— CRACK.

The ceiling groans.

Dust and plaster rain like ash. The chandelier shatters. Everything tilts.

“Get under the table!” You shout instinctively, already moving.

Natasha pushes a waiter out of the way as a massive beam crashes to the ground, sending a cloud of debris billowing across the room. Her voice cuts through the chaos, clear, commanding, calm. She moves like instinct, directing people like a battlefield general.

You drop beside a woman pinned by a fallen chair. Her eyes are wide, her shirt soaked in blood. Next to her, a man clutches his head, blood trickling through his fingers. You press cloth to the woman’s side, murmuring reassurances as you work.

Twenty minutes later, sirens scream and responders flood the building. Lights flash, people cry out and boots scrape across broken glass.

You and Natasha stand amidst the dust and blood and noise, lungs heaving.

Your eyes meet. Hers are tired but relieved.

Yours are just the same.

“Next time…” She mutters, a smirk tugging at her lips. “We pick a place without a ceiling.”

You smile back, knowing full well this won’t be the last time disaster finds you both.

But right now, you’re still standing. And you’re standing together.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

A week later, you try again.

This time it’s just a walk through the park. Sunshine. Kids on scooters. The kind of quiet that feels borrowed from nature. Natasha’s hand brushes yours, that small contact grounding you more than it should.

Then, inevitably, a scream.

Two dogs. Tangled leashes. Teeth snapping. A teenager tries to separate them and gets bit, deep, blood already pouring down his arm.

You’re already moving.

You drop beside him, hands already assessing, voice steady as you work. He’s shaking, pale, breathing fast. Natasha crouches behind him, hands gently on his shoulders, voice low and even.

“You’re okay. Just stay with us. Focus on my voice.”

You press a cloth to the wound, slow the bleeding. A nearby mom offers baby wipes and you clean the worst of it as quickly as possible. Once the boy’s stabilized, you explain what to do, what shot he’ll need, where to go next.

When he walks away with his parents, safe, you and Natasha are left in the silence again. Both catching your breath.

She exhales, long and tired. “So… the park’s cursed too.”

You glance at her. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Her smile is crooked, worn-in. “Let’s try something safer. My place. S.H.I.E.L.D. housing. Reinforced. Bomb-proof.”

You arch a brow. “No dogs.”

“Well… there’s Fanny. But she’s mostly fluff. The ducks are more dangerous.”

You laugh quietly, something loosening in your chest.

Maybe the curse isn’t unbreakable after all.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

This is peace.

Or something like it.

She impresses you with her drinks, craft cocktails mixed with far too much confidence while you curl up on her couch, finally still, finally together and finally not covered in ash or blood. Music plays low in the background. Jazz, if you had to guess. Her arm rests casually along the back of the couch, fingers just brushing your shoulder. Close, but not quite touching.

You’re about to speak, something stupid and romantic, probably, when an alarm shrieks.

She bolts upright.

Then you hear it. Metal skittering. A scream.

“Wasn’t me!” Tony’s voice echoes faintly down the hall.

Natasha’s already up. You follow blindly, instinct more than intent. She throws open the door just in time to see Sam sprint past, swatting at what looks like a swarm of tiny wheeled drones, each armed with actual zappers.

Bucky’s not far behind, one boot missing, muttering Russian curses as he goes.

“WHAT is happening?” Natasha demands, stepping protectively in front of you.

“New bot prototypes!” Tony yells from somewhere unseen. “A little twitchy. Might be targeting high sarcasm density. Not totally sure yet. Working on it!”

One of the drones zaps Sam’s calf. He yelps. You lunge forward instinctively, drag him inside and drop him onto the couch. You’re already assessing the burn before Bucky stumbles in, wrist twisted and pride even more mangled.

“Don’t look at me.” Bucky grumbles. “They ignored me completely. Rude.”

You patch Sam’s leg. Ice Bucky’s wrist. Natasha glares at the remains of her ruined date night.

Once the lights flicker back to normal, you start to round them up. “Ok, I think it’s safe.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky peeks around the door like a spooked cat.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But what if—”

“If you two don’t leave my apartment right now,” Natasha cuts in sweetly. “Bots will be the least of your worries.”

They shuffle out but of course, Sam can’t resist as he throws a wink over his shoulder.

“I’m sure we’ll survive, especially if your girlfriend can patch us up—”

You don’t even see what happens but there’s a thud, a startled yelp and Natasha reappears with a smile and zero explanation. The door shuts with finality.

“No blood, huh?” You tease, dropping back into the cushions.

She shrugs. “I lied.”

“No wounds?”

“Also a lie.”

“No bruises?”

She smirks. “I could give you those.”

You choke on air, stuttering for a comeback. She leans forward instead and kisses you right there on the couch, surrounded by the faint scent of scorched wires and bruised egos.

You breathe her in, pulling her closer until her body is against yours.

And for once, nothing explodes.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It’s been exactly nine days since that night.

This time, you try again but no restaurants, no parks, no Stark tech, no chaos.

Just takeout. Her apartment. A movie with zero timers, explosions, or spy-related trauma.

She opens the door in sweatpants, hair tousled, smile promising.

“This is going to be cursed, isn’t it?” You ask, half-joking, stepping inside.

She shrugs. “Not if we sacrifice Clint.”

You raise the bag of dumplings like an offering to the gods of peace. “Then let’s eat before karma finds us.”

You curl up on the couch, her shoulder warm under your cheek. The movie is some cheesy ’90s comedy she chose purely because no one gets blown up. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm.

“I think this might actually work.” You whisper.

“Don’t say it.” She mumbles into your hair. “You’ll jinx it.”

Your phone buzzes.

You both freeze.

You glance down then sigh. “Spam call.”

Natasha exhales like she just survived combat. “Block it.”

You do. And for a moment, there’s quiet again. Real quiet.

Then—BOOM.

The ceiling rattles. A hiss. Then water sprays from a burst sprinkler head.

“What now?” You groan.

Sam bursts in, slightly smoking. “Don’t go near Tony’s lab! Toasters. Everywhere.”

Behind him, Bucky limps in. “One bit me.”

“A toaster bit you?” Natasha blinks.

He nods, vaguely. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

As if on autopilot, you’re reaching for your med kit. Natasha hands you gauze without a word.

Sam smirks. “Date night, huh? Hope we weren’t… interrupting.”

Natasha scowls. “You’re always interrupting. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I could be alone and you’re still interrupting.”

You both exchange a glance, tired, amused. Eventually, the two hobble out. Natasha exhales dramatically.

You flop onto the couch. “Okay. Plan E?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Which one’s that?”

“Lock the door. Hide our phones. Eat dessert in the dark and pretend we’re normal.”

She shuts the lights off. “C’mere.”

You do.

“Friday.” She mutters, pulling you close, “if anyone asks, I’m not in. No access or permission to this room.”

“Yes, Ms. Rushman.”

She smirks at the question on your lips. “Long story?”

“Very.”

You curl into her side as the room finally quiets.

“I think this might be our superpower.” You whisper.

“What?”

“Finding peace in the middle of complete ridiculousness.”

She laughs into your hair. “Then we’re unstoppable.”

And for fifteen whole minutes, nothing explodes.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

A week later, you’re back at the Tower after a blur of back-to-back night shifts, overwhelmed by unhinged chaos and even more unhinged New Yorkers.

But tonight?

Tonight is for Natasha.

And you count every second.

It starts out perfectly.

Finally alone. No alarms. No robots. No half-burnt Avengers limping into your field of vision.

Just Natasha, pressed against you, warm and focused and very intent on making up for every date the universe has ruined. Her mouth is on your neck, fingers tugging at your shirt, breath catching when your hands slip under the hem of hers.

She’s beneath you on the couch, your knees on either side of her hips and if gravity didn’t exist, you’re pretty sure she’d have you pinned to the ceiling by now.

“You sure we’re alone this time?” You ask, breathless.

She grins, wicked and certain. “Locked the door. Bribed Stark with scotch. Threatened Barton. Steve, Sam, and Bucky are on a mission. We’re good.”

You moan into her mouth, fingers in her hair, forgetting your name, your job, and maybe how lungs work.

It’s not romantic. It’s hungry.

You’ve wanted this through every triage call, every disaster, every almost.

She’s pulling you closer, your hands under her shirt, and you’re just about to remember what the word bliss means when—

“Natália!”

The voice is cheerful. Loud. Russian.

You both freeze.

“Do not move.” Natasha whispers, forehead pressed to yours.

Too late.

The door creaks open.

Yelena strolls in like a casual wrecking ball, holding two iced coffees and a bag that smells suspiciously like fried dumplings.

“I brought snacks.” She says brightly, completely ignoring the fact that her sister is actively trying to ravish someone on the couch.

You cover your face with your hands in quiet, complete devastation. Natasha’s arm is still firmly around your waist, refusing to let you escape.

“Yelena…” Natasha says in a voice so calm it’s terrifying. “I locked the door.”

Yelena shrugs. “I picked it. I smelled dumplings.”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I will ruin your entire week.”

“You say that.” Yelena replies, plopping into a chair. “But you never do. You’re soft now. Love has made you boring.”

You groan and melt into Natasha’s shoulder. She mutters something in Russian that might be a curse or a prayer for strength.

“I will be gone soon.” Yelena promises, kicking her feet up. “I just came for food and air conditioning. It is disgusting outside.”

She pulls out a dumpling and takes a huge bite. “Also? You should really clean more. This couch smells like desperation.”

Your cheeks burn. You subtly slide off Natasha’s lap, pressing your thighs together, still burning from the tension Yelena just bulldozed through.

Oblivious, Yelena keeps eating, offering live commentary on the reality show now playing.

Every brush of Natasha’s thumb against your thigh feels like it could short-circuit your brain. Your body is on fire, trapped between desire and disaster.

“I miss trauma calls.” You mumble. “Bullet wounds. Explosions. Poles through legs.”

Natasha’s lips twitch. “You’re really hoping for an emergency right now?”

“I would rather dig shrapnel out of Tony’s ego than be this close to you and not allowed to do anything about it!”

Yelena hums. “That’s very romantic. You should put that on a pillow.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Thirty minutes later, she finally leaves. Probably to arm wrestle a bear or go cause havoc with Fanny. She waves like she didn’t just emotionally blue-ball you both into a second life.

You and Natasha stand in the kitchen, staring at the closed door.

Silence.

“Well…” She exhales.

You pin her to the counter. “No. More. Interruptions.”

She kisses you like she agrees.

Hands tugging at your shirt. Lips urgent. Breathless. You’re finally, finally getting somewhere—

BZZZZZ.

Your phone. Emergency alert.

You both freeze.

Foreheads pressed together.

“Don’t look.” She whispers, fingers tracing your spine.

You check anyway.

“Someone’s car exploded outside a daycare.” You groan.

She groans louder, burying her face in your shoulder. “We are cursed.”

You nod. “Absolutely doomed.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You’re officially packed and ready to go.

Suitcase zipped. Snacks acquired. Road trip planned. No robots, no alarms, no chaos in sight.

Just you and Natasha. Finally. A vacation.

She’s already by the elevator when the intercom crackles. “Romanoff. Common room. Now.”

She groans. “No. Not today.” She’s muttering to herself. “Maybe it’s not about us. Maybe, for once, it’s someone else.”

It’s not.

She walks in and sees the stretcher. And then you, on said stretcher.

Your head’s bleeding. Her sweatshirt is stained. Your leg is bent wrong.

Steve looks guilty. “Slipped in the elevator. Oil spill. Unmarked.”

“Whose oil?”

“Rocket’s.”

She exhales, furious and tired then storms to your side. “You had one job.”

“Hi babe!” You grin, weakly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Just a little.” You blink. “I think I fought a raccoon.”

“She’s out of it.” The medic notes. “We’re taking her for a scan.”

“I’ve had worse.” You shrug.

“Not the point.”

“I was trying to get to you. Fast.” Her face softens.

She brushes your hair back. “So much for vacation.”

“I can still go.” You try to sit up, unsuccessfully.

She presses you down. “No because if you throw up in my Corvette, I will kill you.”

You pout. “Staycation?”

She sighs. “First stop: Medbay.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, Natasha sits on the edge of your hospital bed, hoodie still stained, a clipboard in hand.

“She’s not an agent.” The nurse says, after quizzing Natasha for any medical information on you. “So we need an emergency contact for the file.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “Me.”

“Full name?”

“Natasha Romanoff.”

“Relationship?”

She glances down at you, half-asleep, still mumbling about talking raccoons but somehow it’s change to squirrels. Her fingers curl around yours.

She smiles.

“Whatever gets me in the room first.”

The nurse nods with a smirk and writes it down, checking over your vitals on last time.

Emergency Contact: Natasha Romanoff.

She watches your chest rise and fall, brushes her thumb over your wrist. “I’m okay.” You murmur, half-conscious.

She nods. “I know. I’m your emergency contact now. It’s literally my job.”

You grin. “Took you long enough.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, you’re curled up on her couch again. This time with an arm in a sling, head stitched, leg in a cast.

“Feels like vacation.” You mumble, still kind of delirious.

She eyes you. “That concussion talking?”

“Nope. This is perfect.” You’re not even watching the show you begged to put on. Something about rich housewives arguing at a country club. You just melt into her, breathing in the quiet.

“Are we actually cursed?” You ask.

“If we are…” She kisses your temple, “I’m glad we’re cursed together.”

“That’s cute. You’re cute.” You sigh.

“Cute? I have never been called cute.”

“You are just so cute, I could eat you up.” You mumble into her chest. “Speaking of eating you-“

“Babe, you need to rest.“ She laughs. “I’m pretty sure you couldn’t even stand up right now.”

“Don’t need my legs to-“

“Sleep! Now!” She orders with a laugh, setting a timer on a phone then she knows what time to wake you up for a quick concussion check. She used to ignore Dr Cho’s orders about that but not with you, never with you.

Just when your breathing goes even, your body heavy against hers, you twitch and murmur. “So about that talking raccoon…”

[purifiedclitoris69]

Redline 5.2 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: arguing, illegal street race, mention of blood, accident, feelings

Word count: 10,8k

A/N: I’m sorry if it feels rushed, I really didn’t want to make a part 3, or my inbox might actually explode 😅 So… good luck getting through it!

The sun hung directly overhead, white-hot and unforgiving, but you barely felt the heat. Your race suit clung to your body, the zip pulled down just far enough to breathe, the Romanoff Racing crest on your chest dark with sweat. A champagne bottle hung loosely from your fingers. You stood on the second step of the podium.

Second.

Not because you weren’t fast enough. Not because you made a mistake. Because you gave it up.

On your right, Willow stood high above, flushed cheeks, dazed eyes, a grin so wide it seemed like her whole body might shatter from the force of it. She bounced slightly on her heels like the adrenaline hadn’t let go yet. Trophy in hand. Camera flashes sparkling around her like a constellation she didn’t know how to navigate.

The announcer was calling your names. Applause. Cheering. Distant horns and drums from the fan zone. And you were smiling, too. But it wasn’t joy. It was reflex. A veteran’s mask.

You turned your head just enough to look at Willow. You weren’t angry.. Not anymore. Somewhere between the call and the checkered flag, the fury had given way to something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or peace.

This had been the right choice. You accepted that. Willow didn’t need to be punished for being proud. For being good. For finishing first on a day when everyone said she couldn’t.

And Natasha..God, Natasha had done what a team principal was supposed to do. She had protected both cars. She had protected Willow.

It had just hurt anyway.

The paddock was a blur of people and sound and color. Speakers pumping low bass. Crew laughing, embracing, holding up glasses of something bubbly and golden. Champagne dripped from the floor to the walls in some corners.

Willow stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a towel, her race suit unzipped, hair pulled back in a damp braid, a Romanoff-branded champagne bottle cradled in one arm like a baby.

Her smile hadn’t faded once. She made the rounds, techs, PR, mechanics, thanking every single one of them. They cheered when she passed. Someone handed her a mic for a quick sponsor vid. Her voice cracked a little when she spoke.

Meanwhile, you had slipped in through the side door of the garage. You peeled off your gloves slowly, one finger at a time, listening to the distant chaos but not part of it. No one saw you come in. You preferred it that way.

You walked past the engine bench. Past the tire wall. Past the monitors still looping your lap times. You had driven like a god today. And not a single camera had stayed on you after lap 34.

You reached for a bottle of water on the edge of the pit bench. There were still unopened champagne bottles on the table nearby, leftovers from the stash PR had dropped off earlier.

Natasha stood near them, speaking with one of the tire engineers. Her posture was relaxed now. The tension that had lined her face all morning had bled away.

You watched as she handed a bottle to Willow, no theatrics, no applause. Just a quiet nod. You didn’t want one. That’s not what hurt. It was that the moment didn’t include you. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way you were used to being seen. You turned away before Natasha noticed you watching..

The silence in the car was thick in the back seat, so thick you could choke on it. You sat behind Natasha, legs drawn up slightly, your body curled near the window, earphones in again. Hood pulled low. Eyes locked on your phone screen.

Natasha drove, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming her fingers softly against the steering column. She didn’t speak.

Willow sat up front, still bright-eyed, still breathless. Her phone was out, flipping between photos of the podium, voice memos of her initial race reactions, media alerts already pinging in from Formula 1 socials.

“God..” she said, laughing softly. “It’s already everywhere.”

Natasha glanced at her. “You’ll get used to-”

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses. You turned up the music. Louder. Drowning them out. It didn’t work tho, and you opened your news app.

“The Rise of Romanoff’s Rookie”

“A New Star in F1: Willow Petrov’s Victory in Her First Grand Prix”

“Has L/N Lost Her Edge?”

You kept scrolling.

“Tensions Behind the Podium? Sources Say Team Orders May Have Cost L/n the Win”

“Petrov Shines, L/n Fades, Changing of the Guard at Romanoff Racing?”

Your thumb paused. The articles weren’t cruel. But they were full of words like transition, evolution, legacy. The kind of words they use when they’re already writing your ending.

You felt a slow, sick twist in your stomach. Not rage. Not even jealousy. Just that old ache. The one that told you, you might be slipping. That maybe..despite everything, you weren’t what Natasha needed anymore.

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. Your face was unreadable. Still. The kind of stillness that didn’t mean peace. The kind that meant you were leaving your body to avoid the pain.

Natasha’s fingers froze for a second on the steering wheel. And for the first time all day, Natasha’s stomach dropped.

——

The afterparty had fizzled hours ago. There were no more cameras, no more journalists lurking in the lobby with subtle microphones, no mechanics slapping backs and shouting over music. Just the low hum of city life below and the warm flicker of golden light spilling from the hotel’s open windows.

You sat on the balcony of the team lounge, legs up on the railing, hoodie draped over you, a glass of something untouched in your hand. The night air was cooler now, but the wind didn’t bite. You didn’t want company. But you weren’t surprised when the glass door slid open behind you.

“Hey..” Willow said softly, hovering near the edge of the doorway. “Can I..?”

You nodded, not looking at her. “Sure.”

Willow stepped out slowly, dressed down in a loose sweatshirt and compression leggings, her hair still slightly damp from a shower. She walked over and lowered herself into the chair beside you, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet stretching gently between you like something neither of you wanted to break.

“I, um…” Willow started, then stopped. Tried again. “I wanted to say thank you.”

You glanced over at her, one brow raised. “For what?”

“For…” Willow hesitated. “Letting me win. I mean, I know it was team orders, and Natasha said it was for safety, but, I know what that cost you. I do.”

You looked back out at the skyline. The city pulsed in quiet waves, lights blinking, a train moving in the distance. “It wasn’t mine to keep.”

“That’s not true..” Willow said. “You could’ve ignored her. People do. You could’ve stayed in front, taken it. No one would’ve blamed you.”

You let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “She would’ve.”

Willow didn’t answer.

“But she made the right call.” you added after a beat. “Your car could’ve failed. Wolfe was closing. We would’ve lost both podiums. It was smart. Strategic.”

“And it still sucked..” Willow said quietly.

Your jaw flexed. You stared down into the glass in your hand.

“I just don’t want to mess this up..” Willow continued. “Not the driving. Not the team. Not with you. I look up to you. I studied you.”

You turned toward her fully then. Your eyes were tired, but not unkind. “You’re not messing anything up, Willow.” you said. “You’re good. You’re…better than I expected.”

Willow blinked, caught off guard. “That sounded like a compliment and a threat at the same time.”

You finally smiled. “Maybe it was.”

You shared a laugh, small, real. Willow tilted her head. “Do you miss when it was just you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes went distant. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “But not because of you. It’s not about competition. It’s about…knowing where I stand. When I came here, I had nothing. Just pain, and wreckage, and Natasha. And now I have this…empire I helped build. I just don’t always know if there’s still a throne.”

Willow’s voice softened. “There is. I’m not here to take it.”

“I know.” you said. “But what if I’m the one stepping down without meaning to?”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not sharp. Just true. Willow reached for her water and took a slow sip, then looked back at you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You glanced sideways. “Sure.”

“Would you ever do it again? Step aside?”

You stared at her, long and hard. “No.” you said simply.

Willow nodded. “Good.”

They sat there until the wind picked up. Until the city below dimmed into the hush of midnight. Until the comfort between them didn’t feel like forgiveness or surrender, just a moment of quiet before the world started spinning again.

Most of the team had cleared out to prep media duties. Willow left too to bed. The door opened behind you again, slow and deliberate. Natasha’s footsteps were soft, but the silence was louder.

Natasha crossed the room and sat at the edge of the couch. Close, but not touching. A beat passed.

“This whole ‘silent exile’ routine is…?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You always get tired when Willow wins?”

You snapped your head toward her, eyes narrowing. “You think this is funny?”

Natasha held your gaze, serious, but not cruel. There was something behind it. Not mockery, no judgment. Just…surprise. Like she still didn’t get how the hell you even got here.

“I think it’s kind of unbelievable..” Natasha said. “That you still don’t see what I see.”

You crossed your arms. “Which is?”

Natasha leaned forward now, resting her elbows on her knees. Her voice dropped, calm but firm.

“That girl out there is twenty. She gets excited about free t-shirts. She still calls me Ms. Romanoff by accident.”

You stayed quiet. Natasha’s tone softened. “She’s young, and loud, and yes..good. But she’s not you.”

Your eyes flicked away. “Why do you think that would ever matter to me?” Natasha asked.

You swallowed. “Because maybe she’s easier.”

Natasha blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

You kept your arms crossed. Tight now. “She doesn’t question you. Doesn’t push back. Doesn’t come with history or trauma or baggage. She just drives and smiles and says thank you.”

“Jesus..Y/n..” Natasha muttered.

You shook your head. “You think I don’t notice how you light up around her?”

“Because she reminds me of you when you started.” Natasha said, suddenly. “Not because I want to replace you.”

You stilled. Natasha leaned back, arms now resting on the couch, looking at you, not angry, but wide open.

“I didn’t fall in love with a clean slate.” she said. “I fell in love with you. The stubbornness. The fire. The goddamn walls you put up so high I had to crash through them to reach you.”

You looked at her now, eyes tight. “So why does it feel like you look at her the same way you used to look at me?”

Natasha laughed, short and breathless. “Because you don’t let me look at you like that anymore.”

That hit hard..

“I try.” Natasha said, voice lower now. “But you flinch. You pull away. You act like you’ve already lost me.”

You looked down. Your voice cracked. “Because I’m scared I have.”

Natasha moved then, finally closer. Her hand rested against your knee, firm and grounding. “You haven’t. she said. “And if I ever made you think for a second that you did, then I fucked up.”

Your lip trembled. Natasha cupped your cheek now, gentle but sure. “You are the one I come home to. Not because you’re easy. Because you’re you.”

Your hands finally moved up, into Natasha’s hoodie, gripping at the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from unraveling.

“I hate that I think like this..” you whispered. “I hate that I care so much what you think of her.”

“I love that you care.” Natasha said. “But don’t let it eat you. You don’t need to prove anything to me. You already did. A long time ago.”

You looked at her. “So you’re not leaving me for the excited twenty-year-old with a Spotify playlist full of anime intros?”

Natasha smirked. “Not unless you start quoting Fast & Furious again.”

“I said one thing-”

“You quoted family, baby.”

You both laughed, finally, something light. Something real. And Natasha pulled you close.

“I don’t want easier.” she murmured into your hair. “I want you.”

You lay curled on your side on the couch, wrapped in a blanket Natasha had found tucked behind the utility cabinet. Your breathing had evened out, but you weren’t asleep.

You hadn’t let go yet. Your fingers still held onto the edge of Natasha’s hoodie like an anchor. Natasha sat beside you, back against the couch wall, legs stretched out. The dim light from the hallway bled under the door, painting long stripes across the floor.

She watched you. Not to study, just to be near. No pressure. No expectations. Just the gravity of being together, after nearly tearing apart.

After a few minutes, you spoke. Barely above a whisper. “You can go. I’m okay now.”

Natasha didn’t move. “I mean it.” you added. “You must be exhausted.”

“I am.” Natasha said softly. “So I’m staying.”

You smiled faintly into the blanket. “That’s not how sleep works.”

“It is tonight.” You turned just enough to glance up at her. Natasha met your eyes and reached forward, brushing her fingers lightly over your cheek, tucking back a stray hair that had fallen over your temple.

“You’ve had the weight of everything on you for weeks.” she said. “Let me carry some of it.”

You looked down. “I didn’t know how to ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed. Then, with a tired voice, raw but no longer tense, you whispered, “Will you lay down with me?”

Natasha didn’t answer. She just stood quietly, kicked off her shoes, and slid behind you on the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you. She wrapped her arms around your waist and pressed her forehead to the back of your neck.

You melted into her like you’d been waiting all this time to just stop holding yourself up. And Natasha just held you. Breathing in sync. Heartbeats slow.

Your fingers found Natasha’s and tangled them together beneath the blanket.

“Thank you..”you murmured. “For coming back to me.”

Natasha pressed a soft kiss into your shoulder. “I never left.”

Another breath. A hum of comfort. Then silence again, but the kind that felt safe now..Warm.

Your eyes finally drifted closed. And Natasha stayed awake just a little longer, just to make sure you stayed asleep. Because for tonight, there was nothing left to prove.

Two days later, the sun was just beginning to dip. Most of the team had cleared out, techs heading to dinner, PR disappearing to prep media briefings, the garage growing quieter by the minute.

You stood near the back loading dock, arms folded, watching the sky change colors through a gap in the tarped service tent. Your hair was still damp from the post-sim shower, race suit unzipped, a pair of sunglasses hanging loose from your hand.

You checked your watch again. Then checked your messages. Nothing.

A soft breath escaped your lips. Not angry. Not surprised..Not anymore. Natasha had pulled you aside after debrief this morning. Quick, quiet, the way you always were when keeping things private.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked, resting a gentle hand on your back. “Just us. No phones. No PR. I made a reservation, something small.”

You raised a brow. “You made a reservation?”

Natasha smirked. “I know how. Occasionally.”

Your mouth twitched. “You sure you’re not trying to butter me up before you throw another team order at me?”

Natasha leaned in, close enough to press her lips lightly to your jaw. “I’m trying to remind you I’m yours. That’s it.” It was the first time in days you let yourself hope.

The restaurant was fifteen minutes from the paddock. Natasha had already changed, black trousers, blazer over a dark silk top, simple and sharp, understated but still a statement. She was five minutes from leaving. And then the knock came.

“Boss?”

It was the lead performance engineer. His face was tight. Serious. “We need you.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted. “What is it?”

“The gearbox data wasn’t just a race-day anomaly. There’s more. A degradation pattern, unlike anything we’ve seen. We think it started during pre-season testing and no one caught it. Willow’s car may not be safe for the next race unless we recalibrate the entire load offset manually.”

Natasha blinked. “Can’t Luis run the analysis?”

“We’re already over the legal margin for virtual modeling. This is about the human call now. Strategy. If it fails in practice, she could spin out at 240 kilometers per hour.”

She looked at the clock. 6:43.

Then at her bag. Then back to the data pad in his hands. Her jaw tightened. “Fine. Pull the schematics. I want a full paper trace. Get me the torque curves.“ She didn’t think. She acted.

You stood outside, arms wrapped around yourself. You were dressed simply, black pants, boots, a cropped jacket Natasha once told you made you look dangerous in the best way.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

“I’m sorry. Garage emergency. Gearbox issue. I have to be here. I’ll explain everything later, okay?”

You stared at the message for a long time. Then opened the app and canceled the ride. You didn’t go back upstairs. You just started walking.

10:21 PM

Natasha’s eyes burned as she flipped through the fifth sheet of manual trace mapping. Her sleeves were rolled up, blazer discarded, hair tied back hastily. Grease stained one wrist. Her phone lay beside her, dark and still.

Willow sat two meters away, looking miserable and exhausted, clearly worried not just about her car, but about Natasha’s expression.

“You don’t have to stay..” Willow said. “The others can keep going. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s not about meaning to.” Natasha said, voice low. “It’s about fixing the problem before it’s bigger.”

Somewhere inside, something was twisting. Because she knew. She knew this wasn’t just another missed evening. This one mattered. And she hadn’t been where she promised to be.

11:34 PM

You lay on the far side of the bed, one arm under the pillow, phone still unlocked on the nightstand, the message from Natasha opened but unanswered.

You weren’t angry. Not yet. But you felt it again, that creeping thing under your skin. The slow, familiar ache of realizing that even when someone loves you, they can still leave you standing alone.

And the worst part? You understood why. That was the part that made it harder to forgive. You got up. Didn’t bother dressing properly. Just slipped on a hoodie, track pants, sneakers with no socks. Tied your hair back loosely and left without turning on the lights.

The gym was dark. Motion-sensitive. The fluorescent panels flickered awake as you stepped in. You hit the treadmill but didn’t start it. Just stood there.

Until the stillness became too loud again. So you moved. First to the weights. Then pull-ups. Then quick body circuits until your arms burned and your heartbeat finally drowned out your thoughts.

Sweat dripped down your back. Your breathing came faster. It helped, but it didn’t fix anything.

And still..no message from Natasha. No knock at the door. Not even a check-in.

When your water bottle ran dry, you grabbed it and wandered toward the garage. Not for any reason. Not to see anything. Just habit. Just to move.

You didn’t expect anyone to be there. But as you turned the last hallway into the service bay- You saw them.

Natasha and Willow.

Still in team gear.

Still awake.

Still working.

They were crouched beside the car. Natasha’s sleeves rolled up. Hands dirty, grease on her forearm. A panel open on Willow’s rear suspension. Manuals laid out on a low bench.

Willow was watching closely. Nodding. Then she reached, she picked up a wrench. And Natasha turned to her. Your stomach dropped. She said something. Her voice was soft. Almost smiling. Willow gave a quiet nod.

You turned and walked out. You didn’t hear and saw the rest. You slammed the door harder than you meant to. The silence that followed was deafening. You stood in the middle of the suite, trembling, not from exhaustion, not from rage. Just from the sick, sudden weight of enough.

You wiped your forehead with the sleeve of your hoodie. Sweat and tears mixed somewhere near your eyes, but you refused to let either fall. You dropped the empty water bottle onto the floor. And stood there. Staring at the wall. Every thread that had been fraying these past days finally snapped in silence. And you were done pretending you didn’t feel it.

10 min earlier

The undercarriage schematic was spread out across the workbench, half-covered in coffee rings and fast-food wrappers from the overnight shift. Natasha was halfway through rechecking torque measurements when she realized how late it was.

She rubbed at her temple with the back of her wrist, exhaling long and slow. Willow stood nearby, watching her, curious, unsure.

Natasha appreciated her interest. Really, she did. But this..this par, was sacred. She never let anyone touch her car during recalibration. Not you. Not engineers. Not even herself without silence.

And so, when Willow quietly reached for a wrench, likely just wanting to help, Natasha paused.

“You don’t have to do that.” she said.

Willow blinked, immediately withdrawing. “Oh- sorry. I wasn’t trying to-“

“I know.” Natasha said. “It’s not about you. It’s just…this is the part I do alone.”

Willow nodded quickly, stepping back with both hands raised. “Understood. Sorry. I’ll go get some rest.”

Natasha nodded without looking up. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, Willow left. Natasha exhaled again. Sat back against the stool. Rolled her sore shoulder. It wasn’t until she looked at her phone, battery nearly dead, screen lit with the last text she sent to you three hours ago, that she felt it.

The hallway was quiet. Carpet soft underfoot. The whole floor wrapped in the kind of stillness reserved for dead-of-night regrets and things you can’t unsay.

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside. She was exhausted. Her jaw ached from tension. Her back was tight from hours hunched over schematics. She was about to call out for you when she saw you:

Standing and waiting by the window. Arms folded. Hoodie on. Face red and wet and burning with something that was not sadness anymore.

It was fury. Natasha froze mid-step. “I’m so sorr-”

“You were working with her.”

Your voice was low. Controlled in a way that sounded dangerous. Natasha blinked. “What?”

“I saw you.” You took a step forward. “In the garage. With her. Just the two of you. Just like always lately.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t- We weren’t doing anything. We were fixing her car-“

“You were laughing.”

That stopped Natasha cold. Your voice cracked. “She picked up a wrench. You smiled at her. And I just…watched.”

“Y/n..” Natasha said slowly, stepping closer, palms half-raised like she was approaching something fragile. “That’s not what you think.”

“You never let anyone touch that car..” you said, voice rising now. “Not even me. Not ever.”

“She didn’t help. I told her not to. She put it down.”

“I don’t care if she built the damn gearbox, Natasha. You let her get close.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then why does it feel like it?”

The room went still. Natasha’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Your hands were shaking now. “I waited for you. I got dressed. I showed up for that stupid dinner because..for once I thought maybe you saw what’s happening to me.”

“I do see you-”

“No!” you snapped. “You see what you want to see. You see the teammate. The PR-safe, obedient, team-first girl who steps aside when you tell her to. You see the ghost of who I used to be before she walked in and made it easier to manage everything without me.”

“Stop it.” Natasha said sharply.

“You promised me I wasn’t fading..” you said, voice dropping into something broken. “And now you barely look at me.”

“Jesus.” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Are we seriously doing this again?”

You stood up. “Yes, we are. Because I keep seeing it. And you keep brushing it off like I’m making it up.”

“I’m not brushing anything off.”

“You’re defending her more than you defend me.”

That was it. Natasha stepped forward, calm gone, heat rising. “You don’t get to stand there and accuse me of betrayal every time I do my job, Y/n.”

“It’s not just a job anymore! You treat her like she’s..like she’s the future of this team!”

“She is part of the future!”

“And what am I?” you barked. “The past?”

Natasha didn’t answer. The silence was loud. Too loud. Your voice cracked. “You could’ve chosen me tonight. But you didn’t. Again.”

“I was going to.” Natasha shot back. “But I also have a team to run. A team with a mechanical failure that could’ve killed a rookie if I ignored it.”

“She’s not your responsibility-”

“She is, Y/n! That’s the entire point of my job-”

“You used to make time for me anyway.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. Her voice dropped, dark and dangerous. “You never let me finish a single thought without interrupting.”

You froze. “What?”

“Every fight. Every conversation. Every attempt to explain myself, you cut me off. You decide the narrative, and God forbid I don’t fit inside it.”

“Because I’m tired of rehearsed answers-”

“I’m tired of repeating myself!” Natasha shouted.

“I waited for you. Dressed up. Told myself maybe you’d actually prove me wrong tonight, and you didn’t even notice.”

“I noticed!” Natasha roared. “I noticed every goddamn second! But I’m not just your girlfriend, I’m running a goddamn team!”

Your voice cracked as you screamed back: “I NEVER ASKED YOU TO CHOOSE!”

“Yes, you fucking did!” Natasha shouted, louder than she meant to. “Every fight, every sigh, every passive-aggressive look when I talk to her, I hear it! You want me to put you first every single second or I’m the enemy!”

You were crying now. Fists clenched. Arms shaking. “I’m trying to protect myself!”

“From me?!”

You shouted: “From feeling like I don’t matter to you anymore!”

“You’re the most important thing in my life!”

“You don’t act like it!”

“Because I’m TIRED, Y/n! I’m so fucking tired of trying to prove I love you in ways that you immediately rip apart!”

Tears spilled over your lashes, but your voice just got louder. “BECAUSE I’M SCARED I’M LOSING YOU AND YOU DON’T EVEN NOTICE!”

“I’m here every night, and all I do is get screamed at!”

“Then LEAVE!”

“Maybe I should’ve!”

You went still. So did Natasha. The air punched out of the room. Natasha immediately stepped forward. “I didn’t mean that-“

But your body folded in on itself. You grabbed your phone, your jacket, your bag with shaking hands.

“Where are you going?” Natasha whispered, her voice finally cracking.

You didn’t even look at her. “My old room.”

“Y/n”

You turned, eyes full of hurt so deep it didn’t even look like anger anymore. “You keep saying I don’t let you speak. Fine. Here’s your silence.”

Door closed, and then it was just Natasha. Alone. Breathing hard. Regret coiling through her chest like smoke. And all the things she’d finally said, were exactly the ones she never wanted to.

In your room, you couldn’t stop pacing. The light in the room was dim, just the glow of a desk lamp you hadn’t turned off. Your racing jacket hung over the chair like a memory. You moved back and forth across the small space, your fingers pulling at your sleeves, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

Every echo of the argument replayed in your head, louder, harsher, more cutting. Natasha’s voice. Your own. The way everything just blew up.

“Maybe I should’ve!”

The sentence throbbed in your skull. You ran a hand through your hair and sat on the bed, only to get back up seconds later. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t even sit still. So you grabbed your phone. Swiped the screen. Opened Instagram. Mindless scroll.

Until..A story.

One of the drivers you spoke to last week. A short video of a black car idling under neon lights, tires hot with burnout smoke. A laughing voice behind the camera. Someone shouting “Let’s see what the boys really got tonight!”

Your breath caught in your throat. In the background, under the glow of streetlamps, a car. Not a race car, a street-tuned

You stared at it. They’d invited you.. You hadn’t said yes, but the invitation had stayed in your mind like a devil in the corner. Your fingers moved before your brain could catch up, and you were out the door in five minutes.

Natasha lay on her back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around her legs, too hot, too cold, too wrong. She’d tried to sleep. Tried to silence the echo of your voice, but guilt lived in her chest like a second heartbeat.

“I’m scared I’m losing you!”

Natasha blinked into the dark. Then she sat up fast. She couldn’t leave it like this. She swung her legs out of bed, pulled on a hoodie and soft pants, grabbed her phone..still dead, and slipped out of the room.

The hallway was too quiet. When she reached your old room, she knocked once.

No answer. Twice. Nothing.

Her gut twisted, so she opened the door, and froze. The light was still on. The sheets a little rumpled. A half-drunk water bottle on the desk. But no you.

No shoes. No phone charger. No jacket. Gone.

“Shit.”

Her heart dropped. Just then, a voice behind her.

“Hey, Natasha?”

Natasha turned, jaw clenched. “Not now.”

Willow held up her hands. “Sorry. I just…thought you’d want to see this.”

She held out her phone, Instagram open. A paused story. Natasha’s blood went cold. The frame showed a street-lit parking lot. A car lined up with two others. And in the corner, barely visible but unmistakable, you, leaning against a car.

Natasha snatched the phone from her. “When was this posted?”

“Two minutes ago..” Willow said, worry in her voice now. “They tagged the location.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already walking.

“Where are you—?”

“To go get her.”

Willow called after her: “Should I tell security?”

“NO!” Natasha barked. “You tell no one.”

She was doing 80 in a 50 zone. The GPS pinged the pin on the map, a tucked-away industrial lot just outside the city. She knew the type: unregistered circuits, drivers with too much ego, zero control, no helmets.

Her grip tightened on the wheel. “Fucking hell, Y/n…”

Her jaw was locked. One hand clenched the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white, the other flicked the high beams on and off through the darkness like a warning.

She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just scared. She was furious that you would risk everything, your life, your career, the team, just to escape for one night.

But even deeper than the rage, she was terrified. Because if something happened to you out there…

She’d seen what street racing could do. Crushed frames. Fire scars. Bodies slumped under tarps while a crowd looked away.

You knew better. And yet… Her phone lay useless in the passenger seat, still on Willow’s screen, the frozen Instagram story of the street, the smoke, the blur of a backup car she recognized like muscle memory.

Her thoughts twisted tighter with every mile: What if you raced? What if they crashed? What if you’re not answering because-

She pressed harder on the gas. The moment she turned into the lot, her heart dropped. Blue lights. Two ambulances. A police car blocking the exit.

Smoke still hung low in the air, mixing with exhaust and the sting of hot metal. One of the cars was nothing but a crumpled shell, front end folded in like paper. The second had wrapped around a streetlight, its rear half nearly torn free.

And worse? Your car wasn’t visible. People were shouting. Flashlights swung across the crowd. Medics were hauling stretchers. Phones were recording.

Natasha stopped the car in the middle of the road. Didn’t park, didn’t shut the door. She just ran.

“Y/n?!”

No one turned. She shoved her way past someone filming. “MOVE!” Her voice cracked with a sharp edge no one questioned.

She scanned the faces, but they all looked the same: drunk, dazed, anonymous. And then, she saw the wreck up close. Blood on the side window. A glove hanging from the mirror. A long strand of hair tangled in a shattered door hinge.

Her knees almost gave out. Her voice broke entirely. “No, no, no…”

She grabbed a man by the vest. “Who was in that car? Tell me who was driving!”

He looked at her, wide-eyed. “I-I don’t know, I- two, one of them was yelling, the other-“

“Was it a woman?! Did you see a woman?!”

And then, behind her, “Natasha?”

She turned like she’d been shot. You were there. Standing near a metal railing just beyond the chaos, arms wrapped around yourself, jacket pulled tight. Your face pale, eyes wide. Your voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha froze. For one breath. Two. Then she moved- no, she sprinted. And when she reached you, she didn’t say a word, just threw her arms around you, gripping you like she wasn’t sure if you were real or not.

You stumbled into it, arms pinned, breath caught. “Nat-”

“You don’t do that to me!” Natasha shouted, pulling back just far enough to look at you, eyes wet, voice ragged. “You don’t disappear and bring me to this- THIS!”

You tried to answer, but Natasha wasn’t finished. Her voice cracked harder. “I saw the wreck. I thought it was you. I thought I was going to walk over and find your-“ Her voice cut off. “I thought you were in there. I thought I lost you.”

Your eyes glassed over. “I didn’t race..” you whispered. “I-I was going to. But I backed out.”

Natasha just looked at you. “You don’t get to scare me like that!”

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, so small, so hollow, like it barely escaped your throat.

Natasha reached up, hand cupping your cheek roughly. “No. You’re not. Not yet. Not until you understand what it felt like to see that wreck and not know. Not until you know how fast I was willing to lose everything just to get to you.”

You said nothing. You just leaned forward. And Natasha pulled you in again, not soft..but safe.

——

The road was quiet now. The flashing lights had disappeared behind them. The industrial lot was miles back. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the horizon was softening, that cold blue-gray of a day trying to start.

Inside the car, it was silent. You sat curled against the passenger-side door, legs pulled up, jacket zipped tight. You hadn’t said a word since they left. Just stared out the window, arms wrapped around yourself, your face unreadable.

Natasha gripped the wheel, knuckles tight, jaw clenched. The adrenaline was gone now, but the fear lingered. It pulsed under her skin like something sour. She could still feel the moment when she thought you were gone. When she saw that wreck and didn’t know.

She couldn’t shake it. They hadn’t spoken, not really. Not until you exhaled a shaky breath and broke the silence with the smallest voice:

“Can you pull over?”

Natasha glanced at you. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

That was it. Just no.

Natasha blinked, then nodded. She eased the car off the road and into a small dirt clearing. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car rolled to a stop.

The air was cold. You stepped around the front of the car, then just…stopped. Your back was to Natasha. You didn’t move for a long moment.

And then, your shoulders started shaking, and Natasha moved. She crossed the space between you and wrapped her arms around you from behind, pulling you in, holding you tight as you broke, really broke, the sobs silent at first, then raw and deep.

“I’m s-sorry..” you gasped. “I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking, I just- I needed everything to stop..!”

Natasha closed her eyes, holding you. Her chin rested on your shoulder. “You could’ve died.” she whispered, voice cracking. “And I wouldn’t have known until it was already too late.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the crash. I-” Natasha’s voice broke fully now. “I thought I was going to have to identify you.”

You turned in her arms. You looked like a wreck, hair wild, eyes red, face pale. But you were there.

“I didn’t race..” you said again. “But I almost did. I wanted to. I was two steps from getting in the car. And then they went ahead of me. And when they hit- I saw what would’ve happened. What could’ve happened.”

Natasha touched your cheek, gently this time. “And?”

“I felt sick. Like I’d swallowed all my anger and it turned to lead in my chest.”

You looked down. “I don’t deserve to be here with you.”

Natasha’s voice came quiet. “Don’t say that.”

“I scared you.”

“You did.”

“I scared myself.”

Natasha took your hand. “Then let’s just…sit for a bit, okay?” You sat for hours. The only time Natasha spoke again was just before they pulled into the driveway.

“If you want..” she said quietly, “I can cancel Willow’s contract.”

Your head turned slightly. Your brows furrowed.

“What?”

Natasha didn’t look at you. “If that’s what it takes for you to feel safe again. I’ll do it. No press. No drama. I’ll take the heat.”

You blinked. That offer hit hard, but not in the way Natasha expected. Because it wasn’t what you wanted. It never had been.

You swallowed, eyes back to the windshield. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

Natasha finally turned her head. “Y/n-”

“Please.”

Your voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want to forget it for one night.”

Natasha exhaled. Nodded once. “Okay.”

You didn’t shower. Didn’t undress all the way. Just crawled beneath the covers, your back to Natasha’s chest, both of you fully clothed, like you were too tired to be anything but present. Natasha’s arm curled over your middle. Not pulling. Just being there. And you let it happen.

——

The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and soft sunlight warmed the edge of the bed. But that wasn’t what woke you. It was Natasha’s hand, moving in slow circles over your shoulder blade. Barely-there touches. Tracing the curve of old tension.

The sheets rustled. Natasha was already awake, and eyes open. You blinked, letting out a groggy sigh. Your voice was hoarse. “How long have you been doing that?”

Natasha smirked softly, voice still sleep-scratchy. “Long enough to know it still calms you down.”

Your lips twitched. “You trying to seduce me out of my trauma?”

“Maybe..” Natasha murmured. “Is it working?”

A soft hum escaped your throat, something between a sigh and a laugh. You rolled to face her, finally, and found Natasha’s eyes already waiting.

Then Natasha brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “It’s in the news.”

You didn’t flinch. “Figured.”

“We have a conference in three hours.”

You groaned and buried your face into the pillow. “Seduction cancelled.”

Natasha chuckled. “I’ll reschedule it. Post-conference. Post-disaster.”

You turned back toward her, eyes soft. “Thanks for not saying more last night.”

“I wanted to.” Natasha said honestly. “But it felt more important to just…stay.”

“You did.”

Your eyes met. There was a stretch of silence where neither of you moved, where the morning wrapped around you like a blanket heavier than the one on the bed.

Then you leaned forward, pressed your forehead to Natasha’s, and whispered, “I’ll talk. Just…not yet.”

Natasha nodded. “Okay.”

You stayed like that for a long time. The conference could wait. The news could wait. For now, there were only two people in a bed too big for the weight you’d both been carrying. And in the quiet, in the warmth, in the slow rhythm of being wrapped around each other, there was a peace that neither of you had known in weeks.

“Can we just stay here forever?” you mumbled. Natasha smiled, lips against your skin. “You give the press conference, I’ll fake our deaths.”

“Deal.”

Hours later, the mood in the debrief was cold, clipped, efficient. You sat stiff in the corner seat of the long debriefing table, shoulders squared like you could brace your way through the morning.

The mood in the debrief was cold, clipped, efficient. You sat stiff in the corner seat of the long debriefing table, shoulders squared like you could brace your way through the morning.

Natasha sat beside you, not across the table. Not near the monitors..Right next to you. The team was already assembled, Jared from PR, the strategy director, a few engineers, even Willow, seated opposite with her tablet tucked to her chest.

But Natasha hadn’t looked at anyone else since she walked in. Her chair was turned slightly toward you. One arm draped loosely over the back of your seat. She hadn’t said much, not yet, but she didn’t need to. Your hands stayed in your lap, twisting at the hem of your sleeve. Your voice hadn’t worked properly since you’d woken up.

“Let’s keep this clean.” Jared said. “The street race footage is circulating. No proof you raced, but public speculation is enough. We get ahead of it by framing it our way.”

Natasha’s jaw flexed. She didn’t speak. Jared kept going. “We’ll lean on team unity. Frustration under pressure. Personal responsibility. But we need empathy without opening you up to liability.”

You didn’t look up. Your eyes were on the edge of the table. Jared hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I’ve got talking points drafted. We’ll review together after. And for the joint interview-”

“Wait.” Natasha said suddenly, voice quiet but sharp. Her hand moved slowly, resting lightly on your knee under the table. Protective. Subtle. But there.

You froze. You hadn’t expected that. You didn’t know how much you needed it. Natasha didn’t look at the others. Only at you.

“She doesn’t need a script.” Natasha said. “She just needs space.”

Jared blinked. “We have to shape perception-”

“I’ll handle it.” Natasha interrupted. You turned your head, just slightly. And Natasha met your eyes. Held them. I’m not mad. I’m here. The message was silent, but loud enough to quiet the panic building behind your ribs.

You sat on the bench in the green room, holding a bottle of water you hadn’t opened. The questions would be brutal. The room would be hot. The world would be watching. You should’ve felt prepared. But your throat was tight.

“I’ll be next to you the whole time.” Natasha said, crouching in front of you. Her tone was softer than anyone else had heard it all week. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest.”

You looked down. “Honesty might get us dropped by two sponsors.”

“I don’t care about sponsors.” Natasha said. “I care about you.”

Your eyes burned, and then Willow stepped into the room. Quiet, hesitant. She didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look, not challenging. Not pitiful. Just… there.

You nodded once. It was the closest you’d come to a truce. Then you were called in. Three chairs. Three names. Three very different silences.

You sat with your hands folded on the table. Natasha to your right. Willow on the left. The first question came fast.

“You, last night’s footage paints a concerning picture. Were you involved in the race?”

You lifted your mic. Your voice came quiet but steady. “I was there. I didn’t race. But I shouldn’t have been there. It was a bad choice.”

Another reporter jumped in. “Do you feel like you’ve let down your team, especially the younger drivers?”

You exhaled slowly, but before you could answer- Willow leaned into her mic.

“No one in this room has the right to speak on what she’s carrying.”

Every head turned. Willow sat straight, eyes sharp.

“She’s not just a champion on the track, she’s the one who shows up first, who checks our setups, who stands behind us even when the world’s tearing her down. She’s not perfect. But none of us are. So if this team stands for anything, it’s for having each other’s backs.”

Silence. And then, almost imperceptibly- Your walls cracked. No one expected her to speak, least of all you. The next question came slower. Softer. About engine setups. Natasha took it.

But you barely heard it. Your eyes were still on Willow. She sat tall, hands in her lap, expression unreadable. Not proud. Not performative. Just… solid..loyal.

It hit you like a gut punch. I got her all wrong. You thought you’d been battling some threat. A rival. A replacement. But maybe- Maybe you’d been looking at the only person on this team who never judged you once.

The press was finally over. People scattered. Doors opened and closed. Noise began to fade. You ducked into a side hallway just off the main press room, needing a second to yourself. Your hands still buzzed, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off. You leaned against the wall, eyes closed, trying to slow your breath.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was Willow. But you didn’t move away. She stopped beside you, didn’t lean, didn’t fidget, didn’t speak.

Just stood there, and the silence stretched. “You didn’t had to do that.”

Willow shrugged. “Yeah, I did.”

You turned your head to look at her. Willow was staring at the opposite wall. Voice even, steady. “You were the first driver I ever watched. When I was fifteen, I clipped your post-race interview after the Monza win. Saved it to my phone.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Willow smiled a little. “You didn’t smile in it. You just looked exhausted. And real. I remember thinking, ‘That’s what I want. That kind of focus.’”

You looked down.

“I didn’t come here to replace you.” Willow said quietly. “I came here because I wanted to learn from you.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I thought you hated me by now..” you admitted.

“I thought you didn’t see me at all.”

A pause. Then Willow’s voice dropped, honest and a little raw: “You ever feel like if you mess up once, it’s all gone? Like…the place you earned suddenly slips out from under you?”

You turned to fully face her. “Yeah.”

Willow finally looked at you. “It feels like that all the time.”

You studied her. Saw the sharpness behind her eyes, brave, ambitious, terrified. Just like you once were. You stepped a little closer. “You’re doing good, Willow.”

Willow blinked. It was the first time she’d heard you say her name without tension. You let out a breath. “If anyone gives you shit out there, media, paddock, team, tell them to come through me first.”

Willow’s lip curled into a slow smile. “That includes you, right?”

You smirked. “Especially me.”

You both laughed..light, breathy. For the first time, it felt easy. Not perfect..but safe.

Back at the track, you stood by the window, barefoot, a hoodie slouched off one shoulder, hair damp from a shower you took without even realizing it. Your body ached, not from driving, but from everything else.

Behind you, the door clicked, and Natasha entered. No words. Just the familiar sound of her keys, her quiet footsteps, the small thump of her jacket being laid over the chair.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. Natasha came up behind you slowly and wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her cheek against your shoulder.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy now. You closed your eyes. Let yourself lean back into it.

“Hey.” Natasha said softly. “About the interview.”

“She didn’t have to.”

“She meant it…She looks up to you.” Natasha continued. “And not just for the racing.”

“She doesn’t have to.” you said.

“But she does.”

Another pause. Then, you turned in Natasha’s arms and buried your face in her neck. Not crying, or breaking. Just holding on. “I was scared I wasn’t enough anymore.” you admitted. Your voice was so quiet it nearly disappeared.

Natasha pulled you in tighter. “You were never ‘enough’ to me because of what you did. You’re enough because of who you are.”

Your hands clutched the fabric of Natasha’s shirt. “I’m still figuring that out.”

“I’ll wait with you.” Natasha whispered. “As long as it takes.”

You nodded against her skin. You stood there for a long time. “I don’t want you to cancel her contract.”

Natasha paused. “You sure?”

You looked back over your shoulder. Willow was still in the hallway, arms crossed, now being roped into some joke by one of the engineers.

“She’s good. She’s herself. And that matters.”

A breath. “I want her here. Not just on the team. With us.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. Then she smiled. Something slow, relieved, proud. “She’s lucky.” she murmured. “To have someone like you on her side.”

You met her gaze. “She’s not the only one.”

Natasha leaned in, just enough to brush her hand along your wrist. It was a promise, and you..this time, believed it.

Three Months Later – Monaco GP Weekend – 2 Hours Before Quali

You leaned against the wall of the garage, helmet in hand, hair braided back tight, lips curved into a smirk. Across from you, Willow was pacing. Half-nervous, half-hyped. Her suit hung open at the top, gloves shoved into her back pocket. She turned suddenly and pointed at you.

“If I beat your sector time in turn nine, you’re buying drinks.”

You laughed. “If you beat my sector time in turn nine, I’ll name a cocktail after you.”

Willow grinned. “Deal.”

“Hey.” you added, tone lowering as you pushed off the wall. “You ready?”

Willow’s smile dimmed, replaced by something deeper. “Yeah. I think I am.”

You nodded, then reached out and bumped her shoulder gently, affectionate, solid. “Go make me proud, rookie.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “You literally call me that just to flex that I’m not a world champion.”

“You’ll get there.” you said, softer this time. “And when you do, I’ll still call you that.”

You both laughed. It was easy now. Natural. What once felt like pressure had turned into gravity, holding you together instead of pulling you apart.

“Willow’s been faster in the corners all weekend.” Natasha said, eyes on the map. “But your exit speed is giving her a gap on the straights. We’re debating who gets clean air for the second run.”

The room turned to you. You didn’t hesitate. “Give it to her.”

Everyone blinked. Natasha looked up. “You sure?”

You gave a small smile. “I’ve had the spotlight. Let the kid have a shot.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you being…nice to me?”

“I’ll deny it by dinner..” you said. Natasha’s eyes didn’t leave you. She was smiling, but her chest had tightened slightly. Not with worry, but with pride.

Willow had qualified P3. You, P4.

You were both happy..Genuinely happy. You raised your glass from across the table and yelled over the music, “TO THE ROOKIE!”

Everyone cheered. Willow pretended to bow, grinning like she couldn’t believe her own night. It made something in your chest soften. The kind of soft that used to make you ache. Now, it just felt good.

“You’re not just my teammate anymore, you know.”

Willow looked at you.

“You’re mine now.” you said. “Little sister I never asked for.”

Willow smiled wide, teeth showing. “I’ll take it.”

The party had quieted down. The city sparkled beneath you. Monaco felt like a dream in slow motion. You stepped outside, barefoot, hoodie over your race tee.

Natasha was already there, leaning against the railing, hair loose, a champagne glass resting beside her hand. You came up behind her and slid your arms around her waist, resting your head between her shoulder blades.

“You’re warm..” you mumbled.

“I’ve been standing in the same spot waiting for you to do exactly this.” Natasha replied.

You smiled into her back. “Guess I’m predictable now.”

“No.” Natasha said, turning to face you, eyes soft. “You’re just steady. And that’s everything.”

You stood like that for a moment. No tension, no fear.. Just love, real, grounded, still full of sparks, but quiet now. Like embers. Natasha tucked a hand against your jaw. “You’re not the girl I picked up after a crash anymore.”

“No?”

“You’re stronger. Calmer. Smarter.”

You smirked. “Still hotter, though.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Debatable.”

You laughed, and leaned in. The kiss was soft. Familiar. Slow. When you parted, you whispered, “You know I’d still choose you. Even if I wasn’t your driver.”

Natasha held your gaze. “I chose you long before you ever got in my car.”

The city glowed around you. The sound of the ocean below. The wind in your hair. Everything exactly where it belonged.

“You okay?” she asked.

You nodded. “I was thinking about where we started,” you said softly. “About how many times I thought I was going to lose all of this.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Me too.”

“And?”

She looked at you. “I didn’t. We didn’t.”

You leaned your head against her shoulder. “I don’t need to be the only star. I just didn’t want to burn out alone.”

“You never were.” Natasha whispered. “Not for one second.”

The city blinked quietly beneath you. And you stayed like that until the moon rose.

Together.

Still here.

Still holding on.

Still hers.

-

-

-

[purifiedclitoris69]

LMFAOO lowkey!! our bby better grovel next part fr

man I'm disappointed in nat. ts break up worthy

OAAAHHHH, my poor baby, what have I done

[purifiedclitoris69]

Stakeout (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Summary: When a stakeout gets too boring, tensions arise.

Words: 2136

Warnings: SMUT, language, clothed grinding, use of the phrase 'cauldron of sexual tension'.

A/N: I did a thing. You're welcome. Set pre-Ultron I guess? Undefined. Reader is an implied super soldier.

-X-

Head lolling away from your binoculars, you absently stared at Natasha’s profile as she studied the building across from you with a terrifying intensity. Even in the dim light filtering through the dirty windowpane of this half-condemned safehouse, the sharp green of her eyes looked unnaturally vivid—or maybe you were just a sucker for her eyes. That was also a possibility.

They narrowed slightly, reflecting the faint glint of a passing car’s headlights outside—her posture rigid and focused. You’d seen that look a hundred times before in the field and on missions. It usually meant somebody was about to die—but never the wrong person. She was eerily precise in that way…

And fuck, it was so hot.

Her body moved just enough to track the wandering denizens of the city. Legs drawn beneath her like a coiled spring, her shoulder brushing yours every so often when she adjusted her grip on the long-lens scope. Her scent—sharp black coffee, leather, and a hint of cinnamon gum—was starting to live in your sinuses.

Three days. No sleep. No real food. Nowhere to go. Just you and Natasha in a crumbling third-floor room across from an empty brownstone with boarded-up windows and the rumors of something sleazy stirring inside it. Gamma-laced drugs—unstable, mutative, potent. Enough to cook a neighborhood if the wrong hands got hold of it… or, y’know, at the very least turn a bunch of addicts into raging Hulk monsters.

Something the team was hoping to avoid at all costs.

You were supposed to be watching for drop-offs. But instead, you’d been focusing heavily on the woman beside you. The slope of her nose, the curve of her mouth…

She shifted again, the line of her jaw tight even as she glanced at you from the corner of her eye. Her hair was pulled up, messy and haphazardly tossed up into a messy bun, a few crimson strands clinging to her cheek in defiance of whatever attempted discipline she’d tried to wrestle them into earlier during the day.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, her voice low, husky with boredom and something a little too hot simmering just beneath.

The sound sent a hot twist curling in your stomach before you could kill the thought. You hadn’t even noticed your breath had caught in your throat.

“See something you like, soldier?” Her lips quirked up into a slight smirk.

Footsteps echoed on the street below, loud against the wet asphalt. A pair of dealers, maybe. Possibly a contact but unlikely at this point.

Yet neither of you moved toward the window. Instead, her thigh pressed against yours, firm and steady, like she hadn’t noticed.

Or maybe she had. Because if there was one thing you could say with certainty it was that Natasha was always aware.

Always.

You felt her breath near your cheek, warmer now. Her fingers adjusted the binoculars, though the scope wasn’t trained on anything, more idle movement than actual adjustment as she stared into your eyes.

“You know you’re supposed to be focusing, right, soldier girl?” Natasha teased, her voice like a snake traveling up your spine and embedding itself in the base of your skull.

“I’m very focused,” you breathed, “just not on the dealer.”

The corner of her mouth curled, sharp and slow.

“Thought so,” she whispered, almost smug, but there was a crack in it—just enough to let something else slip through. Hours, days, weeks of unspoken want and thinly veiled flirting bubbling to the top of your cauldron of sexual tension that was only burning hotter with every passing second.

She shifted, each twitch slow and deliberate. Her fingers dragged over the fabric of your tactical pants, lazy and testing. Heat bled through the contact like her touch was wired straight into your bloodstream.

And then she straddled your lap.

Her fingers braced against your shoulders, palms flat, her weight sinking down on your thighs. It was far too intimate for something you’d only ever dreamed of in your loneliest nights, when your hand was buried between your thighs, palm pressed over your mouth so no one would hear you moaning her name like a benediction; a prayer carved into the space between your teeth.

She was still fully dressed—and so were you—but in that moment, it didn’t fucking matter.

Her gaze dropped to your mouth and she wet her bottom lip. Her hand ghosted up to your jaw, thumb brushing against your lip, dragging it down slowly as she exhaled softly. Like the moment was finally settling her bones the way it was in yours. Her thumb lingered, held there like it wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth as she trailed over the soft flesh.

“This is a bad idea,” she muttered, more to herself than you. But her hips rolled, just a fraction. Testing her own control—or yours, or both…

“We really—” she started, but the words tangled and died as her body pressed flush against yours, the drag of her pants catching on the ridge of your thigh, pressing just right on her clit through the material.

And she moaned.

Low, almost too low to catch if not for the silence of the room, as she rocked again, almost involuntarily against the muscles of your thigh.

Her hands tightened on your shoulders, nails biting through the thin fabric of your shirt as she panted, mouth a mere few inches from yours.

“Fuck it,” she muttered—

Before she rocked against you again, slower this time.

Deliberate.

Hands reaching up, you knocked her hair loose from its bun as your fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her mouth to yours hungrily, thigh tensing as she rode your leg like it was granting her the oxygen in her lungs.

Her gasp hit your lips as you claimed her, the sound more instinct than permission, like she’d been waiting for you to cross that line for far too long. Her mouth met yours with ferocity, open and needy, lips parting with surrender. Tongue hot and searching, greedy as yours tangled with hers in a kiss that was more battle than seduction.

You could feel her fingers twist in your shirt like she needed the anchor or she’d come apart at the seams. Her hips rolled again, harder now, grinding down against you with a reckless rhythm that made her whole body tremble against yours. Her breath caught on a whimper—your name half-formed, swallowed by your kiss.

You couldn’t remember when, too caught up in the heat of her, it had begun to rain, the water smearing across the windowpane, pounding down in sheets on the glass behind her like war drums. If you’d been thinking properly, you would’ve suggested going to the roof to watch the brownstone. To keep an eye out for the inevitable drug deal gone bad.

But in here, time was meaningless. It didn’t matter that you were supposed to be searching for a dealer. That you were technically compromising the mission by letting months’ worth of tension snap into something neither of you would come back from. Because here? There was only the slick heat between you, the friction of tactical-on-tactical pants and the pressure of her core dragging over the swell of your thigh in desperate, erratic stutters.

Her hands shot up, fingers threading into your hair like something had finally snapped, like a string yanked too tight. She pulled—not gentle, not sweet—dragging your head back just enough to devour your mouth deeper. The scrape of her teeth on your bottom lip was feral. Sharp and bordering on painful but gods, you didn’t care.

“You feel what you do to me?” she whispered, voice rasping as her forehead pressed to yours. Her hips never stopped moving. Every breath came with a tremble now. “Fucking God…”

Her hands roamed, curling under the hem of your shirt, nails raking your sides like she needed to carve the shape of you into her palms.

A noise escaped your throat, not quite a moan—almost a growl—as your hands dropped to her ass and gripped tight, guiding her movements like you were a woman starved and she was the first taste of food you’d had in months.

A breathless gasp tore from Natasha’s lips the second your hands found her ass, your hold hard enough to draw a choked moan as you ground her down, forcing her to ride the firm line of your thigh. Her nails dug into your shoulders—so fucking painful but it only served to light your nerves ablaze—and she let her head fall back for just a heartbeat.

Her throat, pale and glistening with sweat, was exposed in the dim light, pulsing with every staggered breath. You heard it again—that same raw sound she made when she stopped pretending this wasn’t exactly what she’d been wanting for months.

“Jesus…” she hissed, her voice cracking. Her thighs clenched around your hips, muscles quivering as she rolled harder now. Erratic and desperate and racing towards an end she almost didn’t want to find yet.

“Fuck, Tasha…” you groaned against her jaw, nipping and biting at the soft skin.

Her hands fumbled down to the hem of your shirt, shoving it up with trembling urgency, her palms pressing against the bare skin beneath as she grinded down with renewed need. Every drag of her body over yours sparked something hot and raging in her belly. The seam of her tactical pants—rough, unforgiving—rubbed just right against her clit with every thrust.

“Say it again,” she panted, mouth at your ear, voice ruined and hoarse. “Say my name again like that.” And then her lips were on your neck, biting, sucking, claiming; hips moving with wild, unfiltered need.

Somewhere on the street below, a car door slammed. Footsteps. Muffled shouts in a language you didn’t speak. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t care.

You felt her body start to shudder as her breath caught hard against your throat.

“I’m—fuck, don’t stop—don’t you fucking dare—” she whined. She ground down again, and again, chasing the edge with a fury that was pure need.

She was close and you could feel it.

Unraveling in your lap, falling apart with every grind of her soaked pants against yours, every ragged gasp in your ear.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby… I’ve dreamed about this for months, hearing that pretty voice break as you ride me like this,” you murmured in her ear, nipping at her earlobe.

Natasha let out a broken cry, her whole body jerking at your words like you’d reached inside her and flipped something vital. Her hips stuttered for a breath, overwhelmed, her fingernails biting into your sides. But then she surged forward, mouth crashing into yours, all teeth and tongue and desperation.

“You—fuck—you bitch,” she gasped, half-laughing, half-sobbing, lost somewhere between desperation and rapture as you kissed and licked across her somewhat exposed collarbones and neck, still guiding every motion with your hands firm on her ass. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She ground herself on your thigh with reckless abandon, the fabric soaked between her legs, every rock of her hips a shuddering confession. Her thighs trembled with the effort, sweat slicking her skin beneath her clothes. Her body pulsed with frantic need, and her face—her beautiful face—twisted in something between agony and ecstasy as you guided her through it.

“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so good… keep going.” You barely recognized your own voice anymore, too enraptured by her.

“That’s it…” she echoed faintly, dazed, voice raspy and guttural. “Fuck, that’s it… I-I’m gonna—”

You could feel her thighs clenching tighter, hips stalling on each thrust now, losing rhythm as she got closer—so close—chasing that edge with every drag of her clit over the ridge of your leg. Her breath hitched again, teeth biting into her own lip to keep from screaming.

And then—

Her whole body arched, spasmed—hips bucking wildly against you as the orgasm ripped through her. She bit into your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, as a primal, soul-shattering moan clawed its way out of her throat, muffled but unmistakable even with her teeth sunk deep into your skin.

You held the back of her head gently, helping her slow the rock of her hips as she chased every last white-hot flash of ecstasy before collapsing against you, hips jumping with every minor aftershock as she panted and whimpered against your neck.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the dealer. Not SHIELD. Not the Avengers… because Natasha Romanoff had come using your leg…

And you really fucking hoped this wouldn’t be the last time.

[purifiedclitoris69]

damnn this hurt my ego LOL

Redline. Bonus 5.1 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Mention of sex, feeling of replacement

Word count: 10,8k

A/n: I didn't think I'd type the title above ever again, but I'll have to do it a second time tomorrow, as there will be a second part..thank you so much ☀️ for this grandiose idea!!! Let's see if one of you finds the "mistake"/difference to the other parts..

The morning sun hadn’t even kissed the sky yet when your alarm buzzed quietly beside you. You silenced it with a quick swipe and glanced to your right. Natasha was curled up beneath the covers, her red hair spilling across the pillow in a rare moment of peace. Her breathing was soft, slow, even, and you took a second to soak it in.

You slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her, and tiptoed across the suite to grab your gym bag. Your heart was already pumping, not just from excitement, but from something deeper, older. That itch in your chest that only the track could soothe. It was race season again. Time to put on the helmet and become who you really were.

The gym was empty, the way you liked it. No cameras. No agents. No engineers. Just the rhythmic hum of your breath and the burn of muscle as you pushed yourself through circuit after circuit, focusing on agility, reflexes, core strength. Every crunch, every punch, every bead of sweat was a promise you made to yourself, and to Natasha.

This season was going to be yours. Again.

By the time you stepped out of the shower, skin still tingling from the heat and heart pounding with post-workout adrenaline, you were practically vibrating. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded back into the room, already mentally drafting a cheeky comment to wake Natasha with, something flirty, maybe teasing about her sleeping in while you were already hustling.

But the bed was empty. Still neatly made. A flicker of confusion passed through you. You checked your watch. Not that early..

You dressed quickly, tugging on a clean hoodie and joggers, and made your way down the hall to the team’s suite of offices. Most were still dark, except for one. Natasha’s. The door was open just a crack, enough to let the light spill out across the floor.

You approached slowly, the buzz in your veins dimming just a bit. Inside, Natasha sat behind her desk, eyes locked on her laptop, posture stiff. A dozen tabs were open on the monitor..data, driver analytics, telemetry charts. She didn’t look up right away when you stepped in. But you didn’t need to see her eyes to know something was off. You felt it, the way you feel a car start to slide just before the tires lose grip.

“Nat?” you said softly.

Natasha looked up, and her face didn’t match her usual morning calm. She had that tight look around her mouth, the one she wore when she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“Hey. You’re up early.” Natasha said.

“I could say the same about you.” You leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect to find you buried in data at six am.”

“I needed to get ahead of some things.” Natasha sat back in her chair, folding her arms. “Come in. Sit for a second.”

You blinked. That tone.

Not “I missed you.”

Not “How was your workout?”

Not even her clipped professional cadence.

Something else entirely. You crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite Natasha, studying her with narrowed eyes. “What’s going on?”

Natasha hesitated for a beat. Then she spoke.

“Willow Petrov.”

The name landed like a dropped wrench in a silent garage. Your brow furrowed. “From Formula 2?”

Natasha gave a short nod. “She’s twenty, Russian, ran with LunaTech last season. Three podiums. Got the best reaction time average in the pack. I’ve been watching her for a while.”

You tilted your head slowly. “Okay… why are we talking about her?”

Natasha exhaled. “She’s driving for us now. As your teammate.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. You blinked again, slower this time. Your brain raced to catch up, to reorganize the shape of your expectations. “What?”

“I signed her last night.” Natasha said, voice calm but unreadable. “It’ll be announced this afternoon.”

You stared at her. “I thought we were running solo again this season.”

“We were. But the board’s been pressuring for a second driver since last year. Sponsors too. We need more data from track simulations, better car-to-car telemetry feedback. And frankly, Willow’s too good to let go.”

A dozen thoughts flooded your head at once. You remembered Willow, bright, sharp, fearless. The type who cut corners like a knife and grinned at the podium like she belonged there, even when she didn’t win. A rookie, yes..but a talented one.

“She’s good.” you said slowly. “I’m not saying she isn’t. But this…changes things.”

“I know.”

“We have to split test runs, telemetry data, garage time. I’ll have to share my race engineer. She doesn’t know the car. Hell, she doesn’t know you. And I-”

Natasha stood then, walked around the desk, and crouched in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your knee. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did. “You are still my number one. On track. Off it. Nothing about that changes. But this team isn’t just about us anymore. It can’t be, if we want to grow. I need you to help me bring her in. Mentor her. Lead her.”

You searched Natasha’s face, heart twisting with something you didn’t want to name. Not jealousy. Not fear. Just..uncertainty.

“Can I think about it?” you asked quietly.

“You don’t have to decide anything. Just meet her. She’s arriving tomorrow.” You nodded slowly. Tomorrow. Everything was already changing.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur.

After the bombshell about Willow, you had thrown yourself into team meetings with a sort of sharp-edged focus, the kind Natasha had come to recognize over the months. When you were rattled, you didn’t fall apart, you doubled down. Your voice was steady during briefing, your analysis sharp as ever, but Natasha could feel the undercurrent. The quiet weight behind your eyes. The slightly-too-stiff posture. The questions that weren’t really about strategy.

Still, no one else in the room seemed to notice. To them, you were the reigning champion. The top driver of the Romanoff Racing team. Unshakeable.

Natasha knew better.

“Alright.” she said as they wrapped up for the day, clapping her hands once as the crew began dispersing. “Tomorrow we welcome Willow to the garage. I want everyone on their A-game. Let’s show her what a real team looks like.”

You didn’t speak as you gathered your notes. Just nodded and slipped your phone into your pocket. Natasha let you walk beside her in silence down the corridor, until you reached the private team garage, a sacred space for the two of you when the world felt too loud.

You finally spoke, voice quiet. “You think she’s ready?”

Natasha glanced at you. “She’s raw, but she’s smart. She’ll adjust. But she’s not you.”

You gave a tiny laugh under your breath. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

Natasha smiled faintly. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m telling you the truth, Y/n.”

Dinner that evening was something simple. Homemade pasta. Natasha had cooked, which in itself was a rare gesture, part apology, part grounding ritual. You sat on the couch, legs tangled under the blanket, eating straight from the bowls, a slow jazz record playing softly in the background.

You finally started to loosen. You leaned into Natasha’s side, head resting on her shoulder, chewing quietly.

“She’s going to ask questions about you.” you murmured after a long stretch of silence.

“She might.”

“You gonna tell her we’re together?”

“I’m going to tell her you’re my top driver.” Natasha said with a smirk. “Everything else, she’ll figure out the moment she sees us look at each other.”

You gave a small scoff. “You’re obnoxiously confident sometimes.”

Natasha pressed a kiss to your temple. “And you love it.”

Later that night, the apartment had gone quiet. Natasha had gone to wash up, and you stayed curled on the couch, hoodie pulled up over your head, the laptop balanced across your legs. The screen glowed softly in the dark, video after video, all the same subject.

Willow Petrov | Rising Star - F2 Highlights

Willow Petrov Onboard | Monaco Hairpin Dive

Willow Petrov: 2024 Season Recap

Her style was aggressive, but clean. No wasted movement. Calculated chaos. And she had this look behind the helmet, fierce, wide-eyed, maybe even a little reckless. She reminded you of yourself, once.

Too much.

So when Natasha padded back into the room, damp hair tied in a loose knot, wearing only a black tank and sweatpants, she paused in the doorway, smirking at the screen before speaking.

“You stalking your new teammate already?”

You startled, slammed the laptop shut too quickly. “I was just..researching.”

“Mm-hm.” Natasha crossed her arms, clearly entertained. “Researching. With that little frown and everything.”

“I’m not jealous..” you muttered, cheeks flushed. “I’m just…making sure I know what I’m working with.”

Natasha stepped forward, eyes gleaming as she knelt in front of you, resting her hands on your thighs. “It’s okay if you are. A little.”

You met her gaze, trying to hold it, trying to be cool. But something warm bloomed in your chest at how amused Natasha looked, like this was something endearing. Like you weren’t being ridiculous, but…cute.

“She’s not a threat.” Natasha said softly. “To your seat. To us.”

You swallowed. “I just don’t want to lose what we have.”

“You’re not going to.” Natasha’s voice was sure, low, steady. “You’re mine. On every track. In every city. In every way that matters. There’s no one else I want in that car..or in this bed.”

You looked down at her, and your voice was barely a whisper. “Promise?”

Natasha rose onto her knees, kissed you slow and deep, her hand slipping to the back of your neck. “I promise.” she murmured against your lips. And for the first time that day, you let yourself believe it.

The next morning came bright and early, sun slicing through the tall windows of the paddock hospitality suite like a blade. The team’s logo, sleek and minimal, black and red, gleamed from banners, transport trucks, even the espresso machine. A few engineers were already moving in the garage, prepping telemetry equipment and adjusting the simulator booth in the corner.

You stood just outside, arms folded, watching the driveway. You told yourself you weren’t nervous. You’d given track tours a dozen times. You’d welcomed new engineers, new sponsors, new assistants. You’d even done a handshake round with a crown prince once, back when Natasha’s team had first gone international.

But something about this one felt different. When the black car finally pulled up, you recognized her instantly. She practically bounced out, tiny compared to the hulking luggage she hauled behind her. She wore the team’s new windbreaker, sleeves a little too long, brown hair in a messy braid, and a smile stretched across her face like it had been glued there for hours.

Big eyes. Too much energy. Nervous as hell. You swallowed a smile and stepped forward. “You must be Willow.”

Willow straightened like she’d been caught doing something wrong. “Y-Yes! Hi!”

“Hi.” You offered your hand. “Welcome to Romanoff Racing.”

Willow shook it with both hands, her grip too eager, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh my God, I can’t believe this is real..” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been watching your races since I was fifteen, I mean, not in a creepy way, I just-God, that sounded creepy, didn’t it?”

You let out a short laugh. “You’re fine..” Willow blushed deeply, nodding rapidly.

Just then, Natasha stepped out from the garage, clipboard in hand, her presence commanding even in jeans and a fitted t-shirt. Willow visibly straightened again, as if she were back in military school. Natasha gave her a nod, eyes cool but not unkind.

“Willow. Good to have you with us.”

“Th-THank you, Ms. Romanoff..” Willow stammered.

Natasha turned to you, that subtle look passing between you like a secret no one else could read. “I’ve got a strategy meeting with the core team. Think you can show her around?”

You nodded. “Sure.”

“Stick to pit lane, garage, and test paddock. Don’t take her near the media center yet. They don’t know we’ve signed her.” Natasha paused. “And for the love of God, don’t let her try to sit in your car.”

Willow blinked. “I would never- I mean, just looking! I swear!”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed again. Natasha smirked, kissed your cheek (subtle but intentional), and then disappeared into the garage.

Willow watched her go with wide eyes. “…She’s terrifying.”

“She’s not that bad.” you said, walking toward the pit entrance.

“She is. But like, in a powerful-boss-woman way.”

You shot her a glance. “She’s also my girlfriend.”

Willow froze. “Oh. Oh. Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean..I didn’t know you two were, um- wow. Cool. Very cool. That explains the…cheek kiss.”

You arched a brow, biting down a grin. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Willow squeaked. “Just trying not to implode.”

The track was still quiet, only the faint sounds of drills and tires being moved echoing through the pit lane. You walked her through the various zones: the telemetry stations, tire warmers, pit boxes, the private rest pods hidden behind the main lounge.

Willow asked questions, so many questions. About the car’s brake bias system, about fuel management in wet conditions, about how the team handled your post-crash comeback. Her eyes sparkled with a thousand unspoken thoughts, and despite yourself, you started to like her. She was too earnest to hate.

You stopped just at the edge of the garage, where your race car stood under soft LED lights, its sleek chassis black with crimson accents.

Willow gasped. “Is that yours?”

You nodded. “Every piece of her.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s temperamental, high-maintenance, and will betray you the moment you relax.” You ran a hand across the wing. “But yeah. She’s mine.”

Willow stepped forward, a little reverent. “What’s it like? Sitting in her. That moment right before the lights go out?”

You turned to her, studying the rookie’s hopeful face. “It’s like…you disappear. And all that’s left is instinct. Speed. Survival.”

Willow looked down, serious now. “I don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“I thought I’d have more time..” she admitted. “To grow. To learn. And now I’m being dropped next to you. You’re a world champion. You’re her partner. What if I screw up?”

You softened. “You will.” you said simply. “We all do. But we get better. That’s how this works. Just don’t try to be me.”

Willow looked up, surprised. “Be you. That’s who she signed.”

Willow nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll try.”

You gave her a small smile. “That’s all you need to do.”

The tour ended as the midday sun baked the tarmac in a golden shimmer. Willow had talked nonstop for nearly an hour, and though you didn’t admit it out loud, the kid had started to grow on you. Somewhere between her overly enthusiastic obsession with brake cooling systems and the way her eyes lit up when they entered the data lab, you felt something unfamiliar settle in your chest.

Not irritation. Not jealousy. Something closer to nostalgia.

You returned to the garage, where the hum of the team buzzed around you like bees, techs checking tire pressure, interns typing rapidly, radios crackling between engineers. The pulse of the season was coming alive again, and you could feel it deep in your bones.

Natasha appeared just as you stepped back into the paddock. She’d changed into her track jacket, her red hair pulled back in a low ponytail, clipboard tucked under one arm. Her presence was casual, but commanding, as always.

“How’s the tour?” she asked, directing the question to Willow, though her eyes flicked briefly toward you.

Willow straightened again. “Incredible. I..I don’t even know how to process it all. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

Natasha gave her a small smile, the kind that was rare and real. “Good. I like drivers who know how to appreciate where they are. But now it’s time to stop dreaming and start driving.”

Willow blinked. “Wait. N-Now?”

Natasha gestured toward the second car in the garage, sleek, matte gray, less tuned than your beast but still mean enough to roar.

“Nothing major. Just a few laps. Get the feel of the track. It’s different when it’s ours.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t waste any time, did you?”

Natasha smirked. “Neither do you.”

Willow looked between you, nervous again but clearly vibrating with excitement. “I- yes. Absolutely. Thank you, Ms. Romanoff.”

“Call me Natasha when we’re not in front of sponsors.” she said, turning to toss her clipboard on the table. “Suit up. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Within twenty minutes, Willow was in the car. The Romanoff test track wasn’t part of any international circuit. It was private land, built with obsessive precision, modeled after the most complex corners of Monaco, Silverstone, and Spa, all folded into a brutal loop of tight chicanes, high-speed straights, and elevation changes that punished hesitation.

It wasn’t a track for rookies.

You stood with your arms crossed beside Natasha at the observation deck just above pit lane, watching the camera feed light up as the car pulled from the garage.

“She looks scared.” you said.

“She should be.” Natasha replied. “Fear keeps your hands steady.”

The engine roared to life and Willow was off, taking the first few laps with visible caution. Corners were wide, braking early, no aggressive downshifts. You leaned against the railing, unimpressed.

“She’s holding back.”

“She’s learning the rhythm.” Natasha said, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Watch.”

You did. And after lap three, something shifted. The lines tightened. Her timing smoothed. She stopped dancing around the turns and started slicing through them. Lap four, she nailed the uphill chicane without touching the apex rumble strip. On five, she drifted wide just enough to preserve tire heat without compromising the downforce.

Your brow furrowed. “…Huh.”

Natasha’s smile was faint, knowing. “She’s good.”

“She’s very good.”

You watched in silence as Willow pushed through another two laps, faster each time. Still not elite, but promising. Focused. Hungry. She cut the final corner too sharp on the last run and skidded slightly, catching herself at the edge of the gravel. She brought the car in after that, helmeted head turning as she entered the garage and coasted to a stop.

When the engine went quiet, you let out a low breath. “…Okay,” you muttered. “That can’t go unanswered.”

Natasha turned. “Oh?”

Your smile grew slowly. “Give me ten minutes and my girl back in the paddock.”

“You want to race her?”

You turned to her, eyes gleaming with challenge. “You wanted her tested. Let’s see how she handles the heat.”

Natasha considered you for a beat, then nodded.

“Don’t go easy on her.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Ten minutes later, you were back in your suit. Helmet in hand. Every step toward the car felt like slipping back into a second skin. The hum of the garage faded. Everything outside the cockpit was background noise.

As you lowered yourself into the car, you glanced toward Willow, who was standing by the pit wall, helmet still on, clearly unsure whether to be thrilled or terrified. You gave her a thumbs-up before the visor came down.

And then, the track swallowed you. Willow took the lead on the first lap, you let her. Let her feel that taste of control, let her believe for a second she had the upper hand.

But by lap two, you were tightening the gap. By three, you were on her tail, reading every line she chose, every hesitation. On the fourth lap, as you hit the blind uphill switchback, you saw your chance.

You dove in, late brake, tighter line, a calculated brush that skirted legality, and took the inside.

Willow blinked. Hesitated. That was all you needed. From then on, it wasn’t even a contest. The next lap was yours, sharp, precise, and punishing. Your car became an extension of your body. Every muscle aligned with purpose. You were wind and fire, all instinct and fury, tearing up the track to prove one thing:

You still had it.

And by the time you crossed the line, your car a full second ahead, the point had been made loud and clear. When you pulled back into the garage, engines cooling with the ticking sound of victory, you climbed out, removed your helmet, and walked toward Willow, whose face was flushed behind her visor.

She flipped it up slowly.

“…Holy shit..” Willow whispered.

You smirked. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

Natasha joined you then, arms folded, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “I think that counts as your initiation.”

Willow looked between you, still catching her breath. “I want to be that good.”

“You will be.” you said, slapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Just not today.”

As the sun dipped behind the track’s final corner, casting long shadows across the asphalt, Natasha’s voice cut through softly, “Looks like I’ve got two monsters on my team now.”

You looked over, and for the first time since the rookie’s name was mentioned, you smiled without reservation.

“Yeah.” you said. “But only one queen.”

——

It had been six days since the race. Six days since you smoked Willow on the track. Six days since the rookie came off the tarmac breathless and wide-eyed like she’d touched fire, and wanted more.

Since then, the team had shifted into full gear. Training simulations. PR meetings. Car telemetry reworks. Everyone was running on caffeine, deadlines, and pit-lane adrenaline. And somewhere in the chaos, you started to feel it:

Distance.

At first, it was small. A skipped coffee. A missed debrief. Natasha pulling Willow aside in the garage, gesturing with that intense, low tone she always used when she wanted to build a driver up from the inside out. You had heard it before. You remembered how rare it was to be spoken to like that.

Now you watched it from a distance. On the fourth day, you showed up early for simulator drills, but Natasha had already booked Willow in your slot. No heads-up. Just a polite nod from the tech.

“Romanoff said to prioritize rookie reflex calibration..” he mumbled.

You had just nodded and turned away, jaw tight. You weren’t the rookie anymore. You weren’t the rescue project. You were the reigning world champion. And somehow, you felt completely invisible.

That night, the compound was unusually quiet. The rest of the team had gone out for a media dinner, but you had passed. Natasha hadn’t even asked if you were coming, she’d assumed you weren’t, too caught up talking setups with Willow, who had practically bounced through the garage all day with her notebook and never-ending questions.

You stood alone now in the garage, long after the rest had left, staring at your car in the low lights. Just you and the beast. The car didn’t judge. The car didn’t compare. You ran your hand across the edge of the carbon fiber bodywork, fingertips ghosting over the Romanoff logo near the cockpit.

How many times had this car saved you? How many times had Natasha? And now it felt like none of it was enough.

A sharp click of heels on the concrete behind you broke the silence. You didn’t turn.

“I figured I’d find you here.” Natasha said quietly.

You swallowed. “Thought you had dinner with the prodigy.”

Natasha approached slowly, a slight edge of confusion in her voice. “Willow went with the tech crew. I was looking for you.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of looking lately.” you said, the words out before you could stop them.

Natasha paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face her. “You tell me. You’ve been glued to her since the day she arrived. Training, testing, feedback loops, hell, you even rearranged my sim time.”

“That wasn’t personal, baby.” Natasha said. “She needs the hours.”

“And I don’t?”

“You’re already a world champion.”

“Right..” you snapped, stepping back. “So now I’m just the legacy act? The girl who came broken, who got rebuilt, but isn’t new enough or shiny enough to get your attention anymore?”

Natasha’s face hardened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You didn’t have to fight for her. You didn’t have to convince her to stay when her nightmares made her puke at night. You didn’t hold her hand when she spun out and started screaming because she thought she was flying into a wall again. She came ready-made. Clean slate. Untouched.”

Natasha flinched, subtle, but it was there. “I never saw you smile at me like that, back then.”

“You mean when you didn’t trust anyone and couldn’t look me in the eye?” Natasha’s voice was low now. Dangerous. “Don’t rewrite history just because it hurts.”

Your breath caught. You stared at each other for a long moment. Everything in your chest was burning, shame, longing, fear. You hated how small you felt. How much you cared.

“I know what this is..” you said quietly. “She’s the driver you always wanted.”

Natasha stepped forward, firm. “Stop it.”

“She is.” you insisted, voice cracking. “No damage. No baggage. You didn’t have to rebuild her. You just got to mold her. And I-“

“You were never a project to me.”

“You say that, but it’s starting to feel like I was.”

The silence between you was deafening. Natasha took a breath, slow, deliberate. “Do you really think I love you because I had to?”

You didn’t answer, and natasha’s expression softened, less sharp, more raw. “I love you because you fought. Because you refused to stay down when every bone in your body told you to quit. I love the way you clawed your way back to the wheel, even when no one else believed in you. That’s not pity. That’s admiration.”

“Then why does it feel like you’ve forgotten I’m still here?” you whispered.

Natasha looked stunned, just for a second. Then she reached out, gently, cupping your face. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks, you hadn’t realized you’d been crying until then.

“I haven’t forgotten you, Y/n.” Natasha murmured. “I’ve been looking at you every day and thinking: God, she’s still the fire I fell for. But I didn’t realize you were feeling this.”

“I didn’t either..” you said, your voice hoarse. “Not until she showed up and you stopped seeing me the way you used to.”

Natasha shook her head. “No. I see you. I always see you. You just started turning away.”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe her. Wanted to let it go. But the doubt sat heavy in your gut like lead.

“You need to tell me when I miss something.” Natasha said, pulling you in closer. “Not when it’s too late. Not when you’ve already built a story in your head.”

You rested your forehead against hers. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

“But I’m still better.”

Natasha smiled. “Goddamn right, you are.”

A beat passed. Then you added, quietly, “But I still needed to hear it.”

Natasha kissed you then, slow, grounding, a promise sealed without words. And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe that you weren’t being replaced. You were still the heart of this team. Still hers.

——

The press tent was larger than usual, elevated seating for journalists, polished banners on either side of the platform, and every camera lens locked in with laser precision. The Romanoff Racing emblem hovered on every backdrop, flanked by the logos of their newest sponsors. A gentle buzz filled the air, expectation, speculation, heat from the lights.

And at the center of it all: Natasha.

She walked onto the stage like she owned it, because, in a way, she still does. Her tailored black blazer, fitted white blouse, and subtle smile made her look every bit the icon. Calculated cool. Controlled grace. She stood at the mic with the same poise she showed when strategizing before a stormy Grand Prix.

“Ladies and gentlemen..” she began, her voice even, but firm. “Thank you for joining us today. As most of you know, Romanoff Racing is entering its fifth season on the circuit. We’ve broken records, rewritten what a comeback can look like, thanks in large part to our champion, Y/n.”

There was a small wave of applause, and backstage, you exhaled slowly as the spotlight grazed you for a moment, just enough to burn.

“But this year..” Natasha continued, “we’re growing. I’ve made the decision to bring in a second driver. A rising star. Someone with the kind of raw instinct and racing spirit I haven’t seen in a long time.”

A pause. “Please welcome our new official team driver: Willow Petrov.”

The tent erupted. Cameras flashed wildly as Willow stepped onto the stage, her team jacket pressed and spotless, her blonde braid tucked neatly under a Romanoff Racing cap. Her cheeks were pink from nerves, but she beamed like a kid on Christmas. There was no hiding her awe.

She took her place beside Natasha and gave the mic a nervous glance before speaking. “It’s… honestly insane to be here. I used to watch her replays on YouTube between my F2 races..” she admitted with a laugh, “and now I’m wearing the same patch. I’m here to learn, grow, and drive my heart out for this team.”

Natasha smiled, laying a subtle hand on Willow’s shoulder as she guided her back a step. Then came the volley of questions, standard press fare at first, then sharper, messier.

“Natasha, was this a long-term plan to bring in new blood?”

“Willow, do you feel pressure being compared to a world champion teammate?”

“Y/n, how does it feel to share the spotlight after carrying the team solo for so long?”

That last one hit. You, seated now beside Willow and Natasha, leaned forward to the mic. Your smile was tight, practiced.

“We’re not here to compete with each other. We’re here to win, together. That’s what matters.”

A professional answer. Unshakable. But inside, something twisted. You watched as Natasha angled slightly toward Willow during the Q&A. A nod here, a subtle prompt there, encouraging. Guiding.

The same way she used to do with you. You didn’t even realize you were clenching your fist under the table until Willow’s elbow bumped you gently.

“You good?” Willow whispered, low enough the mics wouldn’t catch it.

You blinked and looked at her. The girl’s big blue eyes were full of concern, not competition.

And for a moment, you felt bad for being annoyed with her. “Yeah.” you murmured back. “Just waiting for the fun part.”

After the conference, you were ushered outside for the official media line, step-and-repeat photos, handshake shots, and a trio pose in front of the new car prototype. You had done this a hundred times. You knew how to stand. Where to smile. When to tilt your chin for that ‘effortless confidence’ angle.

But today, it all felt tight around the edges. “Okay, Natasha in the middle, Y/n on the left, Willow on the right..perfect!” one of the PR reps called out.

Flashbulbs exploded. Willow grinned wide, clearly new to the pressure but trying her best to keep up. Her hand hovered awkwardly near your back, unsure if she was supposed to pose with you or not.

You glanced at her. Then, with a tiny sigh, you reached out and gently pulled Willow a little closer.

“Relax..”you muttered. “We’re not enemies. We’re just expensive mannequins right now.”

Willow laughed, nervous but grateful. “You’re kind of intimidating, you know that?”

You raised a brow. “Me? You’re the one everyone’s calling the future of Romanoff Racing.”

Willow looked over at you, more seriously now. “Maybe. But you’re the heart of it.”

That stung in a way you didn’t expect. You weren’t sure if it was pity, or admiration, or just awkward honesty, but it cut through the noise.

More flashes. Another angle. Another forced smile. Then Natasha stepped between you for a tighter photo, resting a hand on each of your backs. The press roared, headlines already forming.

“The Queen, the Champion, and the Prodigy.”

You tried not to flinch at the way Natasha’s hand lingered slightly longer on Willow’s shoulder than yours. Tried not to let your smile falter. Tried not to think about how much had changed..and how fast.

Later, when the crowd had cleared and the cameras were packed away, you stayed behind in the now-empty paddock, hands stuffed in your pockets, sunglasses still on. Natasha found you there, leaning against one of the sponsor walls, staring at nothing.

“You did good.” Natasha said softly. “Held your own.”

You gave a small shrug. “I’ve had practice.”

There was a beat of silence. “You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but next to me up there.”

You turned toward her, finally taking the shades off. Your eyes were tired. Honest. “I just miss when I didn’t have to share you.”

Natasha didn’t smile. She didn’t lecture. She just stepped forward and took your hand. “You don’t have to share what we have. But you do have to trust it.”

“I’m trying..” you whispered. “But every time you look at her like she’s something special, I wonder if I’m just…fading.”

“You’re not fading.” Natasha said, her voice low and firm. “You’re shining. And the only reason I even brought her in was because I wanted to protect you. Give you someone beside you on the road. Not behind. Not in front. Beside.”

You closed your eyes, leaned into her touch. It still hurt. But at least now you knew: You weren’t invisible.

Not yet.

The week leading up to the race had been relentless. Training drills. Lap simulations. PR follow-ups. Tire compound testing. A new aero package install that barely made it past Friday’s technical inspection.

And somewhere in between, you had started sleeping with one arm under your pillow and one hand curled into a fist, like you were bracing for something you couldn’t quite name.

Willow, for her part, had thrown herself into the grind with youthful fire, running morning laps in the rain, asking the race engineers questions until midnight, sipping black coffee like it was a secret weapon. Her natural instincts were beginning to polish into something sharper. More refined. You noticed. And for the first time, you stopped feeling jealous, and started feeling hungry.

The qualifying day sun was harsh and dry, high in a cloudless sky, beating down on the Romanoff Racing paddock like a spotlight that wouldn’t turn off. The air shimmered with heatwaves above the tarmac. Cameras hovered, drones buzzed, and pit crews moved like silent machines around their cars.

This was it. Solo time trials. No traffic. No slipstreams. Just driver vs. track, one at a time. Every corner counted. Every tenth of a second was a kingmaker, or a curse.

The starting order for the qualifying runs had been drawn the night before. Willow would go out first for Romanoff Racing. You would go last.

The reigning champion. The final roar.

Inside the garage, Willow paced back and forth in her suit, her gloves half-on, eyes bouncing between her race engineer and Natasha. The kid was wired like a live wire, bouncing with nerves, soaking in every word Natasha fed her through the headset mic.

You sat on a stool in the corner, helmet in your lap, one leg crossed over the other, quiet and observant. You weren’t jealous, not really.. But there was a grating sound in your head you couldn’t turn off. Natasha’s voice. Gentle. Encouraging. Proud.

“Take a clean line through 11, watch the outside rumble. Brake later if the tires warm fast enough.”

“Like that. That’s the right read.”

“Trust your gut, don’t overthink the apex.”

You ground your jaw. You used to hear those words. Back when you needed them. Now, you didn’t get so much as a nod.

Willow stepped into the car and rolled onto the track. The garage emptied to the pit wall, where engineers stood with headsets, telemetry readouts glowing. Natasha followed, slipping on her shades like she was watching her personal investment roll into orbit.

You didn’t go with them. You stayed in the shade. Then you stood up, pulled your cap low, and walked. Elsewhere on the paddock, the atmosphere was different, less rigid, more relaxed. Some of the other drivers were lounging under the sponsor tents, sipping water, exchanging banter, or pretending not to care.

You wandered near the corner where some of the lesser-known, but fast, independent drivers hung out. Guys from underground teams. Not rookies, not legends..just raw talent.

You leaned against a stack of tires, arms crossed, not saying much at first. “L/N, you going soft on us?” one of them joked, a smirking Frenchman named Jules. “You’re not watching your little protégé?”

You shrugged. “She’s not mine.”

“You saying that like it’s not already in the headlines..” someone else teased. “The Queen and the Kid. All eyes on Romanoff.”

Another chuckle. Then a quieter voice chimed in, “You hear about that circuit run? Off-record? Midnight, no cameras, real speed.”

You raised an eyebrow. The group shifted subtly, gauging your interest. You didn’t respond right away, but your gaze held. One of them, stocky, buzz cut, tattooed fingers, grinned. “What, the world champ thinking about getting her hands dirty?”

A few laughs. Someone leaned closer. “Wouldn’t that be something? You on a back-alley grid with the rest of us rats.”

You gave a lopsided smile. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. But something about it thrilled you. The rawness. The danger. The lack of polish. No PR team. No pressure..

Just you and the car.

They saw that spark in you. And they liked it. You didn’t agree. But you didn’t shut it down either. And somewhere deep in your gut, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

You walked back in just as Willow’s final lap flashed across the telemetry screen:

1:20.408

Gasps. Claps. A low cheer from the Romanoff Racing pit team.

P1. For now.

Your stomach dropped. Natasha turned to you, eyes bright behind her sunglasses. “She nailed it. Best lap of the day so far.”

You didn’t reply. Just reached for your gloves. Something in Natasha’s tone, maybe pride, maybe surprise..lit a fuse inside you.

Willow climbed out of the car moments later, flushed and beaming, helmet off and braid soaked in sweat.

“I think I blacked out during sector three.” she panted.

“You didn’t.” Natasha replied. “You just drove like you meant it.”

You met Willow’s eyes briefly. The girl still looked like she worshipped you. But that made it worse somehow. Because now you had to remind everyone who built this team’s legacy.

Your lap was up next.

You pulled on the helmet. Closed the visor. The world shrunk to engine hum and breath.

Radio check.

“Comms clear. You ready?”

“Always.”

“No overdrive early. Hold back on sector one, save the tires for the back half. We only need one clean lap. Not a death wish.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel.

“I’m not here to be clean. I’m here to be fast.”

Natasha didn’t reply. The light turned green, and you floored it. You took sector one tight, ignoring Natasha’s caution. The tires screamed at the high-speed curve through turn six. You leaned hard into the chicane, barely clipping the apex, riding the edge of the curbs with millimeter precision.

Sector two: near-perfect. You braked a split-second later than anyone else dared at turn eleven, kissing the wall on exit without losing speed.

Sector three: the fast zone. No brakes. Pure throttle. Pure fury.

You were flying. By the time you crossed the line, your final time flashed across the board:

1:19.774

Silence. Then a collective inhale from the pit. You sat in the car, helmet still on, staring ahead as the data streamed in.

P1.

Back in the garage, Natasha pulled off her headset slowly. The corner of her mouth lifted. “She’s still got fire.”

Willow watched the screen, eyes wide, but there was no bitterness. Only awe.

“She’s not human..” Willow whispered. “She’s art with an engine.” Natasha didn’t reply. But the look in her eyes said enough.

You returned minutes later, pulling off your helmet in one slow, deliberate motion. Your eyes met Natasha’s. Not smug. Not smiling..Just raw.

“I needed that..” you said quietly.

Natasha stepped closer. “You earned that.”

Willow came up beside you, flushed and panting. “I thought I had it…”

You gave her a glance. “You almost did.”

You stood there in silence, three women. First, second, and the one who saw both sides. For now, Romanoff Racing ruled the grid. But underneath the steel and sweat and smiles..Something else was brewing.

——

The hotel room was quiet.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkled under a velvet sky. Horns in the distance. Soft wind curling through the open slats of the terrace door. The whole world was moving, just not here.

Here, it was still. You lay on your side, facing the window, bare shoulders half-draped in sheets. Your hair still damp from a late shower, your mind still too full from the day. The numbers of your lap time looped in your head. 1:19.774.

A victory. But somehow, not enough. Behind you, Natasha was lying on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other resting near your spine. Not touching. Just there.

The silence between you was soft, not cold, but it carried weight. You don’t know how to speak the ache that lingered in your chest. The quiet, bitter curl of doubt that still whispered..

What if she doesn’t need me anymore?

Then, without warning, Natasha shifted. She reached, slow and deliberate, and pulled you gently onto her, guiding your body across her own like it was something she’d done a hundred times, and it was. Legs tangled. Hands at your waist. You blinked down at her, surprised.

“…What are you doing?”

Natasha looked up, eyes calm, steady. “Reminding you.”

You frowned, confused. “Of what?”

“That you don’t have to be scared.” Natasha said simply. “That I’m not going anywhere.”

You froze. Of course..Natasha’s fingers brushed your lower back, tracing the faint curve of your spine with absent reverence. “I know that look in your eyes..” she murmured. “The one you try to hide behind your helmet. The one that says ‘I’m slipping.’”

“I’m not-”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Y/n.”

You closed your mouth. Natasha’s voice softened, like velvet over steel. “You think because I’m proud of her, I’ve stopped being proud of you.”

“I know you are..” you whispered.

“Do you?”

You looked away. That silence told Natasha everything. She sat up slightly, pressing her forehead against yours. Her breath was warm. Her voice firm.

“You are not being replaced. Willow’s a driver. You are everything. You are the reason this team has a heartbeat. You are why I built this whole empire in the first place.”

Your throat tightened. “I just..sometimes I feel like-”

Natasha didn’t let you finish. She kissed you. Deep, slow, anchoring. And you melted into it, not because it was heat, but because it was home.

When Natasha rolled you fully beneath her, fingers trailing down your ribs, her mouth never left yours. Her touch wasn’t demanding, it was declarative.

You are mine. You are seen. You are still the fire.

You didn’t speak again. You didn’t need to.

The Next Morning – 6:48 AM

The car ride to the track was quiet in the front. Loud in the back. Natasha drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily against the center console. Her face was set, calm, already mentally halfway through the first ten laps.

In the rearview mirror, she watched you. Head against the window, music in your ears, hoodie up, one hand loosely gripping your phone in your lap. You weren’t asleep, but you weren’t here, either. Lost in thought. In routine. In preparation.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She just watched you. Softly. In the passenger seat, Willow was a whirlwind of motion. She had her phone out, snapping photos of the sunrise over the city skyline, the rows of transport trucks pulling into the paddock, the backs of race trailers covered in sponsor logos.

“God, this is insane!!” Willow muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “I can’t believe we’re really here..”

Natasha smirked faintly. “It’s always real at the first corner.”

Willow didn’t even flinch. “I’m ready.”

She meant it. Her excitement wasn’t childish anymore. It was focused. Sharpened. Natasha glanced at her, proud. Then back at the mirror.

Your gaze was on the road. But your fingers tapped once, almost in rhythm to Natasha’s signal light. A quiet acknowledgment.

The moment the car pulled into the underground entrance to the paddock, cameras began flashing. They hadn’t even stepped out yet.

Natasha cut the engine and sat for a beat. “You two know the drill.”

You pulled out your earbuds and tucked them into your pocket. Still silent, but sharp now. Willow adjusted her jacket and reached for her media pass lanyard.

“God, there’s already like fifty of them..” she muttered. Natasha stepped out first. The sound of shutters exploding hit instantly. Flashes. Voices. Shouts.

“ROMANOFF, OVER HERE!”

“WILLOW, SMILE FOR SKY SPORTS!”

“Y/N! ANY COMMENT ON THE RIVALRY?”

You followed, hoodie up, sunglasses on. No expression. Willow followed last, almost jumping at the barrage of attention, but she didn’t flinch. She smiled wide. Waved once.

They didn’t stop walking. They didn’t answer questions. The three of you moved in sync toward the garage, driver, driver, boss. And behind every flash, the story was writing itself:

“Romanoff Racing Arrives, One Team, Two Stars, All Eyes On Gold.”

But behind the headline, between the silences and the stolen glances, only one truth mattered: You were here. And you were ready to burn the track down.

You sat in your chair, arms folded, legs crossed. Your race suit was half-zipped, the sleeves knotted at your waist. Your face unreadable.

Willow was across from you, helmet on the table, bouncing her leg under the chair, nervous energy leaking through the edges of her focused expression.

Natasha stood at the head of the room, pointer in one hand, the other resting on the back of her chair. Not smiling. Not lecturing. Just speaking, measured and exact.

“We’re going soft-hard-medium. Staggered stops. Y/n, you’re opening with pace. I want a gap by lap 12.”

You nodded. “Copy.”

“Willow..” Natasha said, voice shifting subtly, “you’re staying with Costa and Wolfe. Buffer zone. You’re not chasing him, not unless I call for it.”

Willow’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. “Understood.”

Natasha clicked a button. A screen lit up with a predictive sim. “There’s a 20% chance of light rain in sector three near the end. If it happens, we hold track position. No unnecessary battles.”

You tilted your head, watching her closely. This wasn’t her usual tone. There was something behind it. A stiffness. An uncertainty.

Minutes later, you sat in pole, visor down, surrounded by cameras and chaos. The air reeked of fuel and heat. A heartbeat pulsed under your palms, yours or the car’s, you didn’t know anymore.

“Y/n, final check. Comms clear?”

“Clear and ready.”

“Good. Watch your rear into turn three. Wolfe will try to dive late.”

“Let him try.”

“Willow, confirm comms.”

“Clear. Heart rate’s at 110. I’m breathing.”

“Good. Just survive the first five laps. The rest will come to you, okay?”

Your jaw twitched inside your helmet. There it was again..The tone-

Lights out.

The roar was immediate. Four-wide dive into the first corner. You took the inside clean, perfectly timed gear shift, shutting the door on Wolfe and Costa with ruthless precision.

By lap 2, you had already opened a 1.7 second lead.

Smooth. Surgical. Untouchable. Behind you, Willow stumbled. Turn six..wide. Lap four..too much brake into the chicane.

“Willow, pull it together. Reset your rhythm. Don’t chase, stabilize.”

“Copy. Sorry.”

Lap six, Willow found it again. She overtook Costa in a brave, inside line maneuver that nearly kissed the gravel. You heard the pit crew cheer. Natasha’s voice crackled with unexpected joy.

“That’s the fire. Keep it clean. Wolfe’s losing grip. You can take him in two.”

You grit your teeth. The car roared under you like a living thing, engine screaming at full tilt, tires gripping tarmac like claws on glass. You breathed slow. Measured. Intentional. Every part of you synced with the machine, the wheel, the brakes, the tiny flicks of balance that made or broke lap times.

You were leading. Clean start. Clean pace. Fastest lap by lap 11. Smooth as silk, precise as a scalpel. This race was yours.

In your rearview mirror, you saw Willow, P2 now, holding position. Not threatening, not faltering. Just…there. You didn’t think about her. You didn’t have time.

You thought about your line through turn 9, the slight understeer near the tunnel curve, the way your grip was softening on the softs with every corner carve. Your body was singing with focus. This was your world. And nothing, not the crowd, not the pit crew, not even Natasha’s voice, could shake it.

Until lap 34.

“Y/n. We’ve got a situation.”

“Talk to me.”

“Willow’s rear gearbox sensor is pinging. Possible instability. Data’s fluctuating. If Wolfe pushes DRS range and forces a brake duel, that casing could fail.”

You blinked through sweat. “Then pull her back.”

“No. We’re issuing a position swap. Now.”

Silence in your helmet. Your hands tightened on the wheel. What?

The wind outside felt louder. The engine scream thinned into white noise. “…No.”

“That’s not a request.”

“She won’t survive the lead! Not with a blown rear and Wolfe charging!”

Natasha was more cold this time,

“And she definitely won’t if she doesn’t have a wall behind her.”

“I am the wall, Natasha! Let me hold the front. Let me finish this.”

Another beat of silence. Then..

“Y/n. Position. Swap. Now. You protect her or she crashes out. Those are the only outcomes.”

Inside the garage, Natasha stood stiff at the pit wall, headset pressed tight, heart hammering harder than she’d admit. You hadn’t obeyed.

She stared at the live feed, your car just ahead, clean lines, perfect balance, but no sign of lifting. And Willow, driving beautifully, but unaware of just how fragile her car was, was still in second. Vulnerable.

Natasha knew what this was. This wasn’t disobedience. This was fear.

Not for Willow. For you. Letting someone pass when the win was in your hands? When every ounce of your soul knew you were better?

That wasn’t just sacrifice. That was surrender.

Your jaw was tight inside the helmet. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not from fear, but from fury. Your fingers ached on the wheel. Every instinct in you screamed to ignore the call.

This is your race. You built this team. You bled for this damn car.

But Natasha’s voice echoed in your mind, not just the words, but the way her tone had shifted. The ice. The command.

You didn’t want to listen. But Natasha wasn’t asking. She was telling.

You swore under your breath and eased off the throttle. Just enough, and Willow swept past you on the straight. The crowd screamed. The leaderboard updated.

P1: Willow Petrov

P2: You

And behind you, like a wolf in a storm, Wolfe loomed in P3. You gritted your teeth and dropped behind Willow, matching her pace, locking the line tight. If Wolfe tried anything now, he’d hit a wall of steel.

“Thank you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not without your voice cracking.

Final Laps

Willow held the front with everything she had. Her lines weren’t as perfect, her exits not as sharp, but they were enough. You buffered every corner, forced Wolfe wide, stole DRS range every time it threatened to open. You weren’t racing anymore. You were guarding.

Lap 39.

Lap 40.

The checkered flag waved. Willow crossed the line first. You followed, less than a second behind.

Back in the garage, Willow was pulled from the car by techs and PR and cameras. The first win of her Formula 1 career.

And you? You climbed out in silence. Helmet off. Sweat running down your neck. Eyes unreadable. You stood there beside the car, breathing hard, ignoring the cameras.

Across the garage, Natasha didn’t move. She just watched you. Not as a manager. Not even as a lover. But as a woman who had just asked someone she loved to let go of something sacred.

You walked past her. Didn’t stop. Didn’t look at her. Natasha reached for your hand, just a brush, but you pulled it away gently, and disappeared into the corridor.

-

-

-

-

[purifiedclitoris69]

Craving What We Shouldn’t - Part 5

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: Wanda and Y/N’s weekend at the lake house begins.

Word Count: 7,220

Warnings: High school AU, Fluff, forbidden romance, step-siblings, reader has a penis, mutual pining, secret relationship, smut, (18+)

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

****: Smut Scene Alert

---

The weekend arrived faster than either of them expected. Excitement buzzed beneath their skin, nerves hidden under layers of practiced calm as they put their plan into motion.

Wanda had packed the night before, trying to ignore how her hands trembled while folding her clothes. Y/N had stayed in her room, checking the car, making sure everything was ready. They kept it casual at breakfast—maybe a little *too* casual, with Wanda avoiding her father’s eyes and Y/N talking just a bit too much.

“We’re all set,” Y/N announced, grabbing the car keys from the counter. “Nat’s already at her aunt’s, and Carol’s meeting us there.”

Y/N’s mom gave a distracted nod, barely looking up from her phone. “Alright. Drive safe. Text when you arrive.”

Wanda kissed her dad’s cheek quickly, murmuring a goodbye, then followed Y/N out of the house.

Once inside the car, doors shut and music low, they both let out synchronized sighs.

“Did we really just lie to our parents?” Wanda asked, wide-eyed but grinning.

Y/N glanced over at her with a smirk. “Technically, we *are* going to Nat’s aunt’s lake house. Just… not with Nat and Carol.”

“She better hold that cover,” Wanda muttered, adjusting her seatbelt.

“She will,” Y/N said with certainty. “She ships us harder than we do.”

Soon, the town was shrinking in their rearview mirror. The air felt lighter the farther they drove, the weight of secrets temporarily lifting. They played music, held hands when the roads were clear, and stole glances that said more than words.

The car crunched slowly up the gravel path, sunlight flickering through the trees in golden stripes across the windshield. Birds chirped in the distance, and the thick canopy of pines rustled lazily in the afternoon breeze. Wanda leaned forward in her seat, her breath catching as the lake house finally came into view.

It looked like something out of a movie—rustic, peaceful, surrounded by tall trees that made it feel hidden from the world. A wide porch wrapped around the front, and just beyond it, she could catch glimpses of the lake glinting like liquid glass between the trees.

“No step-siblings,” Y/N said again, this time almost reverently, shutting off the engine. “Just us.”

Wanda turned to her slowly, a soft smile growing on her lips. “Just us.”

They climbed out of the car and stretched, the long drive melting from their limbs in the warm air. The scent of pine and lake water filled their lungs, grounding them in a reality that, for once, didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like freedom.

As Y/N unlocked the front door, Wanda hovered behind her, nervously fiddling with her bracelet. She had butterflies in her stomach—nerves, yes, but also something she didn’t want to name. Something too dangerous and too tempting.

The door creaked open, revealing the cozy, sun-drenched interior. Light spilled in through the wide windows, falling across an inviting couch draped in an old quilt. The fireplace was stone and hand-built, the kind that looked like it had warmed decades of winters. A few books lined crooked shelves, and there was an old record player in the corner, half-covered in dust.

Wanda stepped inside slowly, looking around with wide, awestruck eyes.

“Wow,” she breathed. “It’s like… a postcard.”

Y/N dropped her duffel bag and turned to face her. “Yeah? I was kinda worried it might smell like mildew and old guy cologne.”

Wanda laughed softly, walking to the window and pushing it open. A breeze swept in, bringing with it the scent of cedar and water.

“Nope. It smells like summer and secrets,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “And maybe a little like freedom.”

Y/N grinned. “That was poetic as hell.”

“I’m in a poetic mood,” Wanda teased, then paused. “It’s just… being here with you. No one watching. No pretending.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, voice quieter now. “Same.”

They settled in quickly. Y/N took the heavier bags and carried them into the main bedroom—an act Wanda didn’t comment on, though her cheeks flushed faintly at the unspoken suggestion of sharing a bed. She opened the windows in the kitchen and living room while Y/N lit a candle they found in a drawer, just to chase off the last bit of dust.

Soon enough, they were walking barefoot along the lake’s edge, fingers loosely entwined, shoes dangling from their free hands. The ground was soft and a little muddy, and when Y/N nearly slipped on a mossy rock, Wanda caught her with a laugh.

“Careful, idiot,” she said, holding her arm to steady her.

“I’m trying to look cool for you,” Y/N replied with a dramatic sigh. “Clearly, the universe is against me.”

“You’re already cool. You don’t have to try.”

That made Y/N look at her for a long second—long enough that Wanda looked away, heart racing in her chest.

They made sandwiches in the kitchen, a slow and clumsy process full of teasing and accidental touches.

“Who puts mayo on turkey?” Y/N scoffed, holding the mustard aloft like it was sacred.

“Who doesn’t?” Wanda retorted, reaching over and plucking the jar from her hand. “Besides, I’m making your sandwich, so hush.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue but was silenced when Wanda leaned forward and kissed her mid-sentence—soft, lingering, and just a little smug.

Wanda pulled back and smirked. “Mayo wins.”

“I surrender,” Y/N said, dazed. “To mayo. And you.”

They ate out on the porch, legs brushing beneath the small table, the wood creaking softly beneath them. Afterward, they played cards—badly—sitting cross-legged on a worn blanket, with an old radio playing classic rock in the background. They let the hours pass slowly, intentionally, each moment stretching out into something golden.

By the time late afternoon rolled in, the lake shimmered under a soft pink sky. Y/N grabbed a couple of thick blankets from the linen closet and held one out to Wanda. “Come on.”

“To where?”

“You’ll see.”

They made their way down to the dock again, this time barefoot and quiet. The air had cooled slightly, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows across the water. They laid the blankets down and settled on their backs, arms brushing as they stared up at the endless sky.

The silence between them was comfortable, full of unspoken things neither of them were brave enough to say.

After a long stretch, Wanda whispered, “You know this feels like a dream, right?”

Y/N turned her head, watching the way Wanda’s hair glowed orange in the light, the way her lips curved, uncertain but hopeful. She reached over and tucked a strand behind Wanda’s ear, fingers brushing warm skin.

“If it is,” Y/N murmured, “don’t wake me up.”

Wanda smiled, eyes glistening, and leaned into the touch for just a second longer.

A breeze danced across the lake, rippling the water and rustling the leaves around them. And for the first time in what felt like forever, they weren’t hiding. They weren’t step-sisters. They weren’t careful.

They were just two girls on a dock, craving what they shouldn’t… but finally, quietly, letting themselves have it.

---

After dinner, the lake house glowed softly with the amber light of low lamps, the hush of the lake just beyond the open windows. The scent of pine drifted in on the breeze, mingling with the warmth of the evening. Y/N was already out of the shower, damp hair a little unruly from towel drying. She sat on the edge of the bed in soft sweats and a worn tee, heart thudding a little faster than usual. Everything felt sharper tonight—every sound, every breath, every possibility.

She thumbed through her overnight bag slowly, hesitating just long enough before pulling out the small velvet box she had tucked in the bottom corner. Just in case. Not an expectation, just… a quiet hope.

She turned it over in her hand once, then placed it in the drawer beside the bed. No pressure. Only if she wants. Only if she’s ready. But some part of her already knew. Wanda had told her. And today—laughing by the water, sharing sandwiches, wrapped in blankets on the dock—had only deepened that knowing.

In the bathroom, Wanda stood still in front of the mirror, towel clinging loosely around her body, steam softening the edges of her reflection. She opened her bag slowly, hands brushing over the delicate black lace she’d packed days ago with shaky resolve. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t for show. It was for Y/N—and for herself. For the version of her that wanted to be seen fully, chosen fully.

She slipped into the lingerie, heart fluttering, then layered a silky button-down pajama top over it—leaving the top few buttons undone, enough to tease but still keep things warm and soft. She stood there for a moment, bare feet against the cool tile, and took a breath that felt like a promise.

****

The hallway creaked faintly under her steps. Y/N looked up at the sound of the door opening.

And then Wanda stepped into the room.

The soft light touched her gently, highlighting her hair still damp from the shower and the subtle glint of lace beneath her shirt. But it wasn’t just how she looked—it was how she felt walking in. Eyes steady. Vulnerable. Brave. Their gaze locked, and everything else—the world, the past, the weight of secrecy—fell away.

Y/N stood, heart in her throat, not moving too fast, not saying too much. Just looking. Really looking. Like Wanda was a poem she’d memorized and still couldn’t believe was hers.

“Hey,” Wanda said, her voice a bit breathless but sure.

“Hey,” Y/N answered, voice catching slightly.

They met in the middle of the room like they always seemed to—naturally, gently, as if drawn. Wanda’s fingers curled lightly around Y/N’s forearms, while Y/N’s hands rested on Wanda’s waist, warm and grounding.

Their lips met—slow, certain, full of all the things they hadn’t said today but had felt in every glance and laugh and brush of skin.

Y/N broke the kiss just enough to press her forehead to Wanda’s. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

Wanda smiled softly, fingers drifting up Y/N’s jaw, eyes searching hers with quiet clarity. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

Y/N exhaled slowly and pulled her close again, holding her like something precious. “Then we’ll take our time,” she murmured. “No expectations. Just us. Just love.”

Wanda nodded and kissed her again—firmer, more confident, guiding them both with a sweet urgency.

As they settled near the bed, the silky top shifted slightly, revealing more of the black lace beneath. Y/N glanced down, blinked, and let out a soft, amused breath.

“Wait,” she said, voice warm with surprise, “when did you even buy that? Did you just casually walked into a sex store?” Y/N say with a teasing smile.

Wanda flushed instantly, pulling the edge of the shirt closer over her chest, suddenly unsure. “I… I just wanted to feel confident tonight. I thought maybe you’d like it. But if it’s too much or—”

“Hey,” Y/N interrupted gently, her hand cupping Wanda’s cheek. “No, no. Don’t do that. I do like it. I love it. And you. I was teasing—because honestly, it’s kind of amazing and bold and very you. But if you ever feel even a little unsure, you tell me, okay?”

Wanda searched her face, the tension in her shoulders softening. “Okay,” she whispered.

Y/N smiled, eyes full of that soft awe again. “You look stunning. Like, knock-the-wind-out-of-me stunning. But it’s not the lace, baby. It’s you.”

Wanda’s lips parted with the quietest inhale before she kissed her again—deeper now, more open, more certain of the way Y/N’s hands held her, how her words wrapped around all the fragile places and turned them into something strong.

The bed creaked softly as Wanda sat on the edge, pulling Y/N down beside her with a breathless little laugh. They both laughed then—low, nervous, sweet—as if the sound helped ground them.

Y/N brushed her thumb over Wanda’s cheek. “You always take my breath away. But right now… I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Wanda leaned into her touch, eyes shining. “I’ve always been yours,” she whispered. “Even when I tried to pretend I wasn’t.”

Outside, the lake whispered against the dock, the stars blinking into the sky like little secrets. And inside the house, in the hush of that night, two souls found each other fully—no fear, no pressure.

Just them. Just love.

Wanda leaned into the touch. “I’ve always been yours,” she whispered. “Even before I knew it.”

They kissed again—slower this time, more tender. Y/N took her time, tracing the curve of Wanda’s jaw, the slope of her shoulder, memorizing the way she responded to every gentle touch. There was no rush, no destination. Just presence. Just love. Hands moved softly, reverently—not to claim, but to cherish.

Y/N’s fingers brushed beneath the silk of Wanda’s pajama top, fingertips meeting warm skin. She paused immediately, pulling back just enough to look into Wanda’s eyes, asking silently.

Wanda nodded, breath catching, her hand already sliding beneath the hem of Y/N’s shirt. Her touch was shy but sure, helping her out of it with delicate care. As Y/N tugged off her shirt, now in only a dark sports bra, Wanda’s eyes lingered for a moment—her breath stalling in her throat.

She’d seen Y/N shirtless before—quick glimpses when changing after gym or lazy mornings in bed, and there were times she’d snuck her hand under Y/N’s shirt when things had gotten heated. But this time felt different. Maybe it was the lighting, or the stillness of the moment—or maybe it was just that everything felt more real now. More sacred.

Wanda’s gaze traveled over the subtle muscles along Y/N’s stomach, the toned lines of her abs revealed by the snug fabric of the bra. “God,” she whispered without meaning to, a mix of wonder and awe in her voice.

Y/N blinked, a little self-conscious. “What?”

Wanda smiled, cheeks flushed. “You’re… beautiful. I didn’t realize you were hiding abs under those oversized hoodies.”

Y/N chuckled softly, brushing Wanda’s hair back from her face. “They’re not that impressive.”

“They are to me,” Wanda said honestly, her hand skimming gently along Y/N’s side. “But it’s not just that. You just… look like you tonight. And I love that. All of it.”

Y/N’s eyes softened. “So do you. Especially right now.”

She kissed Wanda again—deeper this time, with something grateful behind it.

When Y/N finally laid her down gently on the bed, Wanda reached up and took her hand, lacing their fingers together and lifting them above her head, like she needed that anchor. That closeness.

“I’m scared,” Wanda confessed softly, her voice barely more than a breath, eyes glistening in the soft lamplight.

“I know,” Y/N murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We don’t have to do everything tonight. This isn’t about that. It’s not about proving anything. Just let me love you.”

Wanda blinked slowly, and a tear slipped free—not from sadness, but from being seen. “You already do,” she whispered.

Y/N smiled, brushing her hair back. “You really did all this for me?” she asked gently, eyes flicking down to the lace peeking through Wanda’s unbuttoned pajama top.

Wanda’s cheeks flushed. “I wanted to feel like someone you could want,” she admitted quietly. “Like I could be… enough.”

Y/N’s gaze softened instantly. Her thumb stroked Wanda’s cheek as she spoke. “Wanda. You are enough. You always have been. This—” she touched the lace lightly, reverently, “—is beautiful, but it’s not what makes me want you. That’s all you.”

Wanda’s breath hitched, a rush of emotion making her eyes sting. She kissed Y/N again—deeper this time, with something grateful behind it. Something certain.

She shifted closer to Y/N, her body curving naturally into hers. Y/N moved with her, pulling the blanket up higher around them, creating a warm cocoon. Their legs tangled together, a comfortable intertwining that felt utterly right as they continued to kiss deeply, each movement slow and full of quiet reverence.

Y/N’s hand slid down Wanda’s side, settling gently on her hip. Wanda’s soft moan fluttered between them as Y/N’s thumb traced slow, soothing circles on the smooth skin.

Wanda’s hand found Y/N’s hair, her fingers tangling in the damp strands, pulling her closer with a fragile urgency. “Just love me,” she whispered, voice trembling—a fragile echo of Y/N’s earlier promise.

Y/N’s lips brushed against Wanda’s neck, sending a shiver rippling through her. She kissed a slow trail along the curve of Wanda’s collarbone, then lower, over the delicate black lace still clinging to her skin. Each touch was feather-light, a gentle question offered without pressure or demand.

“You’re so beautiful,” Y/N whispered, voice barely audible against Wanda’s ear. Her breath was warm, reverent. She let her lips wander downward, kissing and nipping slowly across Wanda’s collarbone, each gentle suction sending waves of shivers through Wanda’s body. But as she neared the swell of Wanda’s breasts, she paused—not to hesitate, but to savor.

Her hands moved with deliberate care. One slid up from Wanda’s waist, fingers tracing the underside of her breast, then cupping it fully. Wanda gasped, her lips parting, breath stuttering as Y/N’s thumb swept over her nipple—slowly, then again with firmer pressure. The light teasing sent pulses of warmth straight through her core.

Y/N’s other hand joined, gently kneading Wanda’s other breast, coaxing soft moans from her with every squeeze, every feather-light graze. She watched Wanda’s face closely, drinking in every gasp and twitch, learning the map of her body by touch alone.

“You like that?” Y/N murmured, her voice thick with awe and want.

Wanda nodded, unable to speak, her body arching into Y/N’s touch with instinctive need. Her fingers curled tightly in the sheets beside her, her skin flushed and trembling under the attention.

Y/N took her time, massaging both breasts with a delicate rhythm—palms pressing in, fingers rolling her nipples between soft pads and knuckles. The contrast of gentleness and pressure made Wanda writhe beneath her, her thighs drawing together as arousal built hot and aching within her.

Only then did Y/N lower her mouth, pressing a kiss to the soft skin above Wanda’s heart. Her lips trailed slowly down until she reached one pert nipple. She paused there, exhaling softly, letting the moment stretch, letting Wanda feel the anticipation vibrate between them.

And then—finally—her lips closed around it, warm and wet. She suckled softly at first, then flicked her tongue over the peak, coaxing another moan from Wanda’s throat. Her hand, still cupping the other breast, rolled the neglected nipple between her fingers with more focus now, matching the rhythm of her mouth.

Wanda’s back arched off the bed, her hand flying to Y/N’s hair, gripping tight as if to anchor herself. “God, Y/N…” she breathed, the sound breaking on a moan, her body trembling beneath the sheer tenderness of it all.

Y/N hummed softly against her skin, the vibration making Wanda whimper. She lavished attention on one breast, then slowly moved to the other, switching mouth for hand and hand for mouth with unhurried reverence. Her tongue teased, circled, and flicked; her lips sucked gently, drawing soft gasps from Wanda each time.

Wanda couldn’t stop trembling—not from fear, not from nerves, but from the overwhelming sensation of being cherished. Every touch, every kiss, every look from Y/N made her feel seen. Worshipped. Loved. Her legs shifted restlessly beneath the sheets, trying to contain the growing need burning low in her belly.

Y/N finally pulled back slightly, her eyes dark but soft, lips parted with heavy breath. “You’re incredible,” she whispered, her thumb brushing gently over Wanda’s now-swollen nipple. “I could spend forever learning you.”

Wanda cupped Y/N’s face, her fingers stroking through her hair, eyes wide and glassy. “Then don’t stop,” she said, her voice a breathless plea. “Please… don’t stop.”

Y/N kissed her again—deep and slow, their tongues meeting with a tenderness that burned. One of her hands slid down, over the curve of Wanda’s waist, tracing the dip of her hip. The other still cradled Wanda’s breast, thumb brushing lightly until she felt Wanda arch again into her palm.

“I won’t,” Y/N murmured against her lips. “I’ve got you.”

She began kissing lower once more, over the fluttering rise of Wanda’s stomach, letting her hand travel with her mouth. When she reached the waistband of Wanda’s lace panties, she paused—just for a second—to look up.

Wanda’s breath was shallow, lips parted, cheeks flushed pink. She nodded without a word, and that was all Y/N needed.

Carefully, slowly, she slipped the lace down Wanda’s thighs, letting her fingers glide along her skin as she went. She kissed the inside of each knee, each thigh, reverent in her devotion, until Wanda was laid bare before her—vulnerable and radiant.

Y/N didn’t rush. She just looked for a moment, drinking her in.

“You’re so perfect,” she whispered, her voice cracking with awe. “I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to love you right now.”

Wanda reached down, threading her fingers through Y/N’s hair, her chest rising and falling quickly, every breath trembling with anticipation. “Then do,” she whispered. “Please… Y/N.”

Y/N kissed her way back up—thigh to hip to stomach—until she settled beside Wanda again. She cradled Wanda’s face as she kissed her, deep and slow, her free hand moving down, trailing soft lines over Wanda’s body, across her hip and along the inside of her thigh.

Wanda instinctively opened for her, breath catching as Y/N’s fingers brushed gently against her warmth—light, exploring strokes that made her shiver.

“So wet, princess,” Y/N whispered against her lips, her voice low, reverent. The nickname made Wanda whimper, her thighs twitching around Y/N’s hand. “You’re perfect like this.”

Y/N kissed her again as her fingers found a rhythm, slow and careful, never rushing—just learning what made Wanda sigh, what made her moan, what made her arch. Her thumb circled gently, teasing, while two fingers slipped lower, gathering the slick warmth there. She moved tenderly, always watching Wanda’s face, waiting for every sign of pleasure and consent.

Wanda clutched at her, nails grazing Y/N’s back as her hips rocked into the touch. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “Please, Y/N… I need—”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

With soft, steady pressure, Y/N eased two fingers inside, slowly, letting Wanda adjust, kissing her through the stretch. Wanda gasped, her legs tightening around Y/N’s wrist, a sound escaping her that was somewhere between a cry and a moan.

Y/N stilled, giving her time, brushing her thumb soothingly over her clit. “You okay?” she murmured.

Wanda nodded quickly, eyes shining. “Feels so good… keep going, please.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, overwhelmed by the beauty of Wanda beneath her—so open, so trusting. She began to move again, slow and steady, her fingers curling just right while her mouth returned to Wanda’s neck, her collarbone, her chest—each kiss grounding her, anchoring her to the moment.

Wanda began to tremble, soft cries escaping her lips as her pleasure built.

Y/N pulled her face back from Wanda’s neck, needing to see her—needing that connection. Their eyes met, breath mingling, and Y/N’s fingers began to move lower again. She made gentle, slow circles around Wanda’s entrance, gauging her reactions, giving her every chance to say no—even if her body was already saying yes.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, okay?” she whispered, kissing Wanda’s cheek, then her temple. Wanda nodded, her breath shaky but sure.

Then, slowly, carefully, Y/N slid one finger inside.

Wanda gasped, her back arching slightly, legs tightening around Y/N’s hips. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, her lips parted in surprise. “Oh…” she breathed out, voice barely audible. “Yours feel… different.”

Y/N froze. “Too much?”

Wanda shook her head quickly, her cheeks flushed, lips trembling into a shy smile. “No. Just… different from when I do it. Longer.” Her hand reached up to brush along Y/N’s jaw. “But I like it.”

Y/N kissed her softly. “I’ll go slow. Just you and me, okay?”

Wanda nodded again, biting her bottom lip, eyes never leaving Y/N’s. Y/N kissed her once more before moving again, easing her finger in deeper with gentle care, letting Wanda adjust to the stretch. She watched every flicker of emotion on her face—every gasp, every sigh.

“You’re doing so good,” she murmured, her free hand stroking Wanda’s hair as her finger moved inside her, slow and deliberate.

Wanda clung to her, wrapping her arms around Y/N’s neck as her hips rocked forward, needing more. And Y/N gave it—never rushing, only giving what Wanda asked for, what she could handle, what she wanted.

When Y/N gently added a second finger, Wanda gasped softly, her body tensing. A small hiss escaped her lips.

“Hey,” Y/N whispered, still and attentive, “breathe with me, princess.”

Wanda nodded, her eyes fluttering open to meet Y/N’s. She focused on her—on the warmth in her gaze, the steadiness in her breath. Slowly, her body relaxed again.

“I’ve got you,” Y/N whispered, kissing her softly. “We’ll go slow. You’re doing so well.”

Wanda’s fingers curled tighter in Y/N’s hair, her breathing growing heavier again as her body adjusted. There was discomfort, yes—but it was wrapped in trust, in closeness, in the overwhelming knowledge that she was safe in Y/N’s arms.

And soon, that tension began to melt into pleasure—deeper, fuller now, grounding her in something real and right.

Their foreheads pressed together as they moved together, not in pursuit of anything rushed or goal-driven, but simply to be close. To learn each other. To love each other, completely.

Y/N’s fingers moved with gentle precision, attuned to every subtle shift in Wanda’s breathing, every small sound she made. She kept her touch light, careful, as if reading a delicate story written on Wanda’s skin.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed again, her lips parting softly with each rising wave of sensation. Her body arched instinctively toward Y/N’s hand, seeking more, but still trusting the slow rhythm Y/N set.

“Just like that,” Y/N whispered against her skin, her breath warm and steady. “You’re so beautiful.”

Wanda’s fingers tightened in Y/N’s hair, her hips responding in kind, moving with a tentative urgency, searching for release but held gently by Y/N’s steady hand.

Y/N leaned closer, her lips brushing over Wanda’s ear, sending soft shivers down her spine.

Slowly, Wanda’s breathing deepened, becoming less shaky, more even. Her body began to tremble as warmth bloomed from inside her, spreading through every nerve ending.

With a moan, Wanda’s muscles clenched around Y/N’s fingers, her whole body quivering in exquisite release. 

Y/N didn’t pull away. Instead, she held Wanda close, fingers still moving gently, coaxing her through the waves of pleasure, letting her ride each one fully. Only when Wanda’s breathing began to steady and her grip loosened did Y/N slowly ease her hand away. She kissed Wanda’s temple, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.

“You’re incredible,” Y/N whispered, her voice husky.

Wanda opened her eyes, hazy with lingering pleasure, and looked at Y/N. A new light, a curious warmth, entered her gaze. “Now you,” she murmured, her hand reaching for Y/N’s waist, her fingers tentatively brushing against the soft fabric of Y/N’s boxers, where the insistent bulge was clear already. “Can I touch?” Wanda asked, her voice soft but full of longing. 

Y/N smile and lay beside her. “Of course you can” 

Wanda shift leaning over Y/N and bring a trembling hand to the bulge in y/n’s boxers. She cup it gently like she’s done before. But this time she actually trace the outline. 

Wanda’s fingertips trembled slightly as she traced the outline beneath the fabric, feeling the warmth and firmness she knew was there. Her eyes searched Y/N’s face for any sign of hesitation, but all she saw was encouragement—a quiet invitation that made her heart flutter.

Y/N’s breath hitched softly as Wanda’s hand moved with a careful reverence, exploring with gentle curiosity. “You don’t have to be nervous,” Y/N whispered, voice steady and soothing. “I’m right here.”

Wanda nodded, a shy smile brushing her lips, and she let her touch grow more confident, her fingers tracing slow, delicate patterns. The vulnerability between them was raw and beautiful—a tender dance of trust and discovery.

“Here…give me your hand” 

Wanda, with Y/N’s gentle guidance, slipped her hand inside, her fingers wrapping around the warm, hard length of Y/N’s cock. Her eyes widened slightly, a surprised intake of breath. It was firmer, more substantial than she had imagined. Y/N moaned, a low, guttural sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through Wanda.

“Like this,” Y/N murmured, moving Wanda’s hand, showing her the slow, rhythmic strokes. Wanda followed, her movements still a little hesitant, but growing more confident with each passing second. She watched Y/N’s face, seeing the tightening of her jaw, the slight tremors that ran through her body, the raw desire in her eyes.

Y/N gasped, her hips arching slightly, a low groan escaping her lips as sensation overwhelmed her. She tightened her grip on Wanda’s hand, pulling her fingers tighter, faster. Wanda’s eyes widened, captivated by the flush spreading across Y/N’s skin, the way her muscles tensed with growing intensity.

“I’m…coming, princess”

Y/N’s body stiffened, a powerful tremor seizing her, and she cried out—a ragged sound of pure release that filled the quiet room. Wanda’s heart pounded as she watched Y/N climax for the first time, her body trembling and beautiful in its vulnerability.

Still holding Y/N’s hand, Wanda felt the warmth spreading as Y/N spilled down, coating her fingers. She stared, fascinated and awed—this was new to her, seeing someone so completely undone, so open. Slowly, Y/N’s body relaxed against hers, their breaths mingling in the soft glow of the moment.

Wanda’s gaze dropped to her hand, where the soft white sheen glistened faintly in the dim light. She blinked, a mix of surprise and curiosity flooding her expression. It was something she’d never seen up close like this—raw and real.

Her eyes lifted to Y/N’s face—flushed, breathless, glowing in the aftermath. A warmth bloomed in Wanda’s chest, something close to awe.

Tentatively, almost without thinking, Wanda brought her fingers to her lips. The taste caught her off guard, and her nose scrunched instinctively.

Y/N let out a soft, breathy laugh—warm, not mocking. “Not what you were expecting?”

Wanda gave a sheepish smile, cheeks flushed. “Not exactly.”

“Here,” Y/N said gently, reaching for a tissue from the nightstand. She sat up slightly and carefully cleaned Wanda’s hand, her touch as tender as her gaze. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I wanted to,” Wanda murmured, eyes soft. “I just… wanted to know you.”

Y/N leaned forward and kissed her—slow, grateful. “You do. And I’ve never felt more seen.” She peck Wanda’s lips.

“Do you still want to continue?” Y/N asked her softly, brushing her knuckles down Wanda’s arm with care.

Wanda blinked, still catching her breath, but then her eyes dropped instinctively—only to widen slightly when she realized Y/N was still hard. She tilted her head, visibly puzzled. “Wait… you’re still…?”

Y/N followed her gaze and gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah… sometimes it doesn’t go away right away.”

Wanda’s brows furrowed gently. “I thought it was supposed to… you know, soften after…?”

Y/N chuckled under her breath, her voice warm. “Most of the time, yeah. But with you, I guess my body didn’t get the message yet.”

Wanda flushed, her heart fluttering a little at the implication. “Oh.”

Y/N reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind Wanda’s ear. “Only if you want to, though. We’ve already gone farther than I dreamed tonight. There’s no pressure.”

Wanda smiled, shy but sure, and leaned in to kiss her. “I want to,” she whispered, her fingers brushing lightly along Y/N’s stomach. “I want you”

Y/N nodded, and leaned down to kiss her softly. 

Y/N reached for the small box she had left in the drawer, pulling out a condom. Wanda watched, curious and a little nervous, as Y/N tore open the foil wrapper with her teeth, then, with practiced ease, rolled it down her length.

Wanda’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest as Y/N positioned herself carefully between her legs. The weight of the moment settled over them—full of anticipation, tenderness, and the unspoken promise of trust.

Y/N’s eyes met Wanda’s, searching for any hesitation, any sign to stop. But all she saw was an eager warmth, a quiet readiness that made her smile softly.

“We can stop any time, ok?” Y/N whispered.

Wanda nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “I know. I trust you.”

Y/N position herself gently against Wanda’s aching entrance.

Wanda whimpered, a mixture of fear and desire. “It’s okay, my love,” Y/N whispered, leaning in to kiss Wanda’s temple, then her lips. “Just breathe with me.”

Y/N pushed infinitesimally, inch by careful inch. She couldn’t hold back a low groan. "It's so tight," Y/N murmured, her voice husky. "Does it hurt?" she asked Wanda, her eyes searching.

Wanda’s breath hitched, a sharp intake of air as a new kind of pressure, a dull ache, began to build. Y/N paused, bracing herself on her elbows, giving Wanda time.

“Does it hurt?” Y/N asked, her voice laced with concern, her eyes searching Wanda’s.

Wanda nodded, a tear escaping the corner of her eye. “A little,” she whispered, but she didn’t pull away. Her grip on Y/N’s shoulders tightened.

Y/N’s jaw clenched, her own pleasure taking a backseat to Wanda’s comfort. She leaned down, kissing Wanda’s lips again, deep and reassuring. “You’re so brave,” she murmured against her mouth. “Just a little more, darling. Let me in, just a little.”

She pushed infinitesimally, inch by careful inch, her gaze fixed on Wanda’s face, watching every flicker of emotion. Wanda whimpered again, her body tensing, but then, with a soft cry, she relaxed, a deeper pressure settling in. Y/N had entered her fully.

Wanda’s breath was ragged, her body trembling, but her eyes held a profound mixture of relief and disbelief. Y/N held still, allowing Wanda’s body to adjust, to accept. She pressed another kiss to Wanda’s damp forehead, her fingers tracing soothing circles on her back.

“We did it,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re amazing.”

Wanda’s lips curved into a shaky smile, her hand finding Y/N’s and squeezing tightly. She was still, breathing deeply, adjusting to the new sensation. “I feel so full,” Wanda whispered. “You are big.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed a deep red at Wanda’s blunt observation. She leaned down to kiss Wanda, a soft, tender press of lips. “Does it still hurt?” Y/N whispered against her lips, her gaze searching Wanda’s eyes with gentle concern.

Wanda considered the question, a soft hum escaping her lips. "No," she breathed, her voice a little shaky but steady. "Not hurt. Just... stretched. And full." She looked at Y/N, her eyes still wide, a new kind of wonder in their depths. "It's a good full, though."

Y/N let out a soft sigh of relief, a wave of tenderness washing over her. She shifted slightly, easing deeper, letting the exquisite sensation of being completely embedded within Wanda sink in. Wanda gasped, a soft, involuntary sound, as Y/N pressed just a fraction more, filling her even further.

"Are you ready for me to move?" Y/N whispered, her lips brushing Wanda's. She watched Wanda's face intently, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

Wanda nodded, a delicate flush spreading across her cheeks and chest. "Yes," she affirmed, her voice barely a whisper. She tentatively shifted her hips, a small, experimental movement.

Y/N responded, mimicking the movement, a slow, deliberate rock that made Wanda moan softly. Y/N watched her, eyes devouring every subtle change in Wanda’s expression. She moved slowly, her hips beginning a gentle, steady rhythm. Each thrust was deep, deliberate, allowing Wanda’s body to acclimate to the stretch and fullness. Wanda’s fingers tightened on Y/N’s shoulders, her nails digging in slightly, a silent testament to the building intensity.

Y/N leaned in, kissing Wanda’s neck, her breath hot against Wanda’s skin. "How's that, princess?” she murmured, her voice a low rumble.

"Good," Wanda whimpered, her head falling back against the pillow. "So good."

Y/N’s pace began to pick up, a slow, sensual grind that built steadily. The sounds in the room grew louder—the rhythmic creak of the bed, the wet friction of their bodies, Wanda's soft gasps escalating into guttural moans. Wanda's legs instinctively wrapped around Y/N's waist, pulling her impossibly closer, desperate for more. Y/N felt the walls of Wanda's core clench around her, a delicious tightening that sent shivers through her own body.

"Oh, Wanda," Y/N groaned, her voice thick with pure sensation. She buried her face in Wanda's neck, inhaling her scent, pushing deeper, faster. Wanda was crying out now, her pleasuring intensifying with every thrust. Her hips bucked up to meet Y/N's, their movements becoming a frenzied, desperate dance. Y/N felt her own climax building, a powerful wave rising from deep within.

Wanda’s body tensed, her cries turning into a long, drawn-out moan as a tremor ripped through her. Her fingers clenched Y/N's hair, her back arching wildly as a second, even more intense climax consumed her. Y/N felt the powerful contractions around her, heard Wanda’s gasps and cries, and with a final, desperate thrust, she cried out Wanda’s name as her own release washed over her, a hot, pulsing wave that left her trembling and utterly spent.

They collapsed together, bodies heavy, breaths ragged and mingling in the cool morning air. Y/N rolled slightly, pulling Wanda tightly against her, their bodies slick with sweat, the condom still a warm presence between them. Wanda’s head rested on Y/N’s shoulder, her breathing slowing, the frantic pace of her heart gradually evening out.

Y/N pressed a lingering kiss to Wanda’s hair, her own heart still thrumming. She felt completely drained, yet more alive than ever before. This wasn’t just physical release; it was a profound merging, a deepening of their already powerful connection.

"You're incredible," Y/N whispered, the words heartfelt and raw.

Wanda stirred, shifting her head to look up at Y/N, her eyes soft and dreamy. A slow, radiant smile spread across her lips. "You were amazing," she breathed, her voice raspy. She reached up, tracing the line of Y/N’s jaw, her thumb brushing over Y/N’s still-flushed cheek.

Y/N pecked her lips before asking, "Did it hurt too much?"

Wanda shook her head, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "No," she whispered, her voice still a little hoarse. "Not too much. Just... at first." She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N's chin. "Thank you for being so gentle. Thank you for everything."

"No, thank you," Y/N murmured, her gaze tender. "Thank you for trusting me, for giving me this. This… this gift." She held Wanda closer, savoring the weight of her in her arms, the warmth of their bodies pressed together. The shared intimacy of the night had woven them even tighter, binding them in a way neither had thought possible.

They lay there for a while longer, simply existing in the peaceful aftermath, until Y/N stirred. "I should get something to clean us up," she said softly, reluctantly beginning to disentangle herself.

As Y/N carefully withdrew, she noticed a faint smear of blood on the condom. Her breath hitched. Her eyes immediately flew to Wanda, who was still looking at her with a dreamy, contented expression.

"Wanda?" Y/N's voice was quiet, laced with sudden concern. "Are you really okay? Are you sure you're not hurting now?" She held up the condom subtly, letting Wanda see the crimson stain.

Wanda's eyes widened slightly as she saw it, but then a soft, reassuring smile touched her lips. "I'm okay, detka. Really. It just… happens. It means I was a virgin." She reached out, her fingers lacing with Y/N’s. "Don't worry."

"Are you sure?" Y/N asked, her worry still evident in her tone. Even though she didn't have a vagina herself, she understood the significance of this moment for Wanda and the potential for discomfort. She squeezed Wanda's hand, her gaze full of a protective tenderness.

Wanda lifted her head, her eyes locking with Y/N's. "I'm sure," she affirmed, her voice soft but firm. "It's a little… tender, but it's not hurting in a bad way. Just like you said it might." She squeezed Y/N's hand reassuringly. "Honestly, I feel good. Really, really good." A slow, genuine smile spread across her lips. "I feel… different. In a good way."

****

Y/N let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding, a wave of immense relief washing over her. She leaned down, kissing Wanda’s forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips again, a tender, lingering kiss full of gratitude and adoration. "Good," she whispered against Wanda's mouth. "That's all I care about. That you're okay."

She carefully disentangled herself, retrieving the used condom and disposing of it. Wanda watched her, a quiet curiosity in her gaze as Y/N then walked over to the bathroom. The sound of running water soon filled the air.

"Come on," Y/N called softly from the bathroom, her voice warm. "The bath's filling up."

Wanda pushed herself up, feeling a new kind of soreness, a pleasant ache that was a tangible reminder of the night. She walked into the bathroom, where the tub was already half-full, steam rising invitingly. Y/N was kneeling beside it, testing the water temperature with her hand.

"Perfect," Y/N said, looking up at Wanda with a gentle smile. She held out a hand. "Let's get you cleaned up and cozy."

Wanda stepped into the warm water, sighing as the heat enveloped her. Y/N joined her, sliding in behind her, pulling Wanda back against her chest. The water lapped around them, a soft, comforting sound. Y/N reached for a washcloth, gently cleaning them both, her movements slow and tender. Wanda leaned into her touch, her body relaxing completely in the warmth of the water and Y/N’s embrace. It was another moment of quiet intimacy, building on the profound connection they had forged through the night.

Y/N smiled softly against Wanda’s hair, then tilted her head to meet her eyes. “You called me ‘detka’ earlier,” she murmured, fingers tracing gentle circles on Wanda’s arm. “What does it mean?”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, but her smile only grew warmer. “It means ‘baby’ or ‘darling’ in Sokovian,” she explained quietly, her voice thick with affection.

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with delight. “I love it,” she whispered, leaning down to press a tender kiss just below Wanda’s ear. “It suits you perfectly.”

Wanda’s breath caught, and she turned slightly so their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss. When they parted, Wanda whispered close to Y/N’s mouth, her voice low and intimate, “And I love it when you called me ‘princess.’”

Y/N’s smile deepened, her fingers tightening their hold on Wanda’s. “Princess,” she repeated, voice full of promise. “My princess.”

They melted into each other once more, the bathwater swirling around their joined bodies as the morning sun cast gentle light over the quiet room. Their whispered endearments and soft touches were the perfect echo to the night they’d shared — full of trust, tenderness, and the beginning of something beautifully endless.

---

Too much or just right? 😁

[purifiedclitoris69]

Some Place Safe

Natasha Romanoff x Supersoldier!R

Warnings: Angst, Alluded SA, Violence, ETC

Summary: You were raised to be a weapon. Loving her was the only thing they didn’t teach you to survive. She escaped. You let her. And you never planned to follow. (Heavily inspired by sinners LOL)

You were born in the shadow of war—an accident, a consequence of two operatives colliding in the chaos of a mission. Your mother didn’t live long enough to hold you. You never knew her name. You never knew your own.

They took you in—not out of mercy, but out of opportunity.

The Red Room didn’t raise children. It raised weapons. You were placed in a second-tier orphan program, a quieter project—off the books, away from the widows. They didn’t dress you in black leather or teach you seduction. They taught you obedience. Stillness. Fear.

You learned not to cry by the time you were three. Every moment of comfort was conditional. Every word of praise was a tool. You were nothing more than a blank slate with muscle and reflex. You were tested, shaped, punished, refined. They didn’t want loyalty. They wanted control.

By the time you were ten, you could speak five languages, disappear in any crowd, and kill with a pencil. But you still didn’t know your name. They made sure of that.

When the Red Room joined hands with HYDRA, they sent you away—one of a few deemed stable enough to be "enhanced." You remember the cold first. The facility buried beneath snow and silence. The needles came next. Then the pain. Then the darkness.

HYDRA took what the Red Room started and broke it open. They injected you with a serum they said would make you strong. Faster. Better. But all it did was blur the line between survival and violence.

Your body changed. So did your mind.

They didn’t need to train you anymore. They just conditioned you. Trigger words, electric shocks, hallucinations—it all became routine. Every memory was wiped clean. Every hesitation was punished. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. Just kill and return.

And you did.

Over and over, you painted the world red for masters who never told you why. They didn’t call you by a name. They called you Asset. Subject. Spectre.

Until one day—you met her.

You were sixteen. Back in the Red Room, temporarily removed from your HYDRA assignments. The widows in the 14–15 age bracket needed oversight. “Instruction,” they called it. But you knew what it really was. A test.

A test for them—and a reminder for you.

Your handlers said no one would be more efficient, more ruthless, more capable than you. Two rounds of serum had ensured it. Bones reinforced. Reflexes sharpened to an unnatural edge. Pain meant nothing to you anymore. And if it did—you never showed it.

Madam B led the drill, standing beside you with her arms folded and her voice like a knife. “The enemy is smarter. Stronger. Faster. You do not overpower them. You dismantle them.” You stood still, hands folded behind your back, eyes scanning the group. Ten girls. Uniforms crisp, eyes cold. And then one was escorted in late.

Her.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

You knew what she was before the handler said her name. The way she walked, the way her jaw tensed, the flicker of calculation behind her gaze. You knew where she’d come from. Who she’d been with. You could smell it on her—pain, gasoline, cheap cologne, blood.

You’d lived it.

Something flickered in your chest. Recognition? Disgust? Curiosity? It passed before you could name it.

“Let’s begin,” Madam B said sharply.

You moved to the center of the room on instinct, like muscle memory. You weren’t thinking. That wasn’t your job. You were the lesson. They were the students.

The first widow came fast—predictable, linear. You sidestepped her and slammed her into the mat with a single twist of your hip. The second tried to sweep your legs. You jumped, drove your heel into her shoulder, dislocating it. Another got bold, locking her legs around your neck in a textbook chokehold. You slipped out of it in half a breath, kicked her ribs hard enough to hear the crack. An elbow hit the back of your skull. Your knee buckled from a follow-up strike, drawing a grunt from your throat. You caught her arm anyway, flipped her clean over your shoulder, and knocked the wind from her lungs with the landing.

And then she stepped forward.

Romanova.

She moved like you. Fast. Controlled. Measured. The other girls fought with desperation, with something to prove. She fought like she already knew. Every motion had intention. No waste. No fear. No need for approval.

She didn’t just want to survive the match— She wanted to understand you.

Her strikes were sharp, almost elegant. You blocked the first two. She ducked the third. A feint, a sweep—you stumbled, just half a step, just enough for her to see it.

The room watched in silence.

She came again, faster this time. You grabbed her wrist mid-swing. Her foot connected with your side. It stung—she was good.

Not enough to beat you. But good.

When you slammed her into the mat, she landed like a cat, rolled back up, and turned toward you without blinking. The others were still catching their breath. Some were still lying on the floor.

Only she stood with you.

You stared at her, breathing evenly. She stared right back.

Madam B called the drill. The other girls were dismissed. But Romanova was told to stay.

You remained too.

That was the first time you saw her. Not just a file. Not just a name. Her.

And somewhere—beneath the layers of numbness, the serum, the training, the triggers—You felt something stir.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything.

But she would become the exception.

From that day forward, she was everywhere.

In every drill, every sparring match, every strategy debrief. You weren’t sure if it was coincidence, punishment, or a new kind of test. But wherever you were, Romanova followed.

At first, it was friction. She questioned everything. Why the techniques were outdated. Why the conditioning was flawed. Why she was expected to lose.

You watched her get punished for speaking out—watched her grit her teeth through each consequence. But she never broke. She never stopped fighting.

You hated her for that. And—if you were honest—you respected her for it too.

When you sparred, it was always different with her. She didn’t try to overpower you. She tried to figure you out—where you carried your weight, how you breathed before a strike, how your body reacted to pain. She learned fast. Too fast.

You kept putting her down. But never easily. And never the same way twice.

The others grew afraid of you. Romanova never did.

One night, after a brutal joint exercise, the two of you were left in the mat room longer than expected. Bloody. Breathless. Silent.

You sat on opposite sides of the mat, both pretending the other wasn’t there. But you felt her eyes on you.

“You don’t enjoy this,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t look at her. “It’s not about enjoyment.”

She didn’t push. Just nodded once, as if that confirmed something for her. As if she already knew.

You didn’t speak again that night, but the silence between you felt… less like an empty space, and more like something waiting to become a conversation.

Over the months, your dynamic evolved.

You were still stronger. Still faster. Still something… other. But she challenged you in ways your handlers never anticipated.

She made you think.

During field simulations, the two of you started working together without being told to. Covering each other’s blind spots. Moving in sync. Communicating without words.

She never praised you. You never praised her. But the trust was there—in the way she never flinched when you stepped behind her, in the way you didn’t hesitate to back her up when she made the call.

Still, tension burned beneath it all.

You’d snap at her when she questioned orders. She’d challenge your blind obedience. You fought. You bled. You pushed each other to the edge and back.

And somewhere in all that chaos—You started to need her there.

Not as a rival. Not even as a comrade. But as something quieter. Closer.

You’d catch yourself watching her longer than you should. The way she wrapped her hands before a mission. The way her brow furrowed when she was working through a problem. The way she touched people like it was foreign. Like it might shatter them.

She was learning how to care.

And you—You were just learning how to feel.

One night, during winter drills in the dead cold, she caught you shivering beneath your gear. The serum made your body hard, durable—but not immune to the cold.

Without a word, she peeled off her second layer and threw it to you.

You didn’t thank her. She didn’t ask for it. But for the first time in your life, a gesture wasn’t part of a test. Or a manipulation. Or control.

It was… kindness.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Her face kept appearing in your mind. Not as a fellow operative. Not as a threat.

Just her.

And it terrified you more than anything they’d ever done to you.

Because if you let that wall crack, if you let her in—She might see who you really are beneath it all.

And worse…You might start to remember too.

But that wasn't in there plans.

You weren’t supposed to leave. But no one asked you.

It happened after a routine infiltration exercise—standard, controlled. You weren’t even armed. One moment, you were walking back through the frostbitten corridor of the Red Room barracks. The next, a needle was in your neck.

Your body dropped before your mind could react.

You woke up somewhere far colder. Darker. Underground.

No windows. No clocks. No names.

Just HYDRA again.

Apparently, you still belonged to them. The Red Room had only been borrowing you.

They said you weren’t done. That your body was strong—but your mind, soft. That there were still layers to burn out of you. So they stripped you down to bone and nerve and rebuilt you again.

More injections. More surgeries. Weights so heavy they crushed the air from your lungs. Shock conditioning to suppress emotion—any residual hesitation, memory, or attachment. They filled your bloodstream with compounds that ate away at your warmth. And they watched. Measured. Adjusted.

Until the version of you that had once flinched at kindness, that had once felt something in Romanova’s gaze—Died.

When you came back—months later, or maybe years—you weren’t the same.

The Red Room barely recognized you.

Your body was bigger now. Broader shoulders, thicker arms, deeper definitions all around. More power behind every movement. Your hands no longer trembled, not even slightly.

But the real difference was in your eyes.

Nothing in them.

Not fury. Not pain. Not longing. Just silence.

The girls whispered when they saw you. Some wouldn’t meet your eyes. Even the instructors seemed uneasy.

But Natasha—She wasn’t there to see you return.

She was gone.

You found out later.

While you were underground being gutted and stitched back together, she’d grown too.

They started giving her solo missions. Black ops. Quiet eliminations. Intel retrieval. Sabotage. She was rising, fast.

Faster than anyone expected.

You saw her name on the mission logs once. Just a line. Romanova, N.A. — Status: Completed.

You should’ve felt something.

But you didn’t.

Not until the first time you saw her again.

It was in the training compound. You had just come from the lab—still sore, your muscles heavy from the new modifications.

She entered in full gear, fresh from a mission. Blood on her knuckles. Eyes hard.

She saw you. You saw her.

Something flickered behind her expression. Shock, maybe. Recognition. But then her face hardened too.

You were taller now. Bulked. You had a presence that filled the room like a storm waiting to break.

She took a step toward you. Stopped. Looked you over like a stranger. Then said quietly, “What did they do to you?”

You blinked at her. “What they always do.”

Her jaw clenched. She looked away first.

Something cracked between you then—subtle, but deep. Like a frozen lake underfoot. Silent. Invisible. Deadly.

She was sharper now. More guarded. No longer the girl trying to figure you out.She didn’t try to speak again. Didn’t reach out.

And for the first time… you didn’t want her to Because some part of you knew: If she touched you, she’d feel it.

How gone you really were.

Ironnically, they assigned you together without warning.

No briefing room. No courtesy. Just your names on the same mission order, stamped with urgency, marked “Classified – Joint Operation.”

You stood by the helipad in the cold, snow clinging to your gloves, staring at the file in your hand. You didn’t flinch when her footsteps approached behind you—but something inside you shifted.

“Is this a joke?” Her voice was sharp. Older. It cut different now—refined, precise. She was no longer a student. She was a weapon fully realized.

You turned to her. Nothing in your expression.

“No,” you said. “It’s an order.”

She looked you over again, as if still trying to reconcile the you in her memory with the one standing in front of her. The serum-enhanced bulk. The vacant eyes. The silence.

“You look like them now,” she muttered. “Like the guards. The machines.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”

She didn’t respond. Just pulled on her gloves and boarded the chopper. You followed.

Neither of you spoke for the entire flight.

The mission was straightforward: sabotage a black-market weapons trade in Serbia. Silent entry. Quiet eliminations. No civilian casualties.

Easy.

Too easy.

You moved like a ghost—silent, brutal, efficient. Taking out guards before they even knew they were dead. She followed, handling the tech, bypassing locks, placing charges. Clean. Professional. Cold.

But the silence between you roared louder than the gunfire.

At one point, you cleared a stairwell while she set a timer on the explosives. You glanced back at her—the flicker of red hair under moonlight, the tight line of her jaw.

There used to be warmth in the way she looked at you. Now, it was calculation. And something worse—disappointment.

You met her gaze. She didn’t look away this time.

“You’re not the same,” she said quietly.

“I’m better.”

“No,” she said. “You’re just… gone.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have one.

The hallway lights flickered. Footsteps above.

You both moved without another word.

After the mission—successful, of course—you were debriefed and dismissed.

But that night, in the Red Room barracks, she came to your door.

You heard the knock. You almost didn’t answer.

But you opened it.

She stepped inside like she was walking into a war zone. Her eyes scanned the room, then locked on you.

“You didn’t flinch when that civilian was caught in the blast radius.”

“They weren’t the target.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “You didn’t feel anything.”

You looked at her. At the way her chest rose and fell. At the fire in her eyes.

“What do you want from me?”

She stepped closer. “I want to know if you’re still in there.”

Your throat tightened.

Then—softly, bitterly—you said, “Why? So you can mourn me properly?”

Silence.

Her hand reached up before she could stop it—just barely grazing your shoulder, hesitant. Her fingertips trembled.

You didn’t move. But you felt it.

Something broke inside you.

And you whispered, “You shouldn't touch me, Romanova. You’ll get hurt.”

She didn’t pull away. “Maybe I already am.”

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t cry. But something in that moment laid itself bare between you—too fragile to speak aloud. Too dangerous to name.

She left without another word.

And for the first time in a long time…You wanted to be seen again.

The next few missions are different.

She stops flinching when you’re too close. You start pausing before pulling the trigger. You cover her flank instinctively. She watches your back like it’s second nature.

You still don’t speak much. But the silences become softer.

One night, while tending a wound, she says, “You never told me your real name.”

You stare at the floor. “I don’t remember it.”

“Then tell me something you do remember. Something real. Something yours.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then, finally: “I remember… humming. I think it was my mother. Before everything else. Just humming.”

She doesn’t say anything.

She just reaches for your hand. You let her.

And that’s the moment you know—Whatever they did to you… she might be the one thing they can’t erase.

t happened late one night, long after curfew.

You couldn't sleep. Not because of nightmares—those had dulled into something quieter—but because she hadn’t returned yet.

Her mission had run over. You knew it wasn’t your concern. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But when the door finally creaked open and she stepped inside, bruised and soaked with cold rain, your heart did something you didn’t recognize.

It lurched.

You rose from your bunk without a word. Met her halfway. She tried to walk past you like always.

But this time, you reached for her wrist.

She froze.

Then her eyes met yours. And for once, there was no mask. No cold front. No assignment.

Just two ghosts standing in a borrowed room pretending they weren’t drowning.

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

She stared at you for a long time. Then shook her head, slow.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think I forgot how to feel something and still survive.”

You didn’t speak. You just stepped closer.

She leaned her forehead against yours.

And when her hands came up to cradle your jaw—gentle, trembling—you let her. No drills. No orders. Just warmth. Just touch.

She moved her arms to your shoulders pulling you into a desperate hold. You held her back.

It was the first thing that had ever felt real.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not because of fear. Because for the first time—you didn’t want to close your eyes and miss it.

You were in the mess hall the next morning when the alarm rang.

Red lights. Sirens. Door locks snapping shut. You didn’t even have to guess.

They’d seen it.

The surveillance footage. The shared room. The closeness. The disobedience.

You were ripped from your seat. She was dragged from hers. Not allowed to speak. Not even look at each other.

They took you to separate rooms.

They didn’t ask questions. Just pain.

Electric pulses to the spine. Icy injections in your veins. A boot in your back and a handler shouting:

“You are not human. You are not lovers. You are assets. Tools. You do not belong to each other. You belong to us.”

You bit down until your teeth bled.

But they weren’t trying to break your body this time.

They were trying to break what you’d built.

It took days before they let you see each other again. Weeks before they assigned you to a new mission together.

But in the silence of your quarters one night—when they thought they’d burned the bond out of you—she turned to you and whispered:

“We can’t keep doing this.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

“We’re ghosts,” she said. “And maybe we always will be. But we don’t have to haunt this place.”

You watched her carefully.

She leaned in. “I have contacts. Quiet ones. People who owe me. We could make it out. Maybe not far. Maybe not long. But free. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You looked at her.

For the first time in your life, someone was offering you a door.

And you wanted it.

You planned it. Mapped the blind spots. The shift changes. The weak points in surveillance.

But the night came… and you didn’t move.

You stood at the exit.

So did she.

Neither of you said it—but you both felt it: That pull. That tether. Not to each other—but to this.

To the bloodstained corridors. The silence. The structure. The certainty of it.

It was hell. But it was the only hell you understood.

And maybe—maybe—out there, the world would be worse. Colder. Empty.

You looked at her.

She looked at you.

And slowly, quietly… she shook her head.

“Not yet,” she said. “We’re not ready.”

You nodded.

Neither of you turned away from the exit right away.

But you didn’t step through it either.

That night, you held her again. Not in defiance, but in mourning.

Because love, in places like this, wasn’t a rebellion.

It was a wound. And you carried it like everything else they’d given you.

Deep. Quiet. Permanent.

The final mission came suddenly. Too clean. Too perfect.

Natasha was to infiltrate a U.S. intelligence outpost under the guise of a defector. Get inside, get the data, extract herself. But you’d seen too many missions. You knew the pattern. You knew the words they didn’t say.

This wasn’t an op.

It was an opportunity.

A door. A rare one.

And for the first time—you could open it for her.

You stood by the projector as the handler outlined the objective. Your face didn’t shift. You nodded when expected. Said “understood” at the appropriate moments.

But when the lights dimmed and the others filed out, you turned to her—just the two of you left in the briefing room.

You said her name—her name, not her codename.

She looked at you. Confused at first. Then slowly—terrified.

You walked closer. Pressed a small drive into her hand. The one with the real data—hers. Proof of HYDRA’s involvement. Enough to earn her a chance. Enough to buy her freedom.

“Take it,” you said, voice low. “When the window opens, you run. Don’t look back.”

She shook her head. “No—no, we said we’d go together.”

You gave a faint smile. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I don’t exist out there.”

“You do to me.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not enough. Not this time.”

Her hands shook.

You reached out, steadying her fingers around the drive.

“You’re better than this place,” you whispered. “You always were.”

Her eyes glistened, and your throat burned with everything you couldn’t afford to say.

You didn’t kiss her.

You just let your forehead rest against hers—one last time.

A silent goodbye wrapped in the shape of a moment.

She did exactly what you trained her to do.

She got out clean.

The data hit U.S. intelligence servers like a bomb. Names. Coordinates. Project logs. Red Room locations.

And her? She vanished into shadow.

It worked.

She lived.

You watched her defect from behind locked doors, cameras feeding you the grainy security footage of her slipping past the final perimeter. She turned once—looked back.

You knew she was thinking of you.

But she ran.

And you—You stayed.

They punished you, of course.

You’d disobeyed protocol. Leaked sensitive intel. Let an asset go.

But you were too valuable to kill.

So they hurt you instead.

They locked you away. Sedated you for weeks. Ran tests. Reconditioned you until the edges blurred again.

When they were done, they gave you a new mission.

You accepted it wordlessly.

Like always.

But something in you had shifted. Not broken—but buried. Because now, no matter how many memories they wiped, no matter how many shocks they ran through your spine…

They couldn’t take her from you.

Not where it mattered.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t waste what you gave her.

She used your sacrifice like a torch.

She lit the Red Room on fire from the inside out. Cracked it open piece by piece—its secrets, its science, its cruelty. She brought down handlers and directors. Saboteurs and scientists. Anyone who carved girls into weapons.

And when she was done with them, she turned to HYDRA.

Not all of it. Not yet. But enough to make the world tremble.

And through it all—every raid, every mission, every sleepless night—she searched for you.

Files. Photographs. Ghosts of you in surveillance clips: grainy footage of a tall figure, a shadow slipping in and out of black sites with blood on your hands.

She kept seeing you. But she never found you.

They said you were a myth. That maybe you'd died. That maybe you'd broken entirely, brainwashed past the point of no return.

But Natasha knew better.

She knew what it meant when your body flinched in the exact rhythm of danger. When your jaw ticked before a mission. When your eyes—those goddamn eyes—flicked to hers in a moment of clarity, even through pain.

You weren’t dead.

You were still in there.

Somewhere.

she pulls the footage alone.

She'd rewatch the frame by frames. Zoom in on your face.

You’ve changed.

There’s no warmth now. No hesitation.

But the way you move—the way you look at the camera right before it cuts out—it’s you.

And it’s not.

The ghost she loved.

Now a killer set loose in a world she tried to fix.

Years had continued to pass.

Until the intel finally came. It was clean. HYDRA remnants were relocating prototype tech—illegally acquired Stark-adjacent hardware. Avengers were dispatched for containment.

It should’ve been a simple in-and-out.

Until you showed up.

It begins with Sam.

He never sees it coming.

He’s airborne, covering Steve’s flank, when something clips his wing mid-flight. Not a bullet.

A blade.

You appear out of the smoke—fast, silent, brutal. A black blur against a backdrop of chaos. You hit the ground and scale the debris like a phantom. Sam goes down hard, suit sparking.

Steve calls out—but it's too late. You’re already on him.

He blocks your first strike with the shield. The second knocks the breath from his lungs. The third slams him into concrete. He tries to talk, to get through to you—

But you don’t speak.

You just fight.

And you win.

He’s unconscious before he hits the floor.

Then comes Stark.

“Who the hell—” he starts, suit flying into position.

But he doesn’t get to finish.

You use an EMP blade—short-range, custom—forged in the black budget corners of the world. You slam it into his arc reactor, right below the clavicle. The suit collapses like armor made of paper.

He stares at you from the floor, breathing heavy.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. “Who trained you—?”

Your boot slams into his jaw. He blacks out.

The smoke clears.

And Natasha walks into the aftermath like she’s walking into a graveyard.

She sees them—Sam, unconscious. Steve bleeding. Tony barely breathing.

And then she sees you.

Standing there with your back to her, blade slick with Stark’s blood, eyes scanning the horizon for the next threat.

You don’t turn when you speak.

“I was wondering when you’d show.”

Her stomach turns. Your voice hasn’t changed.

Neither has the way it makes something in her ache.

“Stop,” she says, gun aimed at your spine. “This isn’t you.”

You finally turn.

And gods, you look calm. Too calm. Not brainwashed. Not drugged. Just still. Centered. Like the world finally makes sense to you—for all the wrong reasons.

She hesitates.

“Tell me they did this to you,” she says, desperate. “Tell me they put something in your head. I can help you.”

You shake your head. “No one put anything in my head, Natalia.”

You say her name like a knife and a kiss.

“I chose this.”

Her grip falters. “Why?”

You step closer.

“I gave you freedom. I never said I wanted it for myself.”

That hits harder than any punch.

“I’m not broken,” you go on. “I’m clear. The world you live in now? It’s naïve. It lets monsters breathe because it's scared to kill them.”

“And you’re not scared?” she whispers.

“No. I’m what comes after fear.”

Your blade raises.

Her gun doesn't move.

“I don't want to fight you,” she says.

You nod. “Then don’t.”

It’s vicious.

You move like muscle memory and instinct are the only gods you answer to.

She holds her own—barely. Blocks your knife with her forearm, kicks your knee to destabilize, sweeps your leg, only for you to flip back onto your feet like gravity’s a suggestion.

She pulls you in recklessly and you slam her against the wall.

You’ve both slowed.

Breathing ragged. Bruised. Bleeding.

She’s knocked the blade from your hand. Neither of you has the upper hand now.

And still—neither of you runs.

She stares at you, hair stuck to her face with sweat and blood. Eyes glassy. Jaw clenched.

And then, finally—she breaks.

You’re both on your knees in the rubble of the mission site.

Bruised. Bleeding. Exhausted.

Your knife is somewhere behind you. Her gun’s been kicked across the ground. There are no weapons left now—only words sharp enough to kill.

And hers cut deepest.

Her voice breaks the silence, trembling but strong enough to reach you.

“Why won’t you tell me the truth?” she pleads, eyes locking with yours, glistening. “I was young enough to believe we’d find each other again. That you wanted to.”

You say nothing.

Because if you do, something inside you might shatter.

“I waited,” she whispers, and it cracks something in your chest. “I waited a long time…”

You watch her swallow it down—those tears, that hope, that version of you she carried in her chest like a ghost.

“But I’m grown now,” she breathes, straighter spine, trembling chin. “I’m good. And I know you never planned to stay.”

She steps forward.

Just one step.

“So why can’t you just say that?”

And now it’s your turn to bleed.

You want to lie. It would be easier.

But your throat burns and the truth is louder than your silence.

“Say what, hmm?” you rasp, almost bitter. “That I love you?”

She flinches.

You press forward, voice low, shaking, every word costing you a piece of yourself.

“That I think about you every damn day? That I saw you run and told myself I’d done something good—for once. That maybe if you lived, if you became something better, then everything I did would’ve been worth it?”

You pause. Swallow. You can’t look at her.

“I just wanted to keep you someplace safe,” you whisper. “And that was never gonna be here.”

“And it was never gonna be with me. Never.”

And she stands there—tears slipping free.

But she doesn't collapse.

She burns. Quietly. The way she always has.

“So that’s it?” she asks. “I was a mission to you? Something to protect and abandon?”

“You were everything,” you say, barely above a breath.

And you mean it.

Which is why you turn and walk away.

Because staying? Would destroy the last thing you did right.

[purifiedclitoris69]

Written in Our Souls - Part 10

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: They are finally together.

Word Count: 8,401

Warnings: fluff, make out

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

After everything they spent the rest of the night in Y/N’s room.

Not talking much—there wasn’t a need. The silence between them was no longer heavy, no longer filled with everything unsaid. Now it was sacred. Safe. Wanda lay curled against Y/N’s chest, one leg thrown over her, their fingers lazily tangled as the warmth of the bond pulsed between them like a lullaby. Every so often, Wanda would lift her head just enough to kiss Y/N’s neck, her cheek, her shoulder—anything to remind herself it was real. That Y/N was there. Alive. Hers.

Y/N didn’t sleep much, but she didn’t need to. Not when Wanda was in her arms, breathing softly against her skin. Not when everything that had felt so broken just days ago finally felt like it was knitting back together.

When morning came, sunlight slipped through the edge of the curtains and bathed the room in a soft, golden hue. Wanda stirred first, blinking slowly, her hand tightening slightly around Y/N’s shirt.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Y/N smiled, eyes still closed. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Wanda propped herself up slightly, her hair a tangled mess of curls, her mark peeking from beneath the sleeve of Y/N’s shirt she’d slipped into sometime in the middle of the night.

She looked at Y/N like she was watching the sunrise for the first time.

“I need to talk to Vision,” she said gently. “Today.”

Y/N nodded, stretching slightly beneath her. “I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have,” Wanda whispered, guilt flickering in her voice.

“I know that too,” Y/N replied. “But you can’t keep pretending for his sake.”

Wanda lowered her gaze. “I won’t. Not anymore.”

There was a pause. Then Wanda looked up again, determination flickering behind the softness.

“And after that… we don’t hide anymore. Not from them. Not from ourselves.”

Y/N smiled, pulling her close again. “Good. Because I’m tired of pretending you’re not my whole damn world.”

Wanda laughed, the sound light and real for the first time in weeks. She pressed a kiss to Y/N’s lips—just a brief one, like punctuation to a promise.

Today would be hard.

But they’d face it together.

Wanda nestled back into Y/N’s arms, but her thoughts were clearly already with what needed to happen next. Her fingers played absentmindedly with the edge of Y/N’s sleeve, like the contact grounded her—kept her from drifting too far into guilt or fear.

Y/N kissed the top of her head, then asked softly, “Do you want me to be there… when you talk to him?”

Wanda stilled for a moment. Not in hesitation—more like she was weighing the weight of everything.

“I don’t want to make it harder for you,” Y/N added, voice calm but sincere. “But if you need me… I’ll stand beside you.”

Wanda looked up at her, eyes glassy but clear. “I don’t know what he’ll say. I don’t even know if he’ll listen. But I think I need to do it alone… at first.”

Y/N nodded, brushing her knuckles gently along Wanda’s cheek. “Okay.”

“But after,” Wanda whispered, threading their fingers together again, “I want to come back to you. No more waiting. No more running.”

Y/N leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her mark. “I’ll be right here. Always.”

---

Wanda stood outside Vision’s door for a long moment, her palm hovering just above the surface before she finally knocked once and stepped inside.

He was already waiting, as if he’d known she would come.

The room was still—neatly arranged, untouched since the explosion in the training room. Vision stood by the window, his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back.

She didn’t wait for an invitation. She didn’t need one.

“Vision,” she began softly, “we need to talk.”

He turned toward her, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said, “I thought you might come to your senses.”

Wanda ignored the jab. Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled slightly where they hung at her sides. “When I agreed to marry you, I truly believed I was doing the right thing. You were kind, and we had… a connection. Through the Mind Stone, I could feel you. I thought maybe that was enough. I didn’t think I’d ever meet my soulmate. I thought it was just… fate being cruel.”

Vision’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And now you believe you’ve found her.”

“I know I have,” she said without flinching. “The second I saw her, I knew. It burned. It branded me. I denied it—I tried. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to tear everything apart. But the bond… it’s real.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said, his voice sharpening. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”

“No,” Wanda said firmly. “I’m finally listening to them.”

Vision stepped closer. “You are bonded to me through the Mind Stone. That is not mere sentiment. That is cosmic design—pure, powerful energy. You and I were created to understand one another on a level Y/N will never reach. I am a synthezoid. My mind is beyond anything she could comprehend. She acts on impulse. Emotion. Weakness.”

Wanda’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“It’s the truth,” he said. “She’s reckless. She endangered the mission. She distracts you—pulls you into chaos. I have seen the way your powers spiral around her. That isn’t harmony. It’s volatility.”

“You didn’t see what happened when she touched me,” Wanda said quietly. “She didn’t just calm me—she saved me. That wasn’t volatility. That was love.”

Vision’s mouth tightened. “You are choosing something primitive over something elevated.”

“I’m choosing her.” Wanda’s voice cracked, but her resolve didn’t. “You think the Mind Stone created something greater between us—but what I have with Y/N… it’s ancient. It’s not made of circuits and code. It’s soul-deep. And I’m sorry, Vision. But I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t keep hurting her. Or myself.”

For a beat, silence.

Vision’s jaw clenched. “You are letting a name written on skin dictate your life.”

“I’m letting love dictate it,” Wanda said. “And I came here to end things with kindness. I owe you that. But if you try to diminish what I feel for her again—I won’t stay quiet.”

She turned to leave.

“You’re making the wrong choice,” he said, his voice like steel. “And one day, you’ll regret it.”

Wanda looked back, pain flickering behind her eyes. “Maybe I will. But I’ll still be free.”

And with that, she walked out—leaving Vision in silence.

The door closed behind her with a soft click, but it felt deafening.

Wanda stood in the hallway for a long moment, leaning back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut as she finally let the tension slip from her shoulders. Her chest felt tight, her heart racing — but not from regret.

From relief.

She had said the words. Chosen her truth. And now, she only wanted to be one place.

Back with Y/N.

When she walked into Y/N’s room, it was quiet. The morning light was spilling through the curtains, painting everything in soft gold.

Y/N was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs stretched out, a book in her lap she clearly hadn’t been reading.

The moment Wanda stepped inside, Y/N looked up. Her expression softened instantly.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You okay?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away. She crossed the room slowly, crawled into Y/N’s arms without a word, and tucked herself against her chest like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.

Y/N wrapped her arms around her instinctively. “Was it bad?”

Wanda nodded against her shoulder. “He said I was choosing something primitive. That what we have is… weak. That the Mind Stone meant more.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry, Wands.”

Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her. Her fingers curled into the fabric of Y/N’s shirt. “But I told him everything. That I love you. That I want you. And I don’t regret it.”

Her voice cracked. “I don’t regret any of it.”

Y/N’s hand moved to cradle her jaw, brushing her thumb over her cheek. “I meant it when I said I’d be here. No matter what happened.”

Wanda leaned into the touch. “I want to stay here tonight. And the next. And every one after.”

“You will,” Y/N promised softly. “You can stay as long as you want.”

They stayed like that, tangled up in each other on the bed, as the sun continued to rise.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Wanda felt the ache in her chest settle. The bond no longer strained. No longer torn.

It was whole.

And so was she.

They didn’t leave the room that morning.

Y/N had pulled the curtains just enough to keep the soft light in, and the rest of the world out. The blankets tangled around them, the air smelled faintly of warm skin and something sweet from the tea left forgotten on the nightstand.

Wanda was curled against Y/N’s side, her head on her chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over Y/N’s skin — over her ribs, her stomach, the curve of her hip. Like she was memorizing her. Like she couldn’t believe she was real.

“I used to dream about you,” Wanda whispered eventually, voice fragile in the quiet.

Y/N looked down at her, brushing her fingers softly through Wanda’s hair. “Yeah?”

Wanda nodded, her cheek warm against Y/N’s chest. “When I was little, my mom told me about soulmates. How when you turn sixteen, the name just… appears. And when I saw yours—Y/N—I thought it was the most beautiful name I’d ever seen.”

Y/N smiled gently, her thumb moving in lazy circles along Wanda’s arm. “What did you imagine I’d be like?”

Wanda’s breath caught a little, her voice turning wistful. “Strong. Brave. Someone who could hold the world together when I couldn’t anymore. But also… kind. I used to imagine you’d find me and just know. That the moment we touched, the world would stop spinning.”

Y/N’s smile faded slightly, something heavier settling in her chest. “And then…?”

Wanda shifted, resting her chin just over Y/N’s heart now. “Then everything changed. After our parents died. After Hydra… I stopped dreaming. I stopped hoping. My powers were too loud. My grief was louder. And after Pietro…”

Her voice cracked, and Y/N’s arms tightened around her instantly.

“I thought maybe I wasn’t meant to have you,” Wanda said, voice barely above a breath. “Maybe I was too broken. Maybe I’d missed my chance. That fate gave me your name by mistake.”

Y/N’s eyes burned. She kissed Wanda’s hair. “Wands, none of what happened to you… none of it changes the fact that you deserve love. That you deserve me. And you didn’t miss your chance. We found each other.”

Wanda looked up at her, eyes shining. “But I hurt you.”

“But I’m still here,” Y/N said quietly. “And love isn’t about never messing up. It’s about staying. Healing. Choosing each other even when it’s hard.”

Wanda blinked, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Then I choose you. Every day.”

Y/N leaned down and kissed her, soft and slow, tasting the salt of Wanda’s tears — and the sweetness beneath them.

“I choose you too,” she murmured.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, letting time slip past unnoticed.

Because for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, neither of them were alone.

---

Y/N made her way down to the kitchen, hoodie thrown over last night’s shirt, hair still damp from the quick shower she’d taken before slipping out. The compound was quieter than usual. She didn’t know if that was because of what happened, or because Wanda wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept in days.

She moved with purpose, grabbing what she needed—fruit, sandwiches, two bottles of water—when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Y/N.”

She turned slowly, eyes finding Steve near the hallway entrance. His expression was uncertain, a little drawn, like the guilt was still sitting heavy in his chest.

She didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow.

“I… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Steve started. “For what happened. For the way I handled things.”

Y/N gave a small nod, turning back to the counter to finish packing up the tray. “Thanks.”

He stepped forward, not too close. Just enough to show he meant what he was saying. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her. Or you.”

“I know,” she said simply. Then after a moment, she added, “I’m not mad because you told me to stay away.”

Steve blinked, confused. “You’re not?”

“No,” Y/N said, turning to face him fully now. “I get it. You thought you were protecting her. You thought I’d destabilize her more.”

He exhaled, his shoulders easing for a second—until Y/N’s voice hardened.

“I’m pissed because you never asked her if she was okay.”

Steve’s jaw tensed.

“You didn’t ask if she needed something. If she wanted someone. You just assumed,” she continued. “And you isolated her. Let her rot in that room like she was some ticking bomb.”

“I thought space would help,” he said quietly.

“She didn’t need space, Steve. She needed someone to see her.”

The silence between them stretched.

“She wasn’t healing,” Y/N added. “She was disappearing. And no one noticed. Or worse… they noticed, and they just kept saying it was better that way.”

Steve looked down, the shame written all over his face now.

“I’m trying to fix that,” he said softly.

“Good,” Y/N said. “Start by actually seeing her next time.”

She picked up the tray, the weight of it nothing compared to everything else she carried.

“She still trusts you, you know,” Y/N added, voice a little softer. “Don’t make her regret it.”

And then she walked past him, heading back upstairs.

Back to Wanda. Back to her love.

---

Y/N nudged the door open with her hip, balancing the tray in her hands as she stepped back into the room. “I got lunch—”

She froze mid-step.

Wanda stood near the window, bathed in soft daylight, her back turned as she looked out at the trees beyond the compound. But it wasn’t the view that stole Y/N’s breath.

It was the hoodie.

Her hoodie.

The sleeves hung past Wanda’s fingertips, the hem almost reaching her thighs. It was loose on her frame, swallowing her shoulders just enough to make Y/N’s heart stutter. The collar was pulled slightly off one side, exposing a sliver of her collarbone and the mark on her wrist—Y/N’s name in delicate, unmistakable script.

Wanda turned at the sound of the door closing. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw her.

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Because she was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. In that hoodie, with bare legs and messy hair and sleepy eyes, Wanda looked like everything Y/N had ever dreamed about. Soft mornings. Shared lives. Soulmate peace.

The butterflies in Y/N’s stomach went wild.

Wanda smiled, noticing the way she’d gone completely still. “You okay?”

Y/N blinked, finally managing to breathe. “You’re wearing my hoodie.”

Wanda glanced down at herself, cheeks tinting pink. “It smelled like you.”

Y/N stared for a second longer, tray forgotten in her hands. “Wands… you’re gonna kill me.”

Wanda walked over, barefoot, small compared to Y/N but somehow the only thing that ever made her feel grounded.

“Just with love,” she whispered, brushing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “Only ever with love.”

Y/N swallowed hard and nodded. “Good. 'Cause I’m already dead, looking at you like that.”

Wanda grinned, tugging her gently toward the bed. “Then come die with me over lunch.”

Y/N followed without hesitation.

As they settled onto the bed, Wanda curled her legs under her and reached for one of the sandwiches Y/N had brought. Y/N, however, hadn’t taken her eyes off her.

Not for a second.

Not while Wanda’s bare legs brushed against the comforter. Not while her sleeves hung adorably over her hands. Not while she leaned in to take a bite with that soft little sound she always made when food was good.

Y/N cleared her throat dramatically. “Be honest with me, Wands.”

Wanda glanced up, lips curving. “Hmm?”

“Are you trying to seduce me? Because if this is your version of subtlety, I’m afraid you’re dangerously good at it.”

Wanda laughed, the kind that made Y/N feel like the world wasn’t broken at all. “I’m just eating a sandwich. In your hoodie.”

“Exactly. My hoodie. With those legs. And that whole soft ‘I just woke up and decided to destroy you emotionally’ look.” Y/N leaned back, hand over her heart. “It’s lethal.”

Wanda gave her a playful glare, cheeks flushing. “Well, if I was trying to seduce you, you’d already be a goner.”

Y/N smirked, taking a slow sip of her water. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already.”

Wanda blushed deeper, laughing quietly as she nudged Y/N’s knee. They shared a look — warm and close and full of something unspoken that no longer needed to be held back.

After a pause, Y/N set her cup down and turned slightly, more serious now. “Hey.”

Wanda looked up again.

“I know everything’s been kind of… overwhelming. And messy. But I want to do something right.”

Wanda tilted her head.

Y/N smiled softly. “I want to take you on a date. A real one. Just us. No missions, no teammates, no drama. Just… me and you.”

Wanda’s expression softened, eyes glistening with affection. “You’re asking me out?”

“Technically, I’m asking my soulmate out,” Y/N teased. “But yeah. I want to date you, Wands. I want to woo you properly.”

Wanda leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “Then I’ll say yes. Properly.”

Y/N melted. “You’re still trying to seduce me.”

Wanda only grinned. “Maybe. But now it’s with consent.”

Wanda rested her head on Y/N’s shoulder, her fingers lightly brushing over the faded lettering on the sleeve of the hoodie she wore—Y/N’s hoodie. The quiet between them felt like peace instead of tension, and for once, it wasn’t something they were trying to fill. It was something they were choosing to share.

After a moment, Wanda whispered, “Where would you take me?”

Y/N smiled into her hair. “For our date?”

Wanda nodded, her voice small but curious. “Yeah.”

Y/N tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes on the ceiling. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere it’s just us. Maybe this tiny spot I used to go to in the city—it’s kind of hidden. Has lights strung between buildings, tables crammed into this little alleyway, music playing from an old speaker. They make amazing pasta. And they have this dessert—tiramisu so good it might actually make you believe in magic.”

Wanda let out a soft laugh. “I already believe in magic.”

“Right,” Y/N said, brushing her lips against Wanda’s hair. “You’re living proof.”

Wanda pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, something soft and starry dancing behind her gaze. “I’d like that. The date. All of it.”

Y/N leaned in, nose brushing hers. “Yeah?”

Wanda nodded. “You said you wanted to do it right… so let’s do it right.”

They kissed again—gentle, slow, full of new beginnings and unspoken promises.

When they finally pulled back, Y/N chuckled. “Okay, but no more surprise seduction until after the date. I need to survive long enough to impress you.”

Wanda grinned, eyes sparkling with something playful. “No promises.”

Y/N laughed, flopping back onto the bed with a groan. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Wanda laid down beside her, their fingers intertwining naturally. “Then I’ll bring you back.”

And with that, they stayed like that—tangled up in each other, hearts beating softly in sync, dreaming of a first date that already felt like forever in the making.

---

When Y/N finally convinced Wanda to come downstairs for dinner, the brunette hesitated at the threshold of the hallway.

“What if they all hate me now?” she whispered, her hand still resting in Y/N’s. “They saw… what happened. They think I’m a monster.”

Y/N stepped in front of her gently, cupping her face. “Hey. You’re not a monster. You had a breakdown, not a meltdown. And they’re your team. They’ll understand. And if they don’t? I’m still here. Right beside you.”

Wanda still looked unsure, but she nodded. Her grip on Y/N’s hand tightened as they made their way toward the dining area.

The buzz of casual conversation floated through the compound as they entered the open kitchen. Most of the team was already there—Steve, Clint, Sam, Nat, even Bruce. Wanda slowed down when she saw them. The anxiety in her chest coiled tighter.

Then Natasha stood, wordlessly, and stepped into their path.

Wanda’s breath caught in her throat—but instead of confrontation, Nat simply raised an eyebrow and asked, “You two hungry?”

Wanda blinked. Then nodded, slowly.

Nat nodded back, then turned to grab two plates. Just like that.

They took their seats. A quiet kind of normalcy resumed, though the room definitely held an unspoken tension—until Tony strolled in late, still in his suit jacket, tapping at his phone.

“I saw the security footage,” he said casually, tossing his phone onto the table as he poured himself a drink. “Was out on business when I got the emergency alert. Thought we were under attack.”

Y/N froze mid-bite and glared at him, her jaw tightening. “Really?” she said, sharply.

But before she could snap further, Tony lifted a hand—then looked at them again, this time with something softer, something real.

He looked at Wanda directly. “But then I watched the footage again… and I saw what it really was.” A pause. “You okay? Both of you?”

That silenced the room. Wanda stared at him, stunned.

Y/N blinked, her anger cooling as fast as it had flared.

Wanda swallowed. “I… I’m getting there,” she said softly.

Tony nodded. “Good. That’s what matters.”

There was a beat of silence before Sam reached across the table and passed Wanda the bread basket. “You missed the good garlic bread. But there’s still some left if you’re lucky.”

And just like that, the tension cracked.

It wasn’t a full return to normal—but it was a start.

Y/N reached under the table and gently squeezed Wanda’s thigh. “Told you,” she murmured.

Wanda allowed herself a small, grateful smile.

Maybe they were going to be okay after all.

---

Dinner carried on with gentle conversation—muted, but warm. A kind of quiet effort to rebuild what had been frayed.

Wanda stayed mostly silent, tucked close to Y/N, eyes downcast as she focused on her plate. Every now and then, she felt eyes on her. Some glances were cautious, some curious. But no one looked at her with fear.

Bruce made a comment about needing to recalibrate the compound’s sensors, saying with a half-smile, “Apparently they can’t tell the difference between an energy surge and an emotional crisis.” That earned a few quiet chuckles, including a small one from Wanda.

Clint, sitting a few seats down, offered her a piece of roasted chicken with a casual, “Still your favorite, right?”

Wanda met his eyes, surprised. She nodded.

Y/N watched every exchange with quiet pride. No one was pretending nothing happened—but they weren’t condemning her either. They were trying, in their own clumsy, well-meaning ways, to show that she still belonged.

As the meal wound down and the team dispersed in twos and threes, Steve approached Wanda and Y/N where they still sat together at the table.

“Wanda,” he said gently, “I just wanted to say—I’m sorry.”

Wanda looked up at him, startled.

“I should’ve checked in with you. I made assumptions. About what you needed… and who you should stay away from.” He glanced at Y/N with clear regret. “It won’t happen again.”

Wanda searched his face for judgment. There was none—just the guilt of a man who’d realized too late that he’d tried to do the right thing in the wrong way.

She swallowed, voice soft but steady. “Thank you… but I need to say something too.”

Steve tilted his head slightly, listening.

“This was my fault,” she said, her hand tightening around Y/N’s. “I ignored the bond. I thought I could fight something that was a part of my soul. I told myself it wasn’t real, that I could just... choose another path. But I was wrong.”

Her gaze dropped for a moment, guilt shadowing her features.

“I kept pretending until I lost control. My powers—when I’m not connected to who I am, to her—they become something else. Something dangerous. I almost hurt everyone because I wouldn’t face the truth.”

Steve's expression softened further, pained. “Wanda…”

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “To the team. To you. For letting it get that far.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You’ve always carried more than anyone ever should,” Steve said quietly. “But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. You have her now…and you have us.”

Wanda blinked, caught off guard by the warmth in his voice. For a long time, she hadn’t felt like she belonged—not really. But now, hearing that… it cracked something open inside her.

Y/N gently brushed her thumb across the back of Wanda’s hand beneath the table, grounding her.

“Thank you,” Wanda whispered. Her voice was trembling, but her gaze was steady now. “I want to make it right. I want to be better. Not just for Y/N, but for all of you.”

Clint gave her a small nod from across the table, and Nat offered a tight but genuine smile as she returned with plates of food. “Starting with eating something before you pass out might help,” she said dryly, setting a plate down in front of Wanda.

There was a small ripple of quiet laughter—tentative, but real. Wanda looked around at them all, still wary, still carrying the weight of what had happened—but she wasn’t alone anymore.

Tony cleared his throat. “I still think we need to recalibrate the training room after that energy spike. But…” He paused, then glanced at Wanda and added, softer, “Just glad you’re okay, Maximoff.”

Wanda gave a faint, almost shy smile. “I’m trying.”

“Well, try while chewing,” Nat said, sliding into her seat. “We’re not exactly known for being emotionally well-adjusted, but at least we eat.”

Steve chuckled under his breath. “One step at a time.”

Y/N leaned toward Wanda and murmured, “You did good.”

Wanda turned to her, eyes shining. “I had you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to truly feel it.

Safe.

Wanted.

Home.

---

A week had passed since everything shifted — since truths were spoken, pain was shared, and healing had begun. The compound, once thick with tension, had lightened. The team had slowly settled into something resembling balance again. There were still quiet moments, awkward glances, but they were laced more with curiosity and reflection than judgment.

Wanda had moved her things into Y/N’s room a few days ago. Quietly, with no dramatic declaration — just the soft sound of drawers opening, books finding new shelves, and her familiar presence becoming a constant in Y/N’s space. It felt natural, like something that had already happened long ago and was simply being restored.

Vision, for the most part, kept to himself. He hadn’t been seen around much, only appearing briefly during a mission debrief before vanishing again. When Y/N asked Tony about it, he shrugged and muttered, “Took off. Didn’t say much. Flew east, maybe Europe. Said he needed… space.” There was no bitterness in his voice, just weariness — like he’d seen this before, and knew better than to force anything.

Today, the air was warm, early afternoon light spilling through the windows of Y/N’s room as Wanda sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, flipping absentmindedly through a book. Her bare feet dangled slightly off the rug, her hair tucked messily behind her ear. Y/N watched her from the doorway for a moment, quietly smiling to herself.

“Hey, Wands?” she said gently.

Wanda looked up, instantly softening at the sight of her. “Yeah?”

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, hands in her pockets, trying to play casual but failing a little. “So… I’ve been thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Wanda teased.

Y/N smirked. “Very. But I thought I’d risk it anyway. Remember that date I mentioned? The one I said I wanted to take you on?”

Wanda closed the book and set it aside slowly. “Of course I remember.”

Y/N stepped inside, standing in front of her now. “What do you say we make that happen? Tonight. Just you and me.”

Wanda blinked once, then smiled — that slow, warm smile that always made Y/N feel like the world was tilting just a little in her favor.

“I’d love that,” Wanda said. “Where are we going?”

Y/N offered her hand, already buzzing with excitement. “That, my love, is a surprise.”

Wanda took it without hesitation, lacing their fingers together. “Then I better dress for danger.”

Y/N chuckled, already leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Only danger tonight is me falling harder for you.”

Wanda laughed, truly laughed.

Y/N squeezed Wanda’s hand gently, then pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “Okay, I’ve gotta go.”

Wanda tilted her head, playful curiosity dancing across her features. “Go where?”

Y/N grinned. “I’ve got something to prepare. Top secret. Classified, even.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes, amused. “Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you’re afraid of romance,” Y/N quipped, brushing her thumb over the back of Wanda’s hand before letting go. “Be ready by six, okay? And wear something that makes you feel like the goddess you are.”

Wanda blushed, smiling down before she looked back up at her soulmate. “You’re impossible.”

“But charming,” Y/N added, already backing toward the door.

“The most annoying kind,” Wanda teased.

Y/N winked. “I’ll take it. Six sharp, Wands. No peeking. No following. Just trust me.”

“I always do,” Wanda said softly.

With a final smile, Y/N disappeared down the hall — heart pounding, mind already running through the plans she had in motion. Tonight had to be perfect. Tonight was just for them.

---

After Y/N left, Wanda stood in the quiet room for a few long moments, her heart fluttering with a nervous excitement she hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t just a date—it was the first step into something she had once feared she’d never get to have. A life with her soulmate.

She glanced around the space that now fully felt like hers. Over the past week, she’d gradually moved her things from the room she once shared with Vision. At first, it felt like she was tearing pages out of a book she never meant to write—but now, with every brush, book, and sweater placed in Y/N’s room, it felt like she was finally starting her real story.

As she sat by the window in the afternoon light, her thoughts drifted to a distant memory—one she hadn’t visited in years. She was maybe eight or nine, curled up with Pietro beside their mother on a warm summer afternoon. Sokovian lullabies floated through the air, and their mother had smiled as she told them stories of soulmates.

“She will feel like home,” her mother had said, tucking a strand of hair behind Wanda’s ear. “When you meet your soulmate, it will feel like remembering something you’ve known all along.”

Wanda had clung to that image for years—of someone soft but strong, warm and patient, with eyes that saw through all the darkness and never looked away. She remembered how she'd dreamt of someone who would love every broken part of her, someone who would make her feel safe.

Now, as she thought of Y/N—her smile, her strength, her quiet presence—it hit Wanda like a wave. This was who she'd been waiting for. All those childish dreams, all those silent wishes she whispered to the stars—they were always about her. About Y/N.

By late afternoon, she’d already tried on three different outfits, her anxiety mounting with every passing hour. She didn’t want to be overdressed, but she didn’t want to look like she wasn’t trying either. 

When it was a quarter to six, Wanda had checked the clock at least a dozen times.

She sat perched at the edge of the bed, dressed in a simple but elegant outfit—a soft cream-colored blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, paired with ankle boots and a light maroon cardigan. It wasn’t anything dramatic, but she felt good in it, like herself. Like the Wanda she used to imagine she'd be when she finally met the one written on her wrist.

Still, the nerves were there. She glanced at the door for the third time in five minutes and frowned.

Was Y/N even coming back here to get ready? Or had she gone somewhere else?

She got up and crossed to the mirror, adjusting a curl that had fallen out of place. Her mind raced with imagined scenarios, each one less rational than the last, until—

Knock knock.

She turned, heart leaping. Her feet carried her to the door before she could think.

And when she opened it—her breath caught.

Y/N stood there, casual and quietly striking in a dark henley under a slate gray bomber jacket, paired with fitted black trousers and clean sneakers. In her hand was a small bouquet of flowers—warm-toned wild blooms mixed with a few deep red peonies.

But her expression…

Y/N blinked once. And then again, slower this time, her breath stolen the moment her eyes landed on Wanda.

“Wow,” she whispered, eyes softening. “You’re… beautiful.”

Wanda felt her face flush, a soft, surprised smile rising on her lips. “You clean up pretty well yourself,” she teased gently, but her voice came out quieter than she expected.

“I figured something simple was best,” Y/N said, lifting the bouquet between them, “but now I feel a little underdressed.”

Wanda laughed softly as she took the flowers, brushing her fingers along the petals. “You’re perfect.”

Y/N smiled, and there was something reverent in the way she looked at Wanda—like she was trying to memorize the moment.

“You ready?” she asked.

Wanda nodded, stepping closer. “Only if you are.”

And just like that, they headed out together. Quiet hearts steadying. Soulmates walking into their first real date—years, lifetimes in the making.

---

The city air was warm, a soft breeze curling through the early evening streets as they walked side by side. Their hands brushed once, twice, until Wanda’s fingers slipped into Y/N’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither of them said anything about it—they just held on.

Wanda glanced sideways, heart fluttering. Y/N’s eyes were focused ahead, but there was the smallest smile tugging at her lips. It made Wanda’s chest ache—in a good way.

“So,” Wanda finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Y/N’s grin deepened. “Nope.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, playfully skeptical. “Not even a hint?”

“Hmm.” Y/N hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, one hint… It’s not fancy. But it’s kind of my favorite place. A little piece of comfort I’ve held onto since before all this—before the Compound, before the chaos.”

Wanda tilted her head. “Is it one of those old diners you like?”

“Nope. But you’re not far off.” Y/N nudged her gently with her shoulder. “You’ll see.”

They turned down a quieter side street, where the noise of the city softened behind tall buildings. As they reached the end of the block, Wanda caught a glimpse of dim, golden lights flickering ahead. Then music—soft, old jazz—floating lazily through the air.

And there it was.

A tiny alleyway between two brick buildings, strung with warm lights overhead, flickering like stars. Tables were crammed into the narrow space, each one filled with murmuring locals or couples deep in their own worlds. The scent of garlic and roasted tomatoes drifted out into the street.

Wanda’s eyes widened, lips parting slightly. “This is…”

Y/N watched her take it in. “It’s small. Easy to miss if you’re not looking.”

“I love it,” Wanda said, her voice soft with wonder. “It feels like it’s hidden from the rest of the world.”

Y/N smiled, leading her gently forward. “Exactly.”

As they stepped into the golden-lit alley, the host greeted Y/N with familiarity and a knowing grin, quickly guiding them to a cozy corner table tucked near the back. The table had just enough space for two, a single flickering candle between them.

Wanda sank into her seat, her eyes still moving around the space like she didn’t want to miss anything.

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Told you it wasn’t fancy.”

Wanda met her gaze across the candlelight. “It’s perfect.”

And in that moment, surrounded by music, string lights, and the quiet hum of life, the chaos of the last few weeks faded—like it had all been leading to this.

They took their time ordering—Wanda choosing a pasta dish with roasted vegetables, Y/N going for a classic marinara. The waiter poured their drinks and left them alone, the dim glow of the candle between them flickering in time with the soft music playing nearby.

Wanda twirled her fork between her fingers, watching the flame dance before she looked back at Y/N. “You know,” she began, “we’ve lived in the same compound for months, and I just realized… I don’t actually know that much about you. Not the normal stuff.”

Y/N smiled, tilting her head. “Normal stuff like… favorite color, or guilty pleasure TV show?”

“Exactly,” Wanda said with a grin. “Tell me something.”

“All right,” Y/N leaned back, thinking. “I used to paint. Not, like, professionally or anything, but I liked it. Landscapes mostly. Places I wanted to visit.”

Wanda blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

Y/N nodded. “I’ve got a couple sketchbooks shoved in my old nightstand, but I haven’t picked up a brush in a while. Life kind of… took over.”

Wanda looked at her with a soft, thoughtful expression. “You should paint again. I’d love to see what you make.”

A small flush rose to Y/N’s cheeks, but she smiled. “Maybe I will.”

Wanda leaned forward now, clearly curious. “Okay, my turn. Guilty pleasure show?”

Y/N laughed, a hand coming up to rub the back of her neck. “Don’t judge me, but… The Great British Bake Off. Something about stressed-out people being incredibly polite while making scones just relaxes me.”

Wanda let out a laugh that echoed gently through the alley, and Y/N found herself smiling just to hear it.

They fell into an easy rhythm, trading pieces of themselves like treasured keepsakes. Wanda talked about how she used to hum Sokovian lullabies when she couldn’t sleep, and how Pietro once dared her to climb the tallest building in their village. Y/N shared her love for old music and how she used to run through the streets at night just to feel fast enough to escape her thoughts.

Eventually, Wanda tilted her head and asked, “So… your powers. You’re strong. Fast. But I know it’s not the serum. I’ve seen enough to tell the difference.”

Y/N took a sip of her drink, then nodded. “It’s not. I was part of a research program—voluntary, back when I was barely eighteen. They were testing a new kind of tech-meets-bio enhancement. Most people washed out. I didn’t.”

Wanda’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It wasn’t HYDRA, was it?”

“No,” Y/N said quickly. “It wasn’t tied to anything that dark. More experimental military research. Questionable ethics, maybe, but not evil.”

Wanda looked down at her hands. “Still… that kind of thing changes you.”

“It did,” Y/N admitted softly. “But I don’t regret it. Not anymore. Not after everything that led me to now. To you.”

Wanda looked up at her then, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice.

“You really think we were always meant to find each other?” she asked quietly.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. Even if I didn’t know your name was on my wrist… somehow, I think I always would’ve found you.”

Wanda’s hand crept across the table, slipping into hers once more.

“Me too,” she whispered.

Wanda traced slow circles with her thumb against Y/N’s hand, eyes soft and curious. Then, after a quiet moment, she gently turned Y/N’s wrist over and placed her fingers delicately against the skin. With almost reverent care, she began to trace the shape of her own name where it was etched—faint, familiar, permanent.

She looked up through her lashes, voice soft and a little uncertain. “Did you ever… dream of meeting me?”

Y/N stilled. Her heart thudded once, deeply, like it remembered something too important to ignore. She met Wanda’s gaze and gave a small, honest nod.

“All the time,” Y/N said. “I used to wonder what your voice would sound like. If you liked the same books I did. If you’d laugh at my dumb jokes. Sometimes I’d fall asleep just imagining what it would be like to finally see you—to know.”

Wanda swallowed hard, her fingers still resting lightly against Y/N’s skin. “And… did you think it would feel like this?”

Y/N smiled, that soft, soul-deep kind. “No. It’s better.”

Wanda's breath hitched, and she leaned forward just slightly, forehead nearly brushing Y/N’s. 

“I used to talk to it,” Y/N starts, “To your name on my wrist…”glancing at her with a sheepish grin. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Wanda whispered.

“Whenever things got hard—missions, the program, bad days—I’d cover my wrist and just… talk to you. To the idea of you. Tell you how scared I was. Or how much I wanted to meet you. Or how I hoped you were out there and happy and safe.” She swallowed. “Whenever things were hard. You were the hope I held on to.”

Wanda blinked quickly, emotion swimming in her eyes. “And now?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Now you’re the reason I breathe easier.”

Wanda smile lovingly and squeeze Y/N hands. 

They keep their eyes locked until the soft clink of ceramic against wood drew their attention as the waiter gently set down the dessert between them—two spoons, one shared plate, and a generous slice of tiramisu layered with cocoa-dusted cream and espresso-soaked sponge.

Wanda smiled faintly at the sight, but her eyes never left Y/N for long. She reached for her spoon, pausing as Y/N picked up hers too, the movement quiet, natural. Comfortable.

They both took a bite at the same time—creamy, sweet, rich. Wanda let out a small, involuntary hum of appreciation, which made Y/N chuckle under her breath.

“I take it you like it?” Y/N teased, watching her closely, adoration written all over her expression.

Wanda nodded slowly, swallowing. “It’s incredible.”

Y/N grinned. “I figured you’d like it. It’s kind of my favorite dessert.”

Wanda tilted her head. “Of course it is,” she murmured, warmth in her voice. “Sweet, layered, a little dramatic… suits you.”

Y/N laughed, and Wanda’s heart fluttered at the sound. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that specific laugh—the one that only came when Y/N was completely unguarded, happy.

There was a pause, quiet but full. Then Wanda set her spoon down, reaching across the table again to brush her fingers gently over Y/N’s hand, over the wrist where her name was still visible even under the soft golden light.

“I used to dream too,” she said. “About what you might look like. What your voice would sound like when you said my name. After my mom told me and Pietro about soulmates when we were little… it became something I held onto. Something I hoped for. Even after Hydra. Even after…”

She trailed off, but Y/N didn’t need her to finish.

“I’m here now,” Y/N said gently. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Wanda nodded, blinking away the burn in her eyes. “I know. And for the first time… I believe it.”

They finished the dessert slowly, savoring not just the taste but the closeness, the intimacy of something so simple. The city buzzed around them, but their little table in the tucked-away alley felt like the center of the universe.

For a long time, they just sat in the warmth of each other’s presence, knowing that whatever came next—they’d face it together.

---

Back at the compound, the quiet hum of nighttime wrapped around Y/N’s room like a blanket. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm, golden light across the walls as Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, towel-drying the ends of her hair absentmindedly. Her thoughts were still tangled up in the night—the candlelit alleyway, the laughter, the stories, the way Wanda had looked at her like she’d never wanted to look away.

Their first date had been everything. And more.

Y/N glanced toward the bathroom door just as it creaked open, and there she was—Wanda.

Fresh from the shower, her hair damp and curling softly around her face, cheeks slightly flushed from the steam. She had that look again, the one Y/N was already starting to crave—soft, a little shy, eyes full of something tender and ancient and real.

And she was wearing it again—Y/N’s hoodie. That same one she always stole, the one that hung a little long on her sleeves and swallowed her hands. It should’ve looked oversized and messy, but somehow Wanda made it look like the most perfect, intimate thing in the world.

Y/N’s heart stuttered. Her face flushed as she looked down quickly, trying to will away the ridiculous grin blooming on her face.

Wanda noticed. “You’re blushing,” she said gently, a knowing little lilt to her voice as she padded barefoot into the room.

“No, I’m not,” Y/N muttered, though the warmth on her cheeks betrayed her completely.

“You are,” Wanda insisted, smiling now as she approached.

Y/N chuckled, eyes lifting to meet hers. “You just… you look good in my clothes. That’s all.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly, amused. “Just good?”

Y/N let her gaze sweep over her—bare legs, hoodie sleeves pushed up past her elbows, damp strands of hair clinging to her cheek. Her soulmate. In her hoodie. In her room. After their first date.

“Okay, unfairly good,” Y/N admitted, voice low and fond. “Like you were born to wear it.”

Wanda’s smile softened, her heart full. She walked over to Y/N, standing between her knees, fingers brushing gently along Y/N’s jaw, like she was memorizing every curve and line.

“Well… I was born to be yours,” she said softly, voice laced with certainty and something sacred.

Y/N looked up at her, eyes shining with a quiet kind of awe. “Yes, you were,” she whispered. “And I was born to be yours.”

Wanda leaned down then, closing the space between them, and pressed a kiss to her lips—slow, tender, filled with all the promises neither of them had to speak aloud anymore.

The kiss, meant to be soft and sweet, deepened without either of them meaning for it to—pulled forward by the invisible thread that lived between their souls.

Y/N’s hands found Wanda’s waist instinctively, grounding them both, and Wanda sat on Y/N’s lap, her fingers slipping into Y/N’s hair. The bond between them pulsed like a second heartbeat, intensifying everything—every breath, every brush of lips, every quiet sound shared in that closeness.

It was overwhelming in the most exquisite way—like the universe was humming around them, like time itself had paused to witness this moment.

Wanda's lips moved against Y/N’s with growing certainty, no longer tentative but sure, as if every part of her remembered how to love Y/N before even meeting her. Her legs curled around Y/N’s sides without thought, anchoring her, claiming her.

Y/N’s hands slid up Wanda’s back, fingers splaying across the thin fabric of the hoodie—her hoodie—and something about that made her chest ache. Wanda wasn’t just close; she was home.

The bond surged again, powerful—warmth spreading from the place where their skin touched, wrapping around them like a blanket woven from everything they hadn’t said yet: I missed you. I choose you. I’m yours. And Wanda moans softly against Y/N’s lips. 

Y/N squeeze her waist involuntarily. 

When they finally slowed, lips parting with a final soft press, both were breathless, foreheads resting together again.

“It’s so hard to try to take things slow with you” Y/N say still breathless against her lips.

Wanda let out a breathless laugh, her nose brushing gently against Y/N’s. “I know,” she whispered, her fingers still buried in Y/N’s hair, unwilling to let go. “Everything with you feels… like gravity. Like I waited a hundred lifetimes for this and now the universe won’t let me wait another second.”

Y/N smiled, eyes flickering down to Wanda’s lips before meeting her gaze again. “You make me forget everything else. I’m supposed to go slow”

Wanda’s lips curved in a soft, knowing smile. “Then don’t,” she whispered. “We’ve waited long enough. You held on to me before you even knew me… and I pushed you away when I should’ve run to you.”

Her voice trembled slightly, but her hands remained steady, framing Y/N’s face as if it was the only truth she trusted.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” Wanda added, her thumb brushing gently across Y/N’s cheek. “Not of the bond. Not of you. Only of missing another moment we could’ve had.”

Y/N’s expression softened, her chest tightening with emotion. “You’re not going to miss anything anymore,” she murmured. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Wanda kissed her again, slower this time—reverent. As if sealing a promise with every brush of her lips. When they parted, she rested her head against Y/N’s shoulder. 

“Let’s sleep?” Y/N whisper in her ear.

Wanda nodded against her shoulder, her arms curling around Y/N's waist like she never wanted to let go. “Mhm,” she murmured, voice laced with exhaustion and peace all at once. “Only if you hold me.”

Y/N smiled, pressing a soft kiss to Wanda’s temple. “Always.”

They shifted together, climbing under the covers in a quiet rhythm that only soulmates could find. Wanda tucked herself close, her leg slipping between Y/N’s, her hand finding its familiar place over Y/N’s heart.

The bond pulsed gently now—no longer surging with urgency, but humming with comfort. Like it, too, had found rest.

As Y/N wrapped her arms around her, holding her safe and close, Wanda whispered, “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

And with that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, they both drifted off—finally home.

---

[purifiedclitoris69]

Wrong Timing, Right Song

Elizabeth Olsen x G!P Reader

Summary: How Lizzie and Y/N first met.

Word Count: 9,467

Request: Yes

Warnings: fluff, cute, little jealousy.

A/N: I got some requests about how Lizzie and reader met, so here we go!

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

Los Angeles, Late 2013

Y/N didn’t like these kinds of events.

Too many fake laughs. Too many tight smiles. She felt like a misplaced lyric in an auto-tuned song — polished on the outside, dissonant underneath.

Her assistant, Dani, had shoved the event pass into her hand and practically forced her into a tailored black suit before she could come up with a decent excuse.

“You just hit number two on Billboard,” Dani said, adjusting her collar. “This is your moment. You need to be seen. You need to meet people. It’s all part of the job.”

Y/N had muttered something about rather being home with her guitar and cold pad thai, but no one listened. So now she was here — some upscale West Hollywood event where everyone smelled expensive and talked like they were reading from the same networking script.

She nursed a ginger cocktail near the bar, head slightly ducked, watching the crowd. Most people didn’t notice her, not yet. They recognized her name more than her face — something she was fine with.

And then she saw her.

Elizabeth Olsen.

There was something quiet about her presence — composed, maybe a little detached from the noise. She wasn’t commanding attention, but the way she moved through the room made people notice her anyway. She wore a simple black silk dress, her hair loose and tucked behind one ear. Elegant, but not loud.

Y/N tried not to stare. Really, she did.

But Lizzie caught her eye. Just a glance. Then another. And — against all odds — she made her way over.

“Hey,” Lizzie said when she reached her. Her voice was calm and unassuming. “You’re Y/N, right?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Wow. I mean—yeah.”

Lizzie gave a polite smile. “I heard your single on the radio the other day. It's been in my head since.”

“Oh,” Y/N said, heart bumping once in surprise. “That’s… thank you. I didn’t think someone like you would’ve heard it.”

Lizzie tilted her head slightly. “Someone like me?”

Y/N gave a sheepish shrug. “Movie star. Red carpet regular. You know… cool.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from Lizzie — a short one, more amused than charmed.

“Well, it’s a good song,” she said simply. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

Y/N smiled, relaxing a little. “Thanks. That really means a lot.”

She hesitated, then decided to go for it — not bold, just honest.

“You’re beautiful, by the way,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Not just in the obvious way, either. You just… you carry a kind of peace with you.”

Lizzie blinked at that. The compliment didn’t make her blush or smile — not quite. She seemed to absorb it quietly, then offered a gentle, almost apologetic expression.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But… I have a boyfriend.”

Y/N’s smile faltered for a breath, then steadied.

“Of course. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You didn’t,” Lizzie said quickly, and her tone made it clear — no anger, no discomfort, just a line drawn with care. “I just thought it was better to say it now.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I get it. I respect it.”

They stood in silence for a beat — not awkward, just brief — and Lizzie glanced toward the crowd again.

“Well… congratulations on the single,” she said, her tone drifting back toward polite.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied. “And, uh… thanks for saying hi.”

Lizzie nodded once, then turned to go, merging back into the sea of agents, actors, and producers.

Y/N watched her leave, a little hollowed out but not bitter. Just… wistful.

She took another sip of her drink and sighed under her breath.

“She feels like a song I’ll write and never finish.”

And somewhere inside her, the melody had already begun.

---

Lizzie’s POV

Lizzie told herself it was nothing.

Just a fleeting conversation at a crowded party. Polite. Complement exchanged, boundary set. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But Y/N had been… different.

Not in that overstated celebrity way, not like the people who tried to make an impression with oversized energy and manufactured charm. No, Y/N had been quieter. More grounded. She spoke like she actually meant what she said. Looked at Lizzie like she saw her — not the actress, not the photoshoots or the headlines, just… her.

And that wasn’t something Lizzie was used to.

Still, she had Boyd.

They’d been together for almost two years. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t… good anymore. Conversations had turned thin. Affection had started feeling like routine. She used to feel excited when he touched her — now it felt like remembering something she used to enjoy. Like a melody she couldn’t hum anymore.

But none of that had anything to do with Y/N.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

She didn’t mention the singer to Boyd. Didn’t tell her sisters either. It was just a moment. Not worth explaining.

Except…

She kept hearing her voice.

On the radio during a late drive home. On the speakers at a boutique while flipping through clothes she didn’t need. At brunch when her sister queued a playlist she swore was “the best new artist of the year.”

Y/N’s voice was smooth but raw, like silk with a tear running through it. Something about it stayed with Lizzie long after the song ended — low in her chest, just below the ribs.

Then the album dropped.

Lizzie didn’t plan to listen. She told herself she was too busy — press, auditions, appearances. But late one night, after a silent dinner with Boyd and an argument about something she already forgot, she sat in her car in the driveway. Keys still in the ignition. Phone in her hand.

She opened the album. Hit play.

The first few tracks washed over her like rain on a windshield — soft, emotional, honest. But it was track four that split her open.

Met her once, in a room too loud to hear my own breath

She smiled, and I wondered how many galaxies fit in one look

But her hand was held by time I couldn’t reach

So I left her like a song I couldn’t sing.

The lyrics felt like a confession whispered into her neck.

Lizzie’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. She didn’t cry — not exactly — but something inside her fractured in the quiet way heartbreak sometimes does: without noise, just pressure.

Was that about me?

No way. They’d only spoken once. But she wish it was.

And she wanted to hear it again.

Not just the track — the voice. That voice that had looked her in the eye and called her beautiful like it wasn’t rehearsed. That voice that had respected her boundary without pulling away in bitterness. That voice that had walked away, but not unfeeling.

The following weeks were restless.

She scrolled past headlines about Y/N’s album hitting platinum. Saw photos of her performing live, always in her element, always with a slightly sheepish smile like she wasn’t sure she belonged there. And maybe that’s what Lizzie couldn’t forget — the humility under all that talent. The quiet.

Boyd noticed her distance. Asked if she was stressed. She said yes. Let him hold her at night even when it felt more like an obligation than comfort.

But Y/N’s lyrics kept circling back, looping in her mind in moments she should’ve been focused on something else.

The girl from the party wouldn’t go away.

She stayed in the music.

And slowly, so slowly Lizzie barely noticed it, her relationship with Boyd started to feel like the wrong key for a song she used to love.

---

The breakup with Boyd was quiet.

There were no slammed doors, no teary confrontations, no dramatic exits. Just the slow realization — mutual, almost clinical — that they were done. That whatever they used to reach for in each other was now… gone.

He moved his things out on a Tuesday.

Lizzie changed the sheets the next day, not out of spite, but because she needed the symbolism. A fresh start. Something clean.

She told herself she was fine. She’d been busy. Press tours for Oldboy, meetings for upcoming projects, family visits. But even in the noise of it all, Y/N's voice followed her like a thread.

The album stayed on her phone. And track four — that song — became a kind of quiet ritual. She didn’t talk about it. Didn’t mention it when her sister caught her humming the chorus. She just let it live in the background. Private. Personal.

She didn’t expect to see her again.

But then came Grammy week. The pre-parties. The overcrowded, overhyped social calendar that came with being in the industry — one Lizzie rarely enjoyed but always attended, out of some combination of politeness and professional duty.

This one was in the Hollywood Hills. Warm evening air, strings of lights above polished concrete patios, drinks with fruit she couldn’t pronounce. Agents. Artists. Everyone scanning the room behind the person they were talking to.

Lizzie was halfway through a conversation with someone she barely remembered meeting before when her eyes caught a familiar silhouette near the patio edge.

Y/N.

She stood just outside the main crowd, talking to a producer Lizzie vaguely recognized. A glass in one hand, her other thumb tucked into her pocket. Her suit tonight was deep maroon with black satin lapels, slightly open at the collar. Her hair was a bit longer than before, swept back in a way that made her jawline sharper, her energy smoother.

She looked composed. Calm. Confident, even.

Lizzie didn’t think. She just moved.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just… drawn. She crossed the space between them like someone who’d finally stopped second-guessing.

“Hey,” she said, soft but clear.

Y/N turned — and froze for half a second.

Then came that smile. Like a slow sunrise. “Elizabeth Olsen.”

“Just Lizzie tonight,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Unless you’re mad at me.”

Y/N let out a breath of a laugh, low and warm. “Why would I be? You were honest, and I respect that,” she said genuinely, eyes steady on Lizzie’s.

There was no bitterness. No trace of ego or wounded pride. Just that same quiet grace Lizzie remembered from the first time — the kind that made her feel seen, not sized up.

Still, Lizzie shifted her weight slightly. “Well… I’ve thought about that night.”

Something flickered across Y/N’s face. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” she admitted.

“Same,” Lizzie said. “But then your album came out. Kind of made it hard to forget you.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “You listened to it?”

“I memorized it,” Lizzie confessed, her voice dipping just above a whisper. “Especially track four.”

A pause stretched between them, heavier than the last time. Not awkward — just weighted. Charged.

Y/N looked down for a second, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “That one… that one’s personal.”

Lizzie's voice softened. “About anyone I’d know?”

Y/N met her gaze. Steady now. “About a girl I met at an event. Thought she was magnetic. Said she had a boyfriend.”

Lizzie exhaled — a soft, amused sound. “She doesn’t anymore.”

Y/N’s expression shifted again — less guarded now. More open. Her eyes searched Lizzie’s face like she was making sure this wasn’t a game. Like she wanted to believe it, but wouldn’t let herself just yet.

And maybe that was fair.

Because Lizzie had walked away before. With reason. But still — she had.

So this time, she didn’t wait.

“I don’t want red carpets. I don’t want press. I don’t even need it to be a big deal,” Lizzie said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her black trousers, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. “But if you’d still want to… I’d really like to take that offer on getting drinks.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, that same amused spark flickering behind her eyes. She hummed, dragging the moment out in deliberate, exaggerated thought.

“Hmm…” she said, tapping her chin with theatrical flair. “Let me think. Drinks with the gorgeous Lizzie Olsen… who turned me down once, crushed my fragile singer heart…”

Lizzie rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “Okay, dramatic.”

Y/N grinned wider. “You don’t know the half of it. I almost wrote a sad acoustic trilogy about you.”

“You kind of did.”

“Fair,” Y/N conceded with a wink. “Still, you showing up here, no boyfriend in sight, actually asking me out… I don’t know. I might need a minute to process this emotional rollercoaster.”

Lizzie bit back a smile, relaxing into the banter. “You’ve had four months.”

“And I’ve used them wisely,” Y/N said. “Grew into my heartbreak. Became Billboard’s favorite tragic romantic.”

“You hit number one, didn’t you?”

“Tragedy sells.”

They both laughed then — real, unguarded.

And when it faded, Y/N looked at her again, softer now.

“Yeah,” she said, sincere beneath the teasing. “I’d love to get that drink with you.”

Lizzie’s shoulders dropped the tension she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Good.��

Y/N held out her hand. “Then let’s get out of here. I know a place. No cameras. No crowd.”

Lizzie hesitated just long enough to let her fingers brush Y/N’s before taking her hand fully.

Y/N’s grip was warm, steady — like she wasn’t surprised this was finally happening, like she’d been waiting with quiet patience.

They didn’t make a scene walking out. No dramatic exits. No camera flashes.

Just two women slipping through the crowd unnoticed, away from the noise, toward something that felt a little more real.

Outside, the night was cool, Los Angeles buzz humming in the background. Y/N led them down the sidewalk, still hand in hand, and Lizzie couldn’t stop glancing at her. It was strange — she’d met hundreds of people in this industry, had dozens of conversations that vanished the moment she walked away — but Y/N had stuck. And not just because of her voice or the lyrics that had kept Lizzie company for the last few months.

It was her. Her calm. Her wit. Her gentleness.

“You drive?” Lizzie asked, just to fill the quiet between them.

Y/N smiled. “I do, but Dani wouldn’t let me tonight. Something about me getting recognized at valet and saying something awkward.”

Lizzie laughed lightly. “Is that a regular thing for you?”

“I think Dani just assumes I’m bad at parties. Which… I am. But I’m great at sneaking out of them.”

“Clearly.”

They turned the corner, where a black car idled at the curb. Y/N opened the back door and held it for her.

“I know a little bar in Silver Lake,” she said. “No velvet ropes. No paparazzi. Just a quiet booth and decent drinks.”

“Perfect,” Lizzie said, slipping in.

The drive was easy. Y/N didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She let the space breathe, music low — one of those indie playlists that didn’t scream for attention. Lizzie found herself watching her out of the corner of her eye. Y/N sat relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming against her thigh in rhythm to the beat.

“You always this calm?” Lizzie asked.

Y/N turned slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You caught me on a good day.”

The bar was tucked between a closed vintage shop and a dark café. Low lighting, vinyl booths, wood-paneled walls that probably hadn’t changed since the ‘70s. The bartender nodded at Y/N like they knew her, but didn’t say a word beyond a soft, “Good to see you again.”

They slid into a booth near the back, the kind that let them disappear into the shadows of amber string lights.

“So,” Lizzie said once their drinks arrived. “Are you gonna tell me what Track Four was really about?”

Y/N raised a brow. “You really wanna know?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Y/N stirred her drink once, thoughtful. “It was about… meeting someone who made the room feel different. Who felt real in a place where things gets to be more plastic. But the timing sucked. And I walked away thinking, that’s the kind of person I’d give songs to if the world gave me another shot.”

Lizzie’s throat tightened. She looked down at her drink, then back at her. “You’re dangerously good with words.”

“Comes with the job,” Y/N said, then softer, “Also helps when you mean them.”

Silence wrapped around them again, but it wasn’t awkward. It pulsed with something new — anticipation, gravity, warmth.

Lizzie let herself lean in a little, eyes meeting Y/N’s.

“I’m glad you got another shot.”

Y/N held her gaze, unwavering. “I don’t intend to waste it.”

The booth seemed to shrink around them.

Not from pressure or nerves — just closeness. Something unspoken curled between them, neither of them in a rush to name it.

Lizzie let her fingers trace the edge of her glass. “I have to admit,” she said, “I wasn’t expecting you to be so…”

“So?” Y/N prompted, eyes warm but teasing.

“…Low-key. I don’t know. For someone whose song is literally everywhere, you have this… grounded energy. It’s unfair, really.”

Y/N chuckled, resting her chin in her hand. “I think I’ve spent so much of my life not fitting in, I stopped trying. Now I just aim for peace. Anything that feels like peace, I chase.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” Lizzie murmured, meaning it more than she meant most things she said at events.

Y/N looked at her then — really looked. Not with heat or hunger, but with that same soft interest Lizzie remembered from the first night. Like she was a person worth pausing for.

“Peace doesn’t always look like stillness,” Y/N said after a beat. “Sometimes it walks in wearing a black pantsuit and orders a whiskey sour and makes me forget how bad I am at flirting.”

Lizzie felt herself blush — she hadn’t done that in years. “You’re not that bad.”

“Oh no?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I asked you out the first time and got shut down. That feels like a pretty solid L.”

Lizzie laughed, biting her lip. “You weren’t bad. You were just… honest. And timing was the problem, not you.”

“That’s what everyone says before they disappear for good.”

“I didn’t disappear,” Lizzie said, nudging her shoe lightly against Y/N’s under the table. “I just… rerouted.”

Y/N smiled. “And now?”

“Now,” Lizzie said slowly, “I’m sitting here wondering how I got lucky enough to have a second chance at this.”

---

Later that night, outside the bar…

The air was cooler now, and quieter. The city had begun to fold in on itself.

They walked slowly, neither of them mentioning their cars, their schedules, the fact that the night had become something neither of them planned for.

Y/N’s hands were tucked in her pockets, but every once in a while, they brushed arms — lightly, accidentally on purpose.

Lizzie stole glances. Y/N had that kind of face that changed with the light — sharp lines softened by calm eyes. She wasn’t loud, wasn’t showy. But when she looked at you, you felt seen.

“I thought about messaging you,” Lizzie said, voice low. “After I heard the album.”

Y/N glanced at her. “Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to make it about me. What if I was wrong and it wasn’t about me? Or worse — what if it was, and I missed the window?”

Y/N stopped walking. Gently took Lizzie’s hand. “Hey. If I wrote it, the window wasn’t closed. It was just… waiting.”

Lizzie looked down at their joined hands. It felt like an anchor. Like something real in a sea of fleeting things.

“Would it be crazy if I said this feels good?” Lizzie asked. “Like, too good?”

Y/N smiled. “It doesn’t have to be crazy. It can just be… what it is.”

“Which is?”

“Something worth staying awake for,” Y/N said simply.

---

The street outside Lizzie’s place was dim and still. She turned to face Y/N who had come out of the car to walk her up the stairs.

Y/N didn’t push. Didn’t assume.

So Lizzie took the step.

She leaned in slowly, letting her hand rest gently on Y/N’s chest — over her heart — before brushing the softest kiss across her cheek.

Not rushed. Not claimed.

Just offered.

When she pulled back, Y/N’s eyes were already closed for a beat, then opened with that same slow, sunrise smile.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered.

Lizzie grinned, a little crooked. “So are you.”

Neither of them said good night right away.

But when Lizzie finally opened the door, she turned one last time and said, “Don’t disappear, okay?”

Y/N held her gaze. “Not unless you want me to.”

And Lizzie knew, without question, she didn’t.

---

Lizzie woke before her alarm.

The sun was barely up — a soft gray glow peeking through the curtains, like the world hadn’t fully decided to be awake yet. She blinked against her pillow, slow and calm, her body unusually relaxed.

Then she remembered.

The walk to her door. The warmth in Y/N’s eyes. That last look before Lizzie had stepped inside.

And the text she’d asked for.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a familiar message from the night before.

11:09 p.m. — Y/N:

Made it home. Still smiling, by the way. Sweet dreams, Lizzie.

Lizzie smiled without meaning to. Let the words settle in her chest like a warm drink. She reread the message, then tucked the phone against her chest for a beat before sitting up.

7:42 a.m. — Lizzie:

Glad you got home safe. And that you’re smiling.

I might be too, but I’m blaming the coffee.

She hit send, then padded into the kitchen barefoot, pulling her sweater tight around her shoulders. Coffee was the plan, sure — but distraction was the real goal.

Because her brain wouldn’t shut up.

Y/N’s voice was still in her ears, not singing this time — just talking, low and thoughtful. That dry humor. That look she gave when she was listening to someone like they were the only person in the world.

God, and that smile.

Not movie-star smile. Just… real. Like she meant it.

Lizzie shook her head and poured her coffee like a normal person. No big deal. Just a very grounded, casually giddy morning.

Her phone buzzed.

8:03 a.m. — Y/N:

You’re blaming the coffee? Wow. You wound me.

For the record, I blame you. The girl with the best damn smile in L.A.

Lizzie bit her lip, almost laughing into her mug.

She typed, then retyped.

8:05 a.m. — Lizzie:

Smooth. Is that a lyric in progress?

8:06 a.m. — Y/N:

Not yet. Want to give me more material?

8:06 a.m. — Lizzie:

You trying to flirt with me, rockstar?

8:07 a.m. — Y/N:

Trying? Ouch. I thought I was doing pretty well.

8:07 a.m. — Lizzie:

You are.

She hit send before she could second-guess it.

And for the rest of the morning, Lizzie moved through the world differently.

Lighter. Quieter inside her head. Like something had shifted in her orbit.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t fast.

But it was something.

And she hoped — without quite letting herself admit it — that it was only just beginning.

---

They didn’t see each other for two weeks.

Not for lack of wanting to — just timing. Lizzie was knee-deep in press days and fittings. Y/N was bouncing between studio sessions and late-night rehearsals. LA traffic didn’t help, and neither did the cameras that seemed to wait for Lizzie every time she stepped outside.

But the silence never returned.

They texted. Every day.

Sometimes flirty.

Y/N:

Woke up with a melody stuck in my head. Either it’s genius or it’s your fault.

Lizzie:

If it’s bad, I’m blaming your coffee habits. If it’s good, I accept full credit.

Sometimes soft.

Lizzie:

Long day. Just needed to say hi.

Y/N:

Hi. I’m here.

And sometimes, it was calls. Usually late, when the world had gone quiet.

Y/N’s voice in Lizzie’s ear, soft and familiar. Lizzie’s laugh making Y/N pause mid-sentence just to hear it again.

They talked about nothing at first — music, travel, bad lighting on red carpets — and then everything. What scared them. What surprised them. The weird quiet that came with fame. The ache of always being “on.”

One night, Lizzie said, “I think people forget I’m not my characters.”

Y/N was silent for a second. Then: “I don’t.”

And that stayed with her.

---

The tension never turned impatient. Just… curious. Warm.

It felt like they were building something.

Lizzie started keeping her phone closer. Checked it between takes. Fell asleep with Y/N’s messages still glowing on her screen.

Y/N started writing differently. Slower. More thoughtful. She didn’t say it was because of Lizzie, but her producer raised a brow when she started showing up with lyrics about green eyes and quiet bravery.

They were, in every sense, circling each other. Orbiting. Waiting for time to line up.

And then — finally — it did.

Late Friday. Lizzie had just stepped out of the shower, hair damp, face bare, oversized shirt clinging to her shoulder.

Her phone rang.

Y/N’s name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” Lizzie answered, a smile already blooming.

“You home?” Y/N’s voice was warm but edged with something playful.

Lizzie blinked. “Yeah… why?”

There was a beat. A pause just long enough to quicken her pulse.

“Can you open your front door?”

Lizzie nearly dropped her phone.

She hurried barefoot through the house, heart thudding, and pulled open the door.

And there Y/N was. Leaning casually against the frame, a few takeout bags hanging from her hands.

“Hi,” she said, smiling like the whole week had led to this.

Lizzie stared, stunned for a breath. “You’re— What are you—?”

“You said your favorite Thai place was this little hole-in-the-wall in Los Feliz, right?” Y/N lifted the bag. “I went. I got us enough food for three people because I panicked.”

Lizzie blinked at her, then laughed. It spilled out of her like breath.

“You drove all the way across the city at 8 p.m. on a Friday?”

“I missed your voice,” Y/N said simply. “Figured it might be even better in person.”

Lizzie stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in. Immediately.”

---

Inside, the vibe shifted — from surprise to comfort.

They ate barefoot on Lizzie’s couch, food containers spread out on her coffee table, some forgotten rom-com playing muted in the background. Their conversation picked up like it hadn’t paused. Somewhere between mouthfuls of drunken noodles and red curry, Lizzie leaned her head back and sighed.

“This is the best surprise I’ve had in months.”

“I was nervous,” Y/N admitted, glancing sideways. “Didn’t know if it’d be too much.”

Lizzie turned her head to meet her gaze. “It’s not. It’s perfect.”

Y/N smiled and went quiet for a moment, like she was holding onto something delicate.

Eventually, after the food was picked over and their hands had brushed more than once, Y/N stood to leave.

Lizzie walked her to the door, slower than necessary.

There was a pause there too, one filled with everything neither of them wanted to rush.

“I’m really glad you came,” Lizzie said, her voice soft.

“Me too,” Y/N replied.

Lizzie hesitated just long enough to let her fingers brush Y/N’s before taking her hand fully.

She squeezed Y/N hand once before letting go. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

And she did — just a simple message.

Y/N:

Home safe. Still smiling.

Lizzie stared at it for a long time.

Lizzie:

Me too.

---

They didn’t talk about it the next morning — the handholding, the smile lingering on Lizzie’s lips, or the way she kept checking her phone like Y/N might text again. She did, of course. Just a “Morning :)” and a photo of the empty takeout bag with “proof I didn’t let your curry go to waste” scrawled under it.

They stayed in each other’s orbit that weekend, still texting, still calling — but something had shifted. The silence between them felt different now. Full of yes instead of maybe.

It was Y/N who asked this time.

Y/N:

What are you doing Thursday night?

Lizzie:

Canceling whatever I had.

Y/N:

Don’t cancel. Just... reschedule for something better.

Lizzie:

Better, huh? Confident.

Y/N:

Hopeful.

Y/N showed up just after 6:30.

No driver. No black SUV. Just her own Jeep, windows down, wind in her hair, and a playlist drifting softly through the speakers — hers and a few artists Lizzie had mentioned liking. She wore a deep navy button-down, sleeves casually rolled, her usual rings catching the last of the sun.

“You’re already killing me,” Lizzie said as she slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind her.

Y/N smiled without turning. “I haven’t even started.”

The restaurant was tucked into a quiet stretch of beach, half-hidden behind windswept palms and a weathered wooden sign. It didn’t scream exclusivity. It whispered comfort. The kind of place locals kept to themselves.

Inside, the lighting was warm and dim. Low ceilings. Mismatched chairs. Candles flickering in repurposed glass jars. The ocean was visible through the windows, the horizon blurring into the dusk.

“I used to come here after gigs,” Y/N said as they were led to a quiet corner table. “When no one knew who I was. Still feels like the only place that never changed.”

Lizzie glanced around, then back at her. “I can see why you kept it.”

Dinner was easy. No scripts. No performing. Y/N was quieter than Lizzie expected, but when she did speak — stories about tour buses and bad interviews and how she once accidentally fell asleep during a podcast taping — it made Lizzie laugh with her whole body.

And when Lizzie talked, Y/N listened. Not nodded-along listened. Listened. Like she might take each word home and put music behind it.

After dessert — espresso and a slice of almond cake they split — they walked along the restaurant’s back deck, the sound of the waves folding into their footsteps.

“You always like this on dates?” Lizzie asked, arms folded against the breeze.

Y/N grinned at the ocean. “Not even a little. I usually fumble through half a drink and wish I’d stayed home.”

Lizzie stopped walking, just enough to turn toward her. “You nervous right now?”

Y/N’s smile softened. “Only when I think too much about how pretty you are.”

That earned a blush. A real one.

Lizzie didn’t hide her blush, but she did try to brush it off with a small laugh. “You really know how to time that, don’t you?”

Y/N took a step closer, not pushing — just shifting the air between them.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” she said softly, eyes fixed on Lizzie like she was the only thing that existed on that beach. “And I don’t say them unless I want them remembered.”

Lizzie’s breath caught just slightly. “That sounds like a lyric.”

Y/N’s voice dropped an octave, barely more than a murmur. “Might be. You inspire a few.”

A wave crashed in the distance, soft and slow, and neither of them moved for a moment. Then Y/N extended her hand — not to take, but to offer.

“Walk with me?”

Lizzie slipped her hand into Y/N’s, and this time, there was no brushing. No hesitation.

They walked the curve of the deck until it ended in soft sand. Y/N led them down, the boards creaking beneath their steps before giving way to the cool, shifting beach.

Lizzie shivered as the breeze swept past, and without a word, Y/N let go of her hand only to slip out of her jacket and drape it over Lizzie’s shoulders. She didn’t ask. Didn’t make a show of it. Just did it like it was obvious.

Like it was hers to give.

“Thank you,” Lizzie said, holding it closed. The fabric smelled like her — cedar, clean laundry, and something warm and hard to name.

They stopped where the surf reached just close enough to wet the tips of their shoes. The stars had started to scatter across the sky, reflected faintly in the water.

Y/N turned to face her fully. “I know we’ve both been busy. That it took a while to get here.”

Lizzie looked up, eyes catching the flicker of moonlight in Y/N’s gaze. “Worth the wait.”

That made Y/N smile again — slow, sure, almost cocky. But it softened as she reached up, brushing Lizzie’s hair back behind her ear again, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked, her voice low but certain.

Lizzie didn’t answer with words.

She stepped in, lifted her chin, and closed the space between them.

Y/N met her halfway — firm but unhurried. Confident. Her hand settled against Lizzie’s waist, the other cupping her jaw with delicate pressure. It was a kiss that didn’t ask, didn’t wonder — it simply was.

And Lizzie melted into it.

Everything about Y/N — the way she moved, held her, kissed like she had all the time in the world — made Lizzie feel undone in the safest possible way. Like she could just let go.

When they finally pulled back, Lizzie stayed close, her forehead resting against Y/N’s.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered, breathless.

Y/N’s thumb traced the line of her jaw. “Only in ways you want me to be.”

They stood there for another few minutes, the waves and the stars wrapping around them like a secret. Until Y/N finally murmured:

“Let me drive you home?”

Lizzie nodded, but didn’t move. “Only if you stay a while.”

Y/N’s grin returned — low, knowing, impossibly fond.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

---

The drive back to Lizzie’s was quiet — not from awkwardness, but from comfort. Lizzie’s hand rested in Y/N’s on the center console the entire ride, her thumb tracing slow circles like she was memorizing the feel of her.

When they pulled into the driveway, Lizzie didn’t move right away. Neither did Y/N.

“I’m glad you called tonight,” Lizzie said, finally breaking the silence.

“I was tired of orbiting,” Y/N replied softly. “I wanted to land.”

That earned a smile — tired, warm, full of something bigger than either of them had said aloud.

Inside the house, the air felt different. Not cold, not empty. Just... waiting.

Lizzie slipped off her shoes, watched as Y/N did the same, and then led her into the kitchen.

“Tea?” Lizzie offered. “Or something stronger?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Lizzie reached for the kettle, and Y/N stepped in behind her — not touching, just close enough that Lizzie could feel the heat of her body against her back.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It was presence.

When the mugs were filled and the lights dimmed, they ended up on the couch, legs curled under them, sitting closer than before. The tea went untouched on the table.

“So…” Lizzie began, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “What happens now?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, not kissing her again just yet — but brushing the back of her fingers along Lizzie’s cheek, anchoring her gaze.

“Now I stay awhile. If you want me to.”

Lizzie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Y/N nodded once, then leaned forward and kissed her again — slower this time. Less about need. More about promise.

Lizzie leaned into it, her fingers sliding up to rest at the nape of Y/N’s neck, drawing her closer. Y/N shifted just enough to deepen the kiss, guiding it like she already knew what Lizzie liked — soft pressure, lingering, lips slightly parted like she wanted Lizzie to chase her just a little.

When they pulled apart, both of them breathing heavier, Lizzie’s eyes fluttered open and met hers. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

“I’d like to,” Y/N said, brushing her thumb along Lizzie’s jaw. “But we don’t have to rush anything.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Lizzie said gently. “I just… want you close.”

That, more than anything, seemed to strike something in Y/N. Her expression softened as she nodded.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

They ended up curled together in bed — not tangled, but held. Y/N spooned behind Lizzie, her arm wrapped firmly around her waist, nose tucked into the back of her neck like she belonged there.

And Lizzie, for the first time in months, maybe years, fell asleep with her chest warm and her mind quiet.

---

The Next Morning

Sunlight crept in through the curtains, soft and golden. Lizzie stirred first, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she blinked herself into awareness. She didn’t move right away. She didn’t want to.

Y/N was still asleep behind her, one arm snug around her waist, their bodies molded together like the night hadn’t shifted them at all. Lizzie could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing, warm against the back of her neck. Safe.

She smiled to herself, eyes closing again for a moment, savoring it.

But then — a soft groan. Y/N shifted, tightened her hold briefly, and murmured, “You’re awake, huh?”

“Barely,” Lizzie whispered.

Y/N pressed a slow, feather-light kiss to her shoulder. “I can fix that.”

Lizzie laughed, her voice still sleep-rough. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” Y/N teased.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” Y/N mumbled, and nuzzled into her again.

A minute passed like that — unhurried. Then Lizzie turned in her arms to face her. Y/N blinked, still a little sleep-hazy, and tucked a strand of hair out of Lizzie’s face.

“You sleep okay?” Y/N asked, softer now.

Lizzie nodded. “Better than I have in a long time.”

The look Y/N gave her was quiet, almost reverent. She didn’t say anything right away. Just leaned in and kissed her — short, sweet, and sleepy.

Eventually, they made it out of bed, mostly because Lizzie insisted on making breakfast and Y/N insisted on watching, perched on a barstool in one of Lizzie’s old t-shirts.

The kitchen filled with the scent of coffee and eggs, the kind of domestic calm that felt… significant.

“So,” Lizzie said casually, plating the food. “You’re just going to pretend track four wasn’t about me?”

Y/N paused, then smirked. “Is that what you think?”

“I know it,” Lizzie said, setting her plate down with a raised brow. “Galaxy eyes? Loud room? A girl with a boyfriend?”

“Damn,” Y/N said, laughing as she took a bite. “You really did memorize it.”

Lizzie leaned on the counter, watching her. “You gonna deny it?”

Y/N swallowed, then met her gaze fully. “No. I’m not.”

That silenced them both for a beat.

Then Lizzie smiled — small, full of something she didn’t quite know how to name yet. “Good. I liked that one.”

Y/N’s voice dropped to something sincere. “It was always yours.”

They ate in silence after that. Not awkward — just full. Full of words they weren’t rushing to say, and a comfort they both knew they didn’t want to lose.

Outside, the day was starting. But inside, the world was just the two of them — coffee mugs, shared glances, and a song that had always belonged to Lizzie.

---

A Few Days Later

It hit Lizzie on a quiet Thursday afternoon.

She was back from a costume fitting, sipping tea that had gone cold, half-scrolling, half-daydreaming — when the headline caught her eye.

“Pop’s Golden Girl Off the Market? Y/N Spotted Holding Mystery Woman Close Outside L.A. Lounge”

She clicked before she could stop herself.

There it was. Y/N, surrounded by paparazzi, one arm wrapped tightly around a girl’s shoulders — drawing her into her side like a shield. The woman’s face was turned away, tucked into Y/N’s chest. Y/N’s expression was hard to read beneath her baseball cap, but her body said everything.

Lizzie stared at it too long. Her heart thudded once, deep and unsure.

Because just three nights ago, Lizzie had kissed her.

She’d kissed her with fingers curled in Y/N’s nape, lips tentative at first, then bolder, braver — as if weeks of near-misses and late-night calls had finally found release in one soft, breathless moment. And Y/N had kissed her back like she’d been waiting since the first hello.

They hadn’t said much afterward. Y/N had stayed the night, curled against Lizzie under her quilt, the kind of quiet closeness that spoke more than labels ever could.

So seeing the picture now — the closeness, the protective touch, the optics — felt like ice water.

Her phone buzzed.

Y/N: You probably saw the photo. Can I explain?

Lizzie didn’t respond right away.

She stood up, paced her living room, phone in hand, trying to swallow the ache of uncertainty. Her thumb finally tapped a reply.

Lizzie: Yeah. I’d like that.

The doorbell rang less than a minute later.

She blinked.

Y/N: I’m outside.

Lizzie’s chest tightened. She walked slowly to the door and opened it.

Y/N stood there, cap low, hoodie zipped, but eyes open — completely open. Not defensive. Just… here.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t want to text it,” Y/N said. “Not after… everything.”

Lizzie didn’t move. “She looked close to you.”

“She is,” Y/N nodded. “She’s my cousin. Chloe. She just moved to L.A., and she showed up to the wrong entrance. The paps swarmed, and I—” her voice softened— “I went into big sister mode. That’s all it was. I swear.”

Lizzie studied her, reading the truth in her eyes, and something in her cracked open again.

“I know I don’t have a claim on you,” she murmured.

Y/N stepped in, closer. “You kinda do, though.”

Lizzie blinked.

Y/N cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye. “I didn’t kiss you like that just to have something casual.”

The space between them narrowed.

Y/N leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull away.

Lizzie didn’t.

Their lips met again — not like the first time, not rushed or uncertain — but sure. It was a kiss that felt like an answer, like this is what I choose. Y/N pulled her closer, arms around her waist, deepening it just a little, enough to make Lizzie melt into her.

When they broke apart, Lizzie’s voice was small, hopeful. “So I can call you mine?”

Y/N smiled, forehead resting against hers. “Only if I can call you the same.”

A beat passed, and then Lizzie nodded. “Deal.”

Y/N’s thumb still lingered at the curve of Lizzie’s jaw, her touch steady, grounding. The door shut behind them, and in the quiet hush that followed, something shifted — the space between them, electric and waiting.

“I should’ve called sooner,” Y/N said, her voice low and earnest. “Or warned you. I hate that you had to see that photo like everyone else.”

Lizzie stepped in, close enough for their chests to brush. “I didn’t want to assume anything. But yeah… it messed with my head. Especially after…”

Her words drifted off, but Y/N knew what she meant. Especially after the night we kissed. After you held me in your bed and didn’t let go.

“It’s you, Lizzie,” Y/N said, her hand sliding from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading through the soft hair there. “It’s been you.”

Lizzie tilted her head back to meet her gaze — vulnerable, a little breathless. “Then show me.”

The kiss came hard — not rushed, not clumsy, but hungry. Y/N crashed into her like she couldn’t hold back anymore, her mouth hot and insistent. Lizzie let out a soft gasp as her back hit the door, her fingers clutching at the front of Y/N’s hoodie. Y/N kissed her like she’d been starving for it, like Lizzie was air and water and the only thing she’d ever want again.

Y/N’s hands slid down Lizzie’s sides, gripping her hips, thumbs pressing just beneath the hem of her shirt. Lizzie arched into her, moaning quietly when Y/N bit gently at her bottom lip before soothing it with her tongue.

She was melting — dizzy from the kiss, the warmth between them, the week of wanting that built into a fire now roaring in her chest.

They stumbled toward the couch, barely breaking apart. Y/N sat first and pulled Lizzie into her lap, her hands greedy but careful — thumbs grazing under her shirt, mouth dragging from her lips to her jaw to the hollow of her throat.

“God, I missed you,” Y/N breathed against her skin, voice ragged.

Lizzie’s hands found their way under Y/N’s hoodie, palms splayed over bare skin. “You could’ve fooled me,” she teased breathlessly, hips shifting just enough to draw a groan from Y/N.

“Keep doing that,” Y/N whispered, her voice rough, dark with promise, “and I won’t be able to stop.”

Lizzie kissed her again — slower now, deeper — and smiled against her lips. “Then don’t.”

Lizzie’s kisses didn’t slow.

If anything, they deepened — more intent, more searching. Her fingers brushed under the hem of Y/N’s hoodie again, spreading over warm skin, anchoring herself in the feeling of Y/N’s body beneath hers. Every now and then, her hips shifted — not intentionally, not even consciously — just following the rhythm of want building between them.

Y/N's hands gripped Lizzie's waist, but there was tension now, the kind that wasn’t from desire alone.

She broke the kiss suddenly, breath catching. “Wait—just…” she said, voice strained.

Lizzie froze. Her heart dropped. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Y/N shook her head, eyes closed, jaw tight. She inhaled deeply, like she was trying to ground herself. “No. God, no. It’s not you. You’re just…”

When she trailed off, Lizzie shifted slightly again in her lap to look at her fully—only for Y/N to let out a rough groan, like she’d been punched in the gut.

And that’s when Lizzie felt it — the growing bulge against her thigh. Her breath caught.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly, gaze heavy with frustration and something tender. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Didn’t mean for that to happen. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Hey,” Lizzie said softly, brushing a hand against Y/N’s cheek. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because…” Y/N laughed nervously, head falling back against the couch. “We were just kissing. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take it somewhere without asking. Or that I can’t control myself around you.”

Lizzie blinked, then smiled — genuinely, warmly. “Y/N. I’m literally straddling you. I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

Y/N looked back at her, still a little cautious. “So… you’re not weirded out?”

Lizzie leaned in again, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. “No. I’m flattered.”

Y/N chuckled, exhaling like the weight of the moment had lifted just slightly. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Only to you,” Lizzie whispered, her forehead resting against Y/N’s. “But if you need to slow down, just say the word.”

Y/N nodded, her hands steadying on Lizzie’s hips again. “Not tonight. Not yet. I just want to hold you.”

Lizzie curled in closer, letting her body relax into Y/N’s. “Then hold me.”

And in the quiet, wrapped around each other, they stayed — pulse still fast, hearts still learning this rhythm. But safe. Honest. And slowly falling.

---

Bonus Chapter

Lizzie had slept over at Y/N’s place the night before.

Nothing had happened — not like that — but something had shifted. They’d kissed until the moonlight faded, tangled up in each other under Y/N’s old college blanket, whispering sleepy jokes and quiet things that didn’t feel safe to say in the daylight.

That morning, Y/N had kissed her temple with a low, warm hum. “Quick check-in at the studio. Be back in an hour. There’s coffee and leftovers if you get bored.”

Lizzie stayed wrapped in the oversized hoodie Y/N lent her, curled up on the couch with a mug and her phone. She was halfway through a crossword when she heard the front door open.

No knock. No callout.

Just keys turning and the door swinging wide like someone owned the place.

Who the hell is this!? Lizzie thought to herself 

She set her mug down too hard and stood quickly just as a woman stepped into the apartment — sunglasses on, tote bag slung over her shoulder, like she’d done it a hundred times.

Lizzie froze. Her heart thudded.

The woman paused too, eyebrows lifting as she took Lizzie in.

“Ohhh,” she said, dragging out the syllable like she was amused. “You’re not Postmates.”

Lizzie crossed her arms, subtly adjusting the hoodie sleeves. “No. Who are you?”

The woman raised her sunglasses to her head, revealing familiar eyes. “I’m Chloe. Y/N’s cousin.”

Lizzie blinked.

Chloe.

The name clicked.

The one from the photo.

Oh.

Lizzie’s shoulders relaxed a little. Cousin.

Still, she couldn’t help the flicker of tension. “Sorry, I just… you came in kind of fast.”

Chloe gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. I’ve had a key since before she got famous. Didn’t realize she had company, or I’d have knocked.”

Lizzie gave a tight, polite smile. “It’s okay. I just didn’t expect… anyone.”

Chloe wandered in like she owned the place, her movements easy, familiar. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter, looking at Lizzie with open curiosity. “So. Are you the girl who’s making my cousin smile like a stupid?”

Lizzie blinked, caught somewhere between defensive and bashful. “I—um. I don’t know. Maybe?”

Chloe grinned, clearly entertained. “That’s not a no.”

Lizzie exhaled, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug in her hand. “You’re very… direct.”

“Yup,” Chloe said without apology, cracking open the water and taking a sip. “Family trait. Especially when Y/N gets all weird and dreamy over someone and refuses to give details.”

That made Lizzie perk up. “Wait—she talks about me?”

Chloe tilted her head, smirking. “She doesn’t shut up. But in like, a tragically subtle way. You kind of have to read between the lyrics.”

Lizzie flushed again. “So she’s written about me?”

“God, yes. Green eyes? Quiet bravery?” Chloe leaned forward, one brow raised. “Dead giveaway.”

Lizzie opened her mouth to answer, but the truth caught in her throat—because she knew the lyrics Chloe was talking about. She’d played them on repeat more than once.

Chloe noticed the flicker of emotion on Lizzie’s face and her teasing expression softened.

“Hey… I should probably say this before we go any further.” She shifted her weight, suddenly a little less casual. “I’m sorry about the paparazzi mess. That photo? It blew up way bigger than it was ever supposed to.”

Lizzie blinked, startled by the unexpected apology. “You mean the one of you and Y/N?”

Chloe nodded, wincing a little. “Yeah. I had just gotten out from the wrong entrance and the paps surrounded us immediately. Y/N stepped in, did the whole human shield thing. Classic protector mode. But the angle, the lighting, the timing... it looked like we were on a damn date.”

Lizzie gave a small, understanding laugh, though her voice was still tight. “And the internet went wild.”

“Didn’t help that Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She was trying to keep your name out of the fire, not knowing it’d burn this way instead.”

Lizzie looked down, the memory of those two days — the ache in her chest, the doubt she hadn’t wanted to admit — still sharp around the edges. “I thought it was real. The photo.”

Chloe stepped closer, her tone quieter, more careful now. “I get it. It looked convincing. Hell, if I didn’t know me, I might’ve thought it too. But I swear, there’s nothing between us but childhood trauma and an unhealthy love of spicy ramen.”

Lizzie let out a soft laugh despite herself, the tension loosening a little more. Chloe smiled, then reached for a stool at the kitchen island and plopped down like she’d always belonged there.

“You know,” Chloe added casually, “this reminds me of the time Y/N and her twin tried to sneak out past curfew and ended up locked out in nothing but boxers and mismatched hoodies. It was like watching two feral raccoons fight over a stolen pizza.”

Lizzie blinked. “Wait. Twin?”

Chloe grinned, eyes wide with mock surprise. “Oh my god. She didn’t tell you?”

Before Lizzie could respond, the front door opened, and Y/N walked in with a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a confused frown already forming.

She froze the second she saw them—Lizzie still wrapped in her hoodie, perched on the arm of the couch, and Chloe mid-story, laughing with her mouth full of coffee she definitely hadn’t asked permission to make.

Y/N’s voice came sharp and incredulous. “Chloe.”

Chloe didn’t even flinch. “Y/N.”

“You still have a key?”

“I always have a key.”

Y/N put a hand on her hip. “We talked about this. You can’t just show up like this.”

Chloe sipped her coffee, unimpressed. “You say that every time. Never change the locks though.”

Y/N turned to Lizzie with an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. She’s like a stray cat. You feed her once and she assumes the place is hers.”

But Lizzie was smiling now, clearly amused. “You didn’t tell me you have a twin brother.”

Y/N blinked. “I didn’t?”

Lizzie shook her head, teasing. “Nope. Kind of big info to skip.”

Y/N groaned and shot a look at Chloe. “You told her that story?”

Chloe beamed. “Only the highlights. Don’t worry, I left out the part where your boxers had ducks on them.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Chloe winked, then hopped off the stool and made her way to the door. “Alright, lovebirds. I’ll leave you to your cohabitating. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t—wait, never mind, that list is too short.”

She opened the door and stepped out, calling over her shoulder, “Call me when you’re ready to admit I’m the fun cousin!”

Y/N sighed as the door clicked shut and turned back to Lizzie, who was clearly holding back laughter.

“I really am sorry,” she said, flopping down beside her. “She’s a menace.”

Lizzie leaned her head on Y/N’s shoulder, smiling. “She’s kind of great. But I like you better.”

Y/N smiled, wrapping an arm around her. “Good. Because I’m keeping you.”

"So...Why were you and your brother only wearing hoodies and boxers?" Lizzie asks with a playful smile.

Y/N groaned as she leaned back against the couch, covering her face with one hand. “I can’t believe she told you that story.”

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “And why were you and your brother only in hoodies and boxers?”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head as she settled back into the couch. “Okay, here’s the thing. We thought we were being sosneaky. Tried to sneak out past curfew by climbing over the neighbor’s fence.”

Lizzie’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Uh-oh.”

Y/N groaned again, biting her lip to stop from laughing. “Yeah, well… turns out the neighbors had an alarm system. It went off as soon as we started climbing.”

Lizzie giggled. “Oh no!”

“Exactly. We panicked, tried to hide, but my pants got caught on the fence and ripped as I fell.”

Lizzie covered her mouth, trying to hold back a laugh.

“And that’s how our parents found us—me with my pants ripped off, standing there in my duck boxers, and Jay, my brother, trying to pull me away like I was some kind of escaped convict.”

Lizzie burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Do you still have the duck boxers?”

Y/N peeked at her through her fingers, clearly suffering. “Why would you ask me that?”

Lizzie grinned, smug now. “Because I need to know what I’m working with here.”

Y/N dropped her hand with a dramatic sigh. “First of all, they were comfy. Second, I was sixteen. And third… maybe.”

Lizzie gasped. “You do!”

Y/N tried to play it cool, but her ears were pink. “They’re in a drawer somewhere. For emergencies.”

“What kind of emergency requires duck boxers?” Lizzie teased, nudging her.

“The kind where I want to remind myself never to let Chloe live here again.”

Lizzie laughed, the sound bright and free, and she curled closer into Y/N’s side. “Well, if I ever see them, I expect a full fashion show.”

Y/N looked down at her, faux-serious. “Only if you’re wearing that hoodie again.”

Lizzie smirked. “Deal.”

They sat there like that for a while, tangled up in teasing and warmth — and for once, nothing felt rushed.

---

[purifiedclitoris69]

Safehouse

Summary: Natasha patches you up in a safehouse after a mission goes south. On top of having to stay in such a small place with her after she took care of you, you also now have to deal with the fact that cabin only has one bed. Maybe, just maybe, the close space will help the two of you come to terms with the growing tension between the two of you.

Warnings: light angst at the start and mentions of injury/blood, then all fluff

Word count: 4234 Marvel Masterlist Natasha Masterlist

   The snow crunches beneath Natasha's feet as she kneels down to get a better look at a set of footprints. She can tell by the tread they're yours, and her eyes follow their path into the treeline. She nods to herself, approving of your choice in direction and silently stands and begins to follow along. She was aware that you also knew of the safe house out here, but seeing proof that you had made it out of that mess of a mission and were nearby helped soothe her nerves tremendously. 

   Yes, you could hold your own in a fight, you were a fellow avenger after all. But still she worried about you. It wasn’t always this way, when you first joined the team she was cordial with you and that grew into admiration and later camaraderie. Once she allowed herself to open up to you, the friendship blossomed and the two of you were just as close as she and Clint in no time.

  But there was more than just friendship there. At first she didn’t fully understand her shift in feelings for you. She didn’t understand why she missed your presence so much, why she craved it or your comfort. She didn’t understand why she worried so much when you went on a mission without her, didn’t understand why your mere presence calmed her or why your touch soothed her. But then the realization hit her like a truck a few months ago at one of Tony's parties, and being too afraid of change and rejection, she buries her feelings.   But right now they’re bubbling just below the surface as she rushes to the safehouse, where she’ll hopefully find you waiting for her for your signature soft smile and reassurances that everything will be okay. But that hope dulls as she takes note of the way your tracks have suddenly changed. You're walking slower now, and in a few more steps a limp becomes present. Her brows furrow as she takes in the fact that you must have been hurt on the mission and only now did the adrenaline wear off, letting that be apparent. But then she sees it, blood.

   It starts out as a small occasional drip but as she keeps following your trail the blood becomes more apparent and more in volume. Her heart sinks and she can feel it pounding against her ribcage as she takes off in a steady sprint toward the safehouse and you.

   A fair distance ahead you brace yourself against a tree as you try to gain your bearings. The quietness of the woods now is a stark difference from moments ago when you were in the middle of an ambush, but it doesn't offer you relief, instead you're only filled with dread. Your side aches, and you can feel the warmth of your blood slipping through your fingers as you press your hand against the wound. The wind wips around you wildly and the feeling of fatigue seeps into your bones. 

   You know the safehouse isn't far, but as you keep walking you can feel the lack of energy hit you as pain clouds your senses. Your head starts to spin, and the next thing you know you're stumbling over and falling into a snowbank. You brace yourself against the trunk of a tree and shut your eyes tight in frustration. You can only hope your willpower returns soon, otherwise you'll freeze to death before you even get the chance to bleed out.

    When Natasha sees a form slumped up against a tree ahead of her, her stomach drops, and she prays its not what, or rather who, she thinks. Despite the harsh wind blowing directly against her, she quickly marches forward until she's certain of what she sees

   “Y/n!” she calls out, shouting over the wind, but when you don’t respond, dread grips her, “Hey, Y/n!”

   You're suddenly aware of a presence sinking down beside you in the snow, and your eyes snap open. It takes a minute for things to focus but once they do, relief washes over you. Because there, looking at you with her brows knitted together in worry, was Natasha. And you always knew you were safe with her, no matter the circumstances.   “Hi Tasha” you murmur, still obviously weak, but still the sound of your voice is like music to her   “Hi yourself, now why the hell are you not in the safehouse?”

    You grunt as you shift to show her your injury, “Hydra dickhead got lucky. It slowed me down”

   Her jaw tightens as she sees the blood seeping from between your fingers and she nods resolutely, “Alright, come on then. We gotta get you to cover”   Before you can say anything she's hooking her arms under your armpits and hoisting you to your feet. You sway slightly but she quickly stabilizes you and starts to lead you to the safehouse once more   “It's not far, and it should be fully stocked with supplies still. Unless Clint cleared it out without telling anyone.” she whispers against your ear to ensure she's heard over the wind, “I’ll get you patched up, warmed up and fed”

   You try to ignore the chill you feel as her lips brush against your ear, and you're thankful that your current state can have you covering for the way your knees buckle at having her voice be so close. You just nod at her statement and let her lead you on. Sure enough, within a few minutes, the safe house appears in the distance and you let out a breath of relief.

   Once there Natasha leans you against the building briefly and uses her shoulder to push open the door with a shove. She quickly ushers you inside away from the elements, and now you can see just how small the cabin is. Upon entry you're immediately in an open living room which is only big enough for a couch, a side table and a fireplace, and to the left is the kitchen. It's quite tiny, only consisting of a panty, a sink, some cupboards, a small wood stove and an old fridge. Then in the back past the living room are two doors, which you imagine are the bathroom and bedroom.

   “Come on, there should be supplies in the bathroom” Nat says, bringing you back to your current predicament as she leads you through the small space

   Once in the bathroom, which hardly has enough space for you to both stand without tripping over the toilet or falling into the shower, she leans you up against the sink. She opens the medicine cabinet and starts rooting through it. She grabs a few things and sets them along the sinks edge before glancing at you

   “Get your vest and shirt off”

   “Geez Nat, at least take me out to dinner first” you joke as you move your good arm to shrug off your clothes. You're too busy trying to do that task with only one hand and arm while still keeping pressure on you wound to notice the way her cheeks flush   Finally you get it all off, leaving you standing there in your cargo pants and bra. There's a small glistening trail of blood down to your waistband and soaking into the material, and she can still see it seeping out between your fingers. She stands back up and grabs your hips, positioning you where she needs you in order to fix you up and causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach   She grabs a gauze pad, “Move your hand for me, kotenok(kitten)”   You hesitantly comply, making sure to look away while you do so in order to avoid seeing any more blood loss. You don’t want to risk getting queasy or passing out in this cramped space. She quickly presses the gauze against your side and you let out a small yelp of pain. 

   “I know, I know” She coos, looking at you apologetically, “I’m sorry”   You simply nod and slump against the sink. Standing rigid while tensing your muscles certainly wasn’t helping your pain, though it didn’t really change much with her still pressing on your wound. After a few minutes she pulls the gauze away to check on the blood flow and to both her relief and yours it seems to have stopped. 

   She tosses the bloody bandage into the tiny trash bin and pauses briefly to root around in the one small cupboard next to the sink. Her hand emerges with a washcloth and she turns the hot water on. With the weather and the age of the cabin it's bound to take a bit longer than either of you would like, so she decides to fill the wait and silence 

   “I'm sorry I wasn't there to have your back when this happened” she says, gesturing to your wound as she nervously twists the washcloth, “I should have been there”

   You shake your head in dismissal, “Nat it's not your fault. That mission went to shit fast thanks to our bad intel. We did what we could to get out of there in one piece and that included splitting up.”

   “We shouldn't have split up. If we hadn't, you might've gotten away safely”

   “It's protocol to split up so if captured not all of Shields assets are in one place” you answer nonchalantly, despite knowing you agree with her because God do you always worry when she's on a mission with you but out of your sight, “besides, I'm fine”

   “I don't give a damn about the protocols, and you aren't just an asset. You're a human being, you're my friend, and I….” She cuts herself off and clenches her jaw, “You're not fine. You've likely got a case of mild frostbite, not to mention the obvious stab wound. And if I hadn’t found you when I did you'd probably have hypothermia too.”

   “Danger comes with the job, Natasha. You know that better than most. This is nothing I haven't encountered before or at the very least, trained for” 

   She turns her gaze away and notices the steam coming from the faucet, so she carefully wets the washcloth and brings it to your skin. You reflexively flinch as the hot material touches your still cold skin but she's gentle as she starts to clean you up 

   “You don't get it.” she whispers, standing only inches away from you, “When I saw you slumped against that tree I thought…I thought you were dead”

   “Natasha…”

   “I thought I was going to have to spend however long waiting for shield mourning one of the most important people in my life” she admits as her eyes gloss over slightly

   You stare at her for a moment as you try to find the right words, “I’m sorry. I know if our roles were reversed I would have been terrified seeing you in the snow like that. And if anything ever happened to you I….devastated wouldn’t even begin to cover it”

   Her eyes soften and you notice how some tension seeps from her shoulders, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead she continues to clean your wound and the surrounding area of any blood. Once she's satisfied she tosses the bloody washcloth into the sink and grabs the stitch kit. She readies the needle and stitch thread before looking back up at you

   “This is gonna sting” Without giving you a chance to say anything she uses the needle to pierce your skin and you have to do your best to not jerk at the sensation. Her hand that was bracing itself against your other hip starts to rub soothing circles against your skin as she keeps going, “Im sorry, I’ll be fast”

   You nod and let out a sigh through your nose and try not to focus on the way her fingers feel against your abs, though that basically is all you end up doing anyway. After about a minute she finishes the stitches and sets the remaining supplies aside. She now grabs the antiseptic and another gauze pad. She spreads the antiseptic onto it and puts a bit around the stitches too before she presses the bandage against you

    “Hold that there, kotenok(kitten)” she instructs and you comply. You continue to watch her as she grabs some medical tape. Her hands brush against yours as she secures the the gauze pad to your skin, causing a warmth to fill both your chests, “Okay that should be good, you can let go”

   As you comply you realize just how gentle her tone is with you. Now Natashas tone is known to fluctuate depending on her mood or who she's dealing with, and other than when she first joined shield she's never been cold or detached when talking to you, but this was even softer than her usual with you. It wasn’t unwelcome, just different.

   “Thanks for patching me up Tasha” 

   She glances up at you and a genuine smile crosses her features for the briefest of moments, “Of course, now take this pain killer and come on, there should be some clothes to change into in the bedroom”

    You follow her lead into the room next door, and as she heads for the dresser you take a look at the small space. You had expected two twin beds, or heck maybe even bunk beds, but instead there was a queen bed in the center of the room. The sight fills you with both excitement and dread, because the thought of having Natasha that close, of sleeping beside her, has your pulse picking up its pace

   ���Y/n?” Nat calls out and by the worried look on her face you can tell it wasn’t the first time she called your name

   “Sorry, I’m just tired and the bed just looks really comfortable”

    She smiles at that and hands you some clothes, standard Shield issue, “Get these on and after I make us dinner you can lay down”

   You nod and take the offered clothes she offered and without a second thought you start to take your pants off. Natasha is monetarily distracted by this, but looks away as soon as she catches herself staring. With pink cheeks she turns to the side and begins to take her suit off.

   It doesn't take you long to get out of your mission pants and get the Shield sweatpants on, and once you do you try to get your shirt on. Unfortunately this proves to be rather difficult still with your injury so you glance over at Nat, hoping to ask for assistance. But the words dry up in your mouth as you see her toned back facing you. So instead of standing there ogling her you force yourself to put the shirt on, causing you to hiss in pain

   “Careful kotenok(kitten)” she says as she comes to help you pull it down over your head. Thankfully her own shirt is on now or you likely would have turned as red as her hair, “Let's go grab some food”

   She leads you out to the livingroom and points to the couch, obviously expecting you to sit and relax while she does everything. You open your mouth to protest but the sharp glare she gives you leaves no room for augment so you reluctantly take a seat. Satisfied she moves over to the fireplace and tosses a few of the logs from the holder into it and begins to work on starting a fire. Once it sparks to life she moves over to the small kitchen and starts to root through the small cupboard 

   “Are you sure you don’t need help?” you ask, feeling a bit useless as you stare at the fire

   “I’m sure, besides there's not room for us both in here” she replies, peeking her head around the door, “There's a blanket on the back of the couch if the fire isn’t enough”

   “I’m sure I’ll be fine Tasha” you tell her, despite the small shiver that goes through you. 

   Staying out in the snow as long as you had clearly left you still a bit chilled but you're choosing to ignore that for now. It isn’t terribly uncomfortable, and you don’t want her fussing over you more than she already has. You relax back into the worn couch cushions with a sigh and listen to her softly moving around the kitchen. 

   “Find anything good?”

   “That depends, do you qualify rations as good food?” she retorts

   You shrug your shoulders, “Depends on the ration”

   “How about some macaroni and chilli, with crackers? I can make coffee too”

   “Sounds good to me” you reply, so she grabs the food packets and starts preparing them. 

   It doesn't take long to make and she's soon bringing your coffees to the small coffee table before then joining you on the couch. She hands you one of the ration packets and spoons and sets the cracker packets down on the cushion space between you both, “Dig in”

   “Thanks, it at least smells edible”

    She chuckles, “Lets see how it tastes”

   You both start eating and are surprised to find that it wasn’t as bad as you had anticipated it to be. Sure it wasn’t homemade quality, but it was tasty enough and would at least satisfy you both for now. And the coffee was decent too, it certainly wasn’t any worse than the water downed stuff Shield served in the cafeteria. And it was a welcome way to help you warm up.

   The rest of the meal passes by in content silence, with only the sound of the crackling fire filling the space. Less than an hour ago you were worried you might bleed out in the snow or freeze to death, and now you were enjoying a warm meal. And better yet, it was beside Natasha. It was nice to be able to find such a comfort amid all the chaos this mission brought

    Despite the coffee, once you had finished your rations your eyelids began to droop and you began to settle further back into the couch. Of course Nat notices this out of the corner or her eye and a small smirk forms on her face as she sets her own coffee cup down

   “Come on, let's get you to bed” She says before she helps you to your feet. She then leads you back to the bedroom again, “pick a side”

   Your stomach flutters a bit as you make your way to your preferred side and pull back the blankets. She watches you closely as you climb in, making sure you don’t agitate your wound as you do so. Once you settle in you look at her almost expectantly which has her heart jumping to her throat

   “I’m going to make sure the fire is ready to burn until morning for us and will be under control” she almost mumbles as she points her thumb to the doorway behind her

   “Okay” you nod as you sink down into the mattress

   She smiles at you softly before hurrying off to the living room. She wipes her sweaty palms on her sweatpants before she adds a few more logs to the fire and then she moves the spark guard in place. She tidies up the coffee table and turns off the now buzzing kitchen light before coming back to join you in the bedroom. 

   She finds herself a little relieved that you appear to be dozing off already, and she silently approaches the bed. With all the skill and ease she’d use on a stealth mission she moves the covers and slips in beside you. She lays there rather stiffly at first, afraid to move and disturb you. But you seem pretty soundly asleep so she shifts on her side to face you. She finds the gentle rise and fall of your chest to be quite soothing and lets herself relax further into the mattress. Her gaze then moves to your face and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she sees how content you are

   Just as she's about to let her own eyes close to try sleeping you shift and to her surprise you roll over onto your uninjured side and scoot back towards her. Her breath catches in her throat and her hand instinctively hovers over your hip. She's torn between ignoring her feelings and embracing them. But when you scoot back further and practically press your back into her front she finds her self restraint flying out the window.    

   She lets her arm drape over your midsection, avoiding your injury as her hand rests on your stomach. Her own flutters nervously as she leans forward, letting her face nuzzle into your neck. She breathes in your scent and feels her pulse quicken

   “I’m really glad you're okay” she whispers so softly that you wouldn’t have heard it if she wasn’t right near your ear

   The soft vulnerability of her confession has your own pulse jumping, but you decide to not say or do anything. If she knew you were awake she’d likely panic about having been so close to you and so open, so you allow her to keep believing that you are and simply smile before closing your eyes again

   You wake up the next morning on your back with a weight on your chest that's unfamiliar to you. Your eyes flutter open and you look down to find Natashas head resting against it. Judging by the fact that she was still lying there and her breathing is so steady, she's still sleeping. So you carefully bring your hand to her back and start to softly rub the firm muscles between her shoulderblades. Satisfied that she's shown no signs of waking, you continue to do this all while smiling like a lovesick idiot

   When Natasha wakes up from what was some of the best sleep she's gotten in a long time, she's all too aware of the heartbeat beneath her ear and how her head is gently rising and falling. A faint blush covers her cheeks as she realizes just where she is right now, and how you're not only awake but gently rubbing her. She'd be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying this, but that only embarrassed her more and and honestly scared her. Her thoughts race as she tries to figure out how to get out of this position, but your voice pulls her from her scrambled thoughts

   “I know you're awake” you admit, unintentionally making her tense up. You mentally scold yourself and attempt to soothe her by bringing your one hand to rest on her hip while your hand that had been rubbing her back moves to her head. You softly card your fingers through her hair, lightly scratching her scalp with your fingertips

   She softens in your hold, letting her guard down as she mumbles, “This…this is nice” 

   You can’t help but smile as you reply, “Yeah, it is” 

   She shifts her head enough to glance up at you, and you feel butterflies again. Little do you know those same butterflies are fluttering in her stomach too. She slowly reaches up to cup your cheek, as if she's afraid moving too fast would scare you away, but instead she lets out a sigh as you lean into her palm

   “Maybe…maybe we should do it more often” she muses, still whispering

   “I think we should” you readily agree before getting bold, “And I think we should do something else too”

   Natasha swallows thickly, feeling both excitement and fear build in her because she’s fairly certain she knows your answer before she even asks, “Like what?”

   Your smile turns into a smirk despite the anxiety that's buzzing through you currently, “Like maybe, kiss?”

   For a monet she doesn’t move, she's not even sure she's breathing, but then she sees how sincere you are and sees nothing but hope and dare she say it, love shining in your eyes. So she finds herself leaning up and pressing her lips against yours in a featherlight kiss. Your breath hitches and your hold on her hip tightens, giving her a surge of confidence. The kiss becomes firmer, and she starts to pour her feelings into it, the ones she's still scared to even admit feeling let alone able to say outloud. You practically melt against her and pour your feeling into the kiss as well, until she pulls away

   Her eyes scan your face for any signs of discomfort but she finds none, “I hope you don’t regret that, because I certainly don’t”

   “I could never regret kissing you” you answer without a second thought

   A smile breaks out across her face, it's soft and genuine and so beautiful, “Yeah?”

   Despite her expression you can sense her disbelief and anxiety so you wrap your other arm around her too, “Yeah Tasha”

   She lets out a carefree chuckle that you really hope you get the pleasure of hearing more often, “Good”

   Her lips are on yours again then, soft and sweet as she savors the ability to do this. And you savor it too, and decide then and there that being stuck in this small cabin for however long with her was absolutely going to be worth it. And despite the injury, it might even be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

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

[purifiedclitoris69]

Sharing is caring

Summary: Natasha doesn't like to share.

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

A/N: Thank you to @jujuu23 for reading this before I posted :)

Natasha wanted to have a good day.

But then recruits were stupid, Steve was being annoying about paperwork. And now, this.

Her favorite mug. Gone.

“Did you do this?” is the first thing she says to Sam as he enters the kitchen.

“No, I like the idea of keeping all my fingers”

And precisely then, you walk in.

Newest addition to the team, top of your SHIELD class, expert in weapons, languages and the most delicious desserts. Steve had to enforce a rigurous meal plan when even Bucky gained a good five pounds.

Natasha likes your easy smile, beautiful eyes, and those full lips that can be both alluring and mysterious.

That perfect mouth that is now sipping from none other than Natasha’s mug.

Sam crosses his arms, expecting the Russian to say something. But she stays glued to her spot.

As you enter the room, you feel two sets of eyes on you. The attention makes you falter, but you push through. There’s no place for shyness when you’re an Avenger.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Real nice” Sam says, and you nod, considering if it’s a good idea to address Natasha directly. You still haven’t quiet figured her out. 

“Do I have something on my face? You’re staring”

“No” Natasha rushes to say, before Sam can tell you that you’re holding her mug, the one that made her rip Barnes’ arm off when she saw him using it.  

“You sure? Dirt? Chocolate?”

“Your face is perfect” she hurries to say, and Sam has to cough to hide his laughter 

“Smooth, Romanoff”

“Ok, then. I made coffee and added a little nutmeg. Wanna try it?”

You offer her your mug and she takes it, smiling. 

“This is really good!”

“Finish it. I have to train. I don’t mind sharing” you wink at her, and Natasha has to keep from smiling. She doesn’t like new people knowing she can go soft.

“Can I have some?” Sam steps in.

“No” Natasha cuts him off and you laugh, waving goodbye. 

—

Heroes can save the day, but forget to bring out an extra chair when doing mission debriefings. 

This is the first time the entire team has been on a mission together since you joined, and now the conference room is crowded. There’s no place to sit, except for a small sofa in the back of the room.

That’s where Natasha usually sits, because it gives her a view of everyone. She can read their expressions, guess what they think, take that information to asses what needs to be refined in their team dynamic. 

Right now, though, she’s one of the last people in. The minute she looks at her spot, she sees you, leaning against the sofa, your hand discreetly holding your side.

“Rookie, you’re in Red’s spot” Tony says, walkign right after Natasha. 

She shoots him a murderous glare, but all you do is laugh, trying to stand up without anyone noticing you’re injured.

But Natasha notices.

“We can both sit here” she rushes to say, and you nod, knowing your voice would be strained if you thanked her out loud.

Mission debriefing goes by in a blur, your breathing heavy. 

Natasha is ready to tell Steve to can it, but Tony steps in, and everyone leaves the room.

Everyone except you. 

Natasha can’t leave either, worried about your condition.

“It’s nothing major” you say, knowing why she’s still sitting next to you.

“What is?” she tries to play dumb, but that makes you laugh. You wince after a second, though. “You should go to the Medbay”

“Cracked ribs, that’s all. The doctors won’t be able to fix that either way” you smile at her, but make no effort to move. Natasha stays put too, and you know she’s patient enough to wait it out. “Fine. I’m going”

You expect Natasha to leave for her room once you promise to get checked out. But instead, she follows you.

“Just in case you need something”

The doctors confirm what you already know. Rest, painkillers, no training for a couple of days. What you had missed were a couple of cuts, since you didn’t even change out of your suit until now. A nurse cleans them up and patches you up, but you’re left in nothing but a tank top and your tactical pants. 

Why is the Medbay so damn cold?

When you open the door, Natasha is already waiting, a hoodie in her hands.

“I’ve told them to fix the damn AC a thousand times” is all she says, and you smile, grateful. You struggle when you have to slide the hoodie down your body, and Natasha’s hands are quick to pull the fabric down gently.

“Thank you, Nat”

“Come on, you need your rest” 

Walking back to the living quarters, you can’t help but wonder if she’s being nice out of pity or something else. Whatever it is, you just hope she doesn’t see you as the rookie that screws up during their first group mission.

“You know where to find me, if you need anything” 

You nod, waiting until she walks into her own room to get inside.

The first thing you do in the privacy of your room is enjoy the fact her hoodie is soft, and smells just like Natasha.

You might not give it back to her.

—

Tony’s idea of a party is shut down the next morning. You can guess that Steve is aware of your injuries, as the doctors are required to submit a report.

Still, Stark insists on some team bonding activity and by a miracle, Natasha gets him to agree to movie night.

That’s how you end up in the entertainment room. There’s popcorn, soda, pizza and chocolate. 

Once again, and unbenknowst to you, you end up sitting on the couch Natasha takes up for herself.

“Hey” she walks up to you, vaguely aware that the rest of the team is waiting to see if Natasha asks you to move. “Mind if we share?”

“Not at all!” you say, moving to the side so she can sit. It’s hard to pretend you’re not excited about Natasha’s request. 

Considering she’s always keeping her distance, sharing the couch during movie night seems like a big deal.

“Everyone settled?” Tony asks, his gaze lingering on you two. Natasha glares, so he turns around and starts the movie.

After a couple of minutes, you reach forward to open the pack of M&M’s that no one seems to want. You can’t help the laugh when Natasha reaches for them at the same time.

“We can share these too” you say, handing them to her.

Natasha is trying to pay attention to the movie, but you’re shifting in the couch, sometimes your knee brushing against hers. 

“You’re not eating the green ones” she notices, leaning close to you to not interrupt the movie.

“Oh, shit” you laugh, somehow sensing that Natasha wants to know why. “My brother and I would agree to leave those for last, and then split them. Stupid”

“Wouldn’t want to mess with tradition” she says, separating them. You watch her, holding back a smile.

—

“Y/N’s all packed up and ready to go, right?” Steve says, reading over a file. 

“Yeah, she walked by like five minutes ago. Medics gave clearance” Sam says. “It’s just a recon mission, either way”

They’re going back to reviewing the team’s schedule when Natasha sprints past them.

“Yo, what’s going on?” Sam says, hoping there’s no threat to deal with. Steve is about to walk out as well, when he hears Natasha’s words.

“I’m going with Y/N! How could you be so irresponsible to send her away when she just recovered?”

Captain Rogers decides to hide behind the door, Natasha’s anger making him feel small.

“Alright, have a good one” Sam gives her a thumb up, and the redhead just rolls her eyes. He sighs, going back inside.

Steve stays silent for a second.

“The safe house only has one bed” he says, considering if it’s worth telling Natasha that. "Should we tell her?"

“No, thank you”

—

Recon missions suck. 

There, you said it. Unfortunately, those are the most frequent ones for you, as the newest member of the team and being practically unknown to the general population.

You’re walking to your car, hoping the mission can be done quickly. It’s a day and a half and being alone makes it specially boring. As soon as you open the driver’s door, you find Natasha sitting, smiling up at you.

“Jeez! What are you doing here?”

“Backup. Cap asked me to come last minute” 

“Oh” you get quiet, nodding.

Natasha tries to stay neutral when she notices how your face falls. Did she read into the situation? A part of her thought you liked being around her.

Either way, she can’t back out now. Once you’re settled in the car, Natasha drives out of the Compound, to the small office you’re meant to infiltrate.

“Is… did…?” you mumble a couple of times. Natasha keeps a poker face, waiting for you to speak again. With a sigh, you finally let it out. “Did Steve send you to babysit me? He thinks I screwed up because I got injured, doesn’t he?”

“No, it’s nothing like that” Natasha says, mentally kicking herself for rushing to join you. She didn’t even consider your feelings, too eager to spend time together. “I just didn’t like the idea of you going alone”

“Oh” you say again, this time blushing. Natasha can sense something shifts from your tone alone, so she turns to look at you. Your eyes meet hers and you smile. “Yeah, I was actually thinking how boring it was going to be. So, I’m glad you tagged along” 

“I’m glad too” she says, trying not to smile.

“Let’s see if you keep saying that after I put on my roadtrip playlist”

“Bring it”

Natasha tries to enjoy the songs, though she’ll never tell you that pop music isn’t really her thing. What she does enjoy are the gummies you offer. In your words, road snacks are key to the trip.

As you park close to the safe house, you leave your bag in the living room and then go down to around the corner, checking you have everything you need in your jacket pockets. 

“Wanna go over the plan?” Natasha says, trying to keep calm. It’s just a recon mission. You’ll be fine.

“Bug the conference room for the meeting happening tomorrow. Hack into Russo’s computer and download everything. In and out, easy peasy” 

Natasha nods, and you wink at her.

“If I finish in under 10 minutes you buy me dinner”

“Deal” Natasha says, and she wishes she could tell you she’ll buy you dinner no matter what happens.

You finally go, walking up to the building, strolling casually. As you’re about to reach the doors, a man leaves the office and you snatch his ID to get past the gates.

That’s the easy part. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of people in the hallways still, and the office you’re supposed to infiltrate is at the end of the long corridor.

The conference room should be close to the elevator, so you decide to take a look around. As you approach, you hear voices inside.

It will be difficult to bug a room with other people in it.

Looking around, aware that you’ll be suspicious if you just stand there, you think of a way out.

And then you spot the distraction you need.

Well, whatever it takes to get the mission done.

—

Natasha finds a cafeteria that is across the office, and she gets to sit by the window, looking out as you skilfully snatch the ID from someone who’s leaving.

Standard time for a mission like that should be under fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, the man whose ID you stole is coming back exactly five minutes later. 

Natasha’s not sure if he forgot something, or if he noticed he was missing his ID and decided to return for it. The fact of the matter is that if someone notices you used it to get inside, you’ll be in trouble.

She suddenly wishes you had a comm with you so she could help out. Hell, if the man keeps talking to security, Natasha will find a way to make a scene and distract them long enough to get you out.

Just as she’s about to stand up, one of the cleaning staff walks out and hands over the ID. Did you notice what happened and dropped it? Were you still inside? You didn’t need the ID to exit the building, but still.

The man takes his ID, and walks back inside. 

It’s been nine minutes. Natasha will give you five more before she intervenes.

She’s so focused on looking out the window that she misses the moment you step inside the restaurant, and sit in front of her.

“What…? “ the redhead does a doble take, and you take great pride in that.

“Janitor’s closet, grabbed one of their uniforms. Nobody questions cleaning staff”

You pass her the USB, smiling at her shocked expression.

“And you gave him back his ID, as if you weren’t the one who took it”

“All under ten minutes. You know what that means?”

“Of course. Let’s check the menu” Natasha says, smiling at you.

After ordering a couple of cheeseburgers, you read over the desserts.

“We could share a brownie” you say, holding back a smile. You’ve noticed Natasha has a sweet tooth, and is less than inclined to share her food, especially if it’s a dessert.

“Sure” she says after a beat, and you clear your throat, speaking after the waitress leaves.

“You know, I can handle rejection”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m the youngest of three. I’m used to people telling me to leave their things alone” you say, smiling at her. “If I’m bothering you…”

“I don’t mind sharing” she cuts you off, her shoulders tense. It’s a bit uncomfortable for her to be vulnerable like this. “Not when I’m sharing with you” 

“Oh” you blush, biting your lip. The way her words affect you make Natasha regain some of her confidence. 

“How come you didn’t want to do a recon?”

“I don’t know. I like group missions. Or at least going with someone else. Like I said, I have siblings and I guess being around the team makes me feel like at home”

“Well, I like them because I can take a break from everyone. But that’s just because I’ve been dealing with those boys for years now” she laughs.

“Yeah, I get it. It can feel like a frat house sometimes. Let’s have girls night, no boys allowed” you joke, but perk up a second later. “Wait! That actually sounds fun. Oh my Gosh, we could go to the movies, or a museum, or dinner…”

“Sounds like a date to me” Natasha interrupts your rambling, pleased when you play with your hands.

“Yeah. That could be a date” 

Once the food arrives, you eat and chat. Natasha does agree to sharing dessert, which makes your heart melt a little at the gesture.

The last part of the mission is supposed to happen tomorrow, when a couple of shady businessmen meet at the building you infiltrated. All you have to do is sit and take pictures of whoever walks in, so intelligence can run background checks.

After dinner, you head back to the small apartment. For the first time since you arrived, you walk past the entrance to check the space.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asks when you come back, fiddling with your hands.

“There’s only one bed”

“Oh”

“You can totally take it, the couch looks fine…”

“No, you’re still recovering, I’ll sleep on the couch”

Natasha and you speak over the other for a few minutes until your voices die down and you stare at each other.

“We could share?” you suggest.

“Ok” Natasha nods, trying to pretend it’s not a big deal.

But when you change into an oversized t-shirt (no shorts because you truly thought you’d be alone here), and lie down in the small bed, your heart is practically beating out of your chest. 

“You ok?” Natasha says, trying not to move.

You give up with a sigh, turning on your side and moving closer, until you’re inches apart.

“Just need to sleep on my side. And I usually hug a pillow. Don’t ask me why, I just do”

“Well… here” Natasha moves even closer, taking your arm. She places it around her waist, and pulls you closer. Your breath hitches for a second, but Natasha smiles reassuringly. “Is this better?”

“Yes”

As a matter of fact, it’s the best sleep either one of you has gotten in years.

—

You’re not in the mood for parties.

But that’s never stopped Tony before.

After waking up cuddling Natasha, (and barely completing the mission because you didn’t want to leave bed) you were eager to ask her out, or have her ask you out. Whichever was fine by you.

But as soon as you parked the car, Cap was waiting with a frown and a big file.

“We leave in an hour” he said, only to Natasha.

Apparently, this was going to be a very demanding mission, and Cap didn’t want you pushing yourself.

So, Natasha, Sam and Steve had been gone for a few days now.

Tony was mildly disappointed, but this was Pepper’s birthday party and he wasn’t about to call it off for a few working Avengers.

Still, you try to cheer up and put on a good face, mainly for Pepper. You’re not sure she really wanted this big of a party, but she seems happy enough.

Most of the people attending are from Stark Industries, so you try to blend in and speak to some of them.

“Hey, do you work in legal?” a young blonde asks when you go get another drink.

“Oh, no, definitely not”

“Thought I knew you. I’m in HR”

“Fun” you say, but the tone you use makes her laugh. Before you can do anything, she changes seats and moves closer to you.

“I’m Sasha”

Reluctantly, you give your name. Even after the bartender hands over another glass of Chardonnay, Sasha keeps talking to you, though she doesn’t really care if you work at Stark Industries or not. After your third glass of wine, you begin to relax, and say a couple of jokes that make her laugh a little too loud.

She’s definitely flirting.

“Wanna take this conversation somewhere else?” she asks and you look around.

“I think I need some air…”

“We could…”

But she doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because Natasha is by your side in an instant. Little drops of water wet your shoulder as she approaches you, having rushed from the shower to see you.

“Hey, detka. Having fun without me?”

“You’re home!” you shout, excited at seeing her again.

“I am. Come on, let’s go to the balcony” she says, taking your hand. You’re halfway there when you remember Sasha, and try to turn back to say goodbye.

“I don’t want to be rude”

“And I said I like to share with you, not share you” 

“Oh” you blush at that, and stay silent as Natasha drags you out of the party. 

“Was that too much?” she asks when you finally get to the balcony.

“No. I just drank too fast and I’m happy to see you” you say, your hands going around her shoulders. 

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Natasha holds your waist and pulls you closer to her.

“I’m happy to see you too” she leans her forehead against yours. “And about that date…”

“Yeah, I’m up for it” you confirm with a nod. Your faces are inches apart, and Natasha  can tell you’re sneaking small glances at her lips.

“As for other stuff…” 

“Mhm” you hum, aware that she’s leaning forward. You let her lips meet yours, and the kiss is short but tender. “Will this date have more of these?”

“Hell, yeah” she nods, making you laugh.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Can’t wait” she nods, kissing you again.

Unfortunately, you’re interrupted by Sam, who is sporting a shit eating grin.

“Anything you two wanna share with the team?”

“No” you answer at the same time.

Some things, are meant to stay between you two. 

[purifiedclitoris69]

Craving What We Shouldn’t - Part 4

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: Y/N gets a little popular and Wanda gets jealous.

Word Count: 6,458

Warnings: High school AU, Fluff, jealousy, mention of smut, forbidden romance, step-siblings, reader has a penis, mutual pining, secret relationship, 

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

A few weeks later, everything had settled into a steady rhythm for them.

School felt normal—at least, as normal as it could be when you were in love with your secret girlfriend who also happened to be your step-sister. They were careful. They had their routine. Sneaky kisses, weekend dates, science room make-outs, and Pietro’s silent support. Everything felt under control.

Until PE class.

Y/N wasn’t the sporty type—or at least that’s what everyone thought. She usually stayed in the back during gym, laughing with Nat and Carol, barely listening when the teacher barked orders. No one expected anything different that day.

But Coach had clearly had enough.

“Y/N! Since you’re so talkative today, how about you join Team B?” she barked from across the court.

Y/N groaned but stood anyway, dragging her feet toward the court while Nat smirked and Carol whistled.

Wanda was already on Team A, stretching lazily and half-watching as Y/N took off her hoodie. Her tank top clung to her body just enough to show the muscle definition on her arms, and when she reached up to tie her hair back, the flash of skin above her waistband made Wanda’s breath hitch.

She blinked, her eyes glued.

And then Y/N moved.

She wasn’t just decent—she was damn good. Fast, smooth, confident. She made passes with ease and landed her shots like she’d been doing this forever. Her teammates began to cheer her on, and murmurs quickly spread around the gym.

“Wait, why is she actually hot?”

“Look at her arms... damn.”

“She’s like... stupid good at this.”

Then, Wanda’s stomach twisted when she caught the next whispers coming from a group of girls near the bleachers:

“I heard she’s intersex.”

“Oh my god, really?”

“Yeah, and that tight shorts look hot on her. I bet she’s big.”

Wanda’s blood boiled.

Her eyes snapped to the girls, jaw clenched, face flushed. They were giggling, biting their lips, blatantly watching Y/N run across the court—watching her in a way that made Wanda feel like screaming.

She had felt Y/N under her. She knew what they were talking about. And yeah—Y/N was big. But it wasn’t for them to know. It wasn’t for them to imagine. It was for her. Only her.

Y/N made a final shot, sinking it effortlessly before the whistle blew.

Cheers erupted.

And Wanda stood still, arms folded, her expression unreadable—but inside she was fuming. Possessive. Burning with the urge to drag Y/N into a locker room and remind her who she belonged to.

Y/N caught her eye from across the court and smirked, her cheeks flushed and her chest rising with heavy breaths. She gave Wanda a little wave, proud of herself.

Wanda raised an eyebrow in response, lips pursed, tilting her head in that silent “We’ll talk later” expression.

Because Wanda Maximoff was jealous.

And no one got to fantasize about her girl.

Not without consequences.

---

As soon as the whistle blew and class ended, Y/N jogged over to the benches to grab her water bottle, still grinning and a little breathless from the game. She looked radiant—sweaty, flushed, hair a mess, but glowing with confidence.

She didn’t even have time to fully catch her breath before Wanda was suddenly in front of her.

“Hey—” Y/N started, but Wanda grabbed her wrist.

“We need to talk. Now,” she said, her voice low and tight.

Y/N blinked. “Um. Okay?”

Wanda didn’t wait for a reply—she tugged her by the hand and led her straight out of the gym, past the lockers and into the empty girls’ restroom nearby. The second the door closed behind them, Wanda turned, eyes blazing.

“You were driving me insane out there,” she hissed, her voice low, eyes blazing. “Do you even realize what those girls were saying about you?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk already forming. “Let me guess—compliments?”

“They were talking about what’s mine,” Wanda snapped, grabbing the front of Y/N’s tank. “Like they have the right to even imagine touching you.”

Before Y/N could respond, Wanda crashed her lips against hers, desperate and heated. The kiss deepened quickly, Wanda’s frustration pouring into every brush of her mouth. Her hands slid down Y/N’s sides, possessive, and when one of them dipped lower—cupping between her legs—she froze.

Y/N was already hard.

Wanda pulled back just slightly, eyes narrowing. “Seriously?” she whispered, a little breathless but clearly annoyed. “Did you get hard because of them?”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Wha—no. Wanda, no.” She reached down, guiding Wanda’s hand gently and pressing it more firmly against herself. “This is because of you. The way you’re kissing me. The way you’re touching me.”

Wanda’s breath caught, her hand still pressed there, her cheeks flushing red.

Y/N leaned in close, voice low and full of quiet affection. “This is yours, baby. All of it.” She gave Wanda’s hand a soft squeeze through her own body. “And when you’re ready… you can have it. Anytime you want. But we don’t have to rush.”

Wanda looked up at her, lips parted slightly, heart pounding in her chest.

The jealousy melted away, replaced by something softer—something deeper. She leaned her forehead against Y/N’s, letting out a shaky breath.

“I hate how much I want you sometimes,” she whispered.

Y/N smiled. “Good. Because I want you just as much.”

Just as their breathing started to slow, the loud bzzzt of the bell echoed through the gym halls.

Y/N exhaled, her head thudding gently back against the wall. “Great timing,” she muttered, jaw tight as she tried to shift away slightly. But she was still visibly hard, and there was no way she could walk out like that.

Wanda took one look and bit her lip, trying not to smile. “You okay?”

“Not unless you plan on helping me sneak out with a book bag in front of me.”

Wanda chuckled softly and stepped in closer, looping her arms loosely around Y/N’s waist. “Then we wait. I’m not leaving you like this. You’ll cause a riot in the hallway.”

Y/N groaned and hid her face in Wanda’s shoulder. “God, don’t say that.”

They stood there in silence for a few minutes, Wanda rubbing soft circles on Y/N’s back, her fingers occasionally grazing teasingly at the waistband of her shorts—just enough to make Y/N groan again and whisper “Wanda, stop.”

Wanda smirked, pressing a kiss behind her ear. “What? Just keeping my girl company.”

Y/N gave her a playful glare. “You’re evil.”

“And you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” Y/N said, a smile tugging at her lips.

Eventually, when it was safe—and when Y/N was no longer risking public scandal—they left the bathroom, hand brushing hand as they slipped quietly into the hallway, unnoticed.

But to them, it didn’t matter if anyone saw.

They had each other.

---

That night, everything was quiet in the house.

The kind of quiet that made the walls feel still and the air feel heavier with the weight of unspoken thoughts.

Y/N lay in bed, scrolling halfheartedly through her phone when she heard the faintest *creak* of her bedroom door. She looked up, and there she was—Wanda, wearing one of Y/N’s oversized hoodies, her hair slightly messy from sleep, eyes soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

She didn’t say a word.

She just padded across the room and slipped into the bed beside her, curling into Y/N’s chest like she belonged there.

Y/N smiled instantly, setting her phone down and wrapping her arms around Wanda. It felt so natural now. Like this was their default.

“You okay?” she whispered against Wanda’s hair.

Wanda nodded, quiet for a beat before she spoke again, her voice so soft it barely carried between them.

“I’ve been thinking…” She ran her fingers slowly over the front of Y/N’s shirt, feeling the steady beat of her heart. “All day. About earlier.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Wanda looked up, her green eyes full of something vulnerable, but sure. “I’m ready.”

Y/N blinked. “Wanda…”

“I know we said we’d wait,” she continued gently, “but I’ve been thinking about it. Not just the physical part. You. Us.” She touched her fingers to Y/N’s jaw, tracing the line of it slowly. “I want to give myself to you. Because I trust you. Because I love you.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She cupped Wanda’s cheek, kissing her softly. Tenderly.

“Baby,” she murmured. “Not tonight, okay?”

Wanda didn’t look hurt—just curious. “Why?”

Y/N smiled gently. “Because we’re home. Our parents are literally down the hall. I want our first time to be just us. No risk. No interruptions. Somewhere we don’t have to hold back.”

Wanda paused, then nodded, pressing her forehead to Y/N’s. “Okay.”

They didn’t say much after that.

They just lay there, limbs tangled, hearts beating in time.

And even though nothing happened that night, something still changed between them. A quiet promise. A deeper trust.

A knowing.

They were getting closer.

And when the time was right, they’d be ready—together.

---

The next day at school, Wanda was on edge.

It started in the hallway.

She’d just shut her locker when she heard them—two girls from the year below, giggling by the water fountain.

“Have you seen Y/N today?” one whispered. “That shirt—God. She looks insane.”

“I know, right? It should be illegal to look that hot before second period.”

Wanda’s jaw clenched.

She kept walking, trying to ignore it. But it didn’t stop.

In the cafeteria, it was worse. Another table of girls whispering, giggling behind their hands as Y/N passed by with a tray.

One of them even said, not quietly enough, “Do you think the rumors are true? That she’s intersex? Because honestly... she can ruin me either way.”

Wanda nearly dropped her fork.

She couldn’t stand it—not because Y/N wasn’t beautiful. Not because she didn’t deserve to be admired. But because Wanda couldn’t say anything.

She couldn’t roll her eyes and wrap an arm around her girlfriend’s waist. Couldn’t grab her by the collar and kiss her just to shut everyone up.

Because to the world, they were just step-sisters.

And every time someone else said Y/N’s name with that kind of tone, Wanda’s chest tightened with jealousy she couldn’t voice.

She sat stiffly at the cheerleaders’ table, her lunch untouched, eyes following Y/N across the room. Y/N, who had no idea how hard it was for Wanda to stay still when all she wanted to do was *claim* her.

It wasn’t fair.

Y/N was hers.

And Wanda hated pretending she wasn’t.

---

At lunch, Y/N sat with Nat and Carol, her friends who had a habit of teasing her, but today, it was different. Today, it felt like the attention wasn’t coming from the usual playful banter—today, it felt more pointed.

“So, looks like you’ve got a fan club now,” Carol grinned, nudging Y/N with her elbow as a group of girls giggled from a few tables over. “Heard they were talking about you after PE.”

Y/N didn’t like it. She really didn’t. Not only because she wasn’t used to being the center of attention like this but because it felt... wrong. Those whispers were not about her as a person, not about who she really was. They were just about her appearance, about the way she looked in those shorts during the game. And it wasn’t even the first time she'd caught whispers like that.

"Yeah, seriously," Nat added, her eyes flicking over to the girls talking about Y/N. "What was that all about, huh? You just spiked the ball, and suddenly, everyone’s got a thing for you?”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the sound of their whispers digging into her skin.

"I don’t know," she muttered, pushing her tray aside, unable to eat. The teasing wasn’t fun anymore. Not when it was wrapped up in things she didn’t want to be known for. "It’s just annoying."

Carol smirked, clearly amused by Y/N’s discomfort. “Oh, come on. You look good, Y/N. I think everyone can see it.”

Y/N clenched her jaw. She hated how they were framing it, like it was all about her looks, not about the game or who she really was. She wanted to tell them how it felt, how their words didn’t hit her the way they thought they did. But instead, all that came out was a tight, fake smile.

“Whatever,” Y/N muttered, running a hand through her hair. "I’m not interested in any of it."

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Are you still with the mystery girl?”

Carol chimed in, her voice teasing, “The one who makes you smile like a stupid when you’re looking at your phone?”

Y/N felt her face heat up at the mention of Wanda, a blush spreading across her cheeks. The way Nat and Carol were talking made it feel like her entire world was on display. She didn’t want to share Wanda with anyone, especially not when their relationship was still a secret.

“I—uh…” Y/N faltered, unsure how to respond. She didn’t want to hide Wanda from them, but she also didn’t want to deal with their teasing. “I’m not talking about it, alright?”

Nat and Carol exchanged looks, both of them smiling like they were in on some kind of inside joke.

“Ohhh,” Carol teased. “I see. You’re serious about her, huh?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, trying to avoid making eye contact with them. She couldn’t tell them the truth. Not yet. "I'm not in the mood for this today."

Without waiting for them to respond, Y/N stood up abruptly. "I’m going for a walk."

Before Nat or Carol could react, she was already walking away, her heart pounding in her chest. The words from earlier lingered in her mind like a storm cloud. It was like they were watching her, seeing through her walls. She needed a break, a moment to breathe. A moment where she could be alone with her thoughts.

What she needed more than anything was Wanda.

---

The rest of the day didn’t get any easier.

Y/N couldn’t walk down a hallway without hearing whispers, couldn’t open her locker without finding another folded note or phone number slipped between her books. It felt like the whole school was suddenly obsessed with her—and not in a way that made her feel seen, but like she was being watched, picked apart.

And Wanda noticed.

She didn’t say a word on the drive home. Didn’t look at Y/N. Didn’t respond when she tried to lighten the mood or even just ask if she was okay.

Y/N knew that silence. It wasn’t cold—it was burning.

Wanda didn’t talk to her during dinner. Didn’t text her after. Didn’t sneak glances across the living room while their parents watched a movie. She was quiet. Distant. And Y/N hated it.

But late that night, when the house had fallen completely silent, Y/N stirred awake at the creak of her door opening. Wanda slipped inside like a shadow and closed it gently behind her. She didn’t say anything. She just walked over, climbed onto the bed—and straddled Y/N’s hips.

Her lips crashed against Y/N’s with unspoken need, hungry and desperate, and Y/N barely had time to react before Wanda was kissing her deeper, harder. Her hands slid into Y/N’s hair, and she pressed herself down, grinding her hips into Y/N’s slowly, deliberately.

Y/N’s breath hitched, and she could feel herself hardening beneath her, almost instantly. Wanda clearly felt it too, because she let out a quiet, possessive sound against her mouth and pressed down harder, rubbing herself over the growing bulge.

“Wanda…” Y/N whispered, but her voice was swallowed by another kiss.

Wanda’s mouth moved to Y/N’s neck, and she sucked there—slow, intense, leaving a mark that wasn’t subtle. Something permanent, something that said mine.

Y/N’s hands gripped her hips, holding her there, trying to catch her breath. “Are you okay?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away. She kept moving, lips trailing across Y/N’s jaw, hands tangled in her shirt.

“You’re mine,” she finally murmured, her voice hoarse and low. “I don’t care what they say. I don’t care who looks. But they don’t get to touch you. They don’t get to know you like this.”

Y/N cupped Wanda’s cheek gently, trying to slow her. “No one else wants to. Just you.”

Wanda stared at her a moment—eyes stormy, lips parted—and then leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time. Tender. Bruised with emotion.

And they stayed like that for a long time, tangled up in each other, until the heat gave way to something quieter. Wanda eventually curled up beside her, head resting over Y/N’s heart, the possessiveness softening into something vulnerable.

She didn’t need to say sorry. Y/N already knew.

---

Wanda stirred first, her fingers curling into Y/N’s shirt as she pressed a soft kiss to her chest. Y/N opened her eyes slowly, already smiling before she even registered the warmth beside her.

“Morning,” Y/N whispered, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Hi,” Wanda whispered back, eyes sleepy, cheeks pink. She looked completely at peace.

They stayed like that for a while—nose brushes, whispered giggles, soft kisses traded under the covers. It was easy to forget the world when they were like this. Just two girls in love, wrapped up in each other.

By the time they got ready for school, Y/N didn’t even think to check the mirror before heading out.

But Wanda noticed the second they reached the school parking lot.

The mark she’d left on Y/N’s neck.

“Oops,” Wanda mumbled, biting her lip with a sly smile.

Y/N glanced in the mirror and blinked. The hickey was dark, very visible against her skin—and very obviously from someone’s mouth. Specifically, Wanda’s.

Too late to hide it now. Good thing their parents were already gone for work.

As they walked into school, a wave of silence followed them like a ripple in still water. Conversations halted. Heads turned. Whispers buzzed just under the surface. Every eye seemed to clock the mark.

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t bother covering it. Wanda walked beside her, looking smug and unbothered—until they had to separate, and Y/N joined her friends.

Nat was the first to notice. “Damn, someone had fun last night.”

Carol leaned in, eyes wide. “Is that… a hickey?”

Y/N rubbed the back of her neck, grumbling. “Shut up.”

Nat snorted. “So… mystery girl’s claiming her territory now, huh?”

“She left her signature,” Carol teased. “Respect.”

Y/N could feel her ears burning, but when she looked across the hall and saw Wanda smiling at her with that soft, knowing look, all the teasing faded into background noise.

As long as her Wanda was happy, she could handle a little attention. A few whispers. Even the teasing.

---

One crisp Friday afternoon, things had finally settled down at school. The gossip had quieted, the stares had softened, and Y/N could finally walk the halls without being bombarded with whispers or phone numbers slipped into her locker. Wanda seemed more relaxed too—happier, lighter. They had found a rhythm in their secret, a quiet kind of bliss that only they shared.

That evening, Y/N met up with Nat and Carol at their usual spot downtown. They grabbed smoothies, strolled down the sidewalk aimlessly, and ended up lounging on the bleachers behind the school, just the three of them under the early stars.

It was peaceful—until Nat broke the silence with her usual bluntness.

“So… mystery girl is Wanda, isn’t it?”

Y/N froze mid-sip, eyes flicking between the two girls. Carol was already smirking, like she knew they’d finally cornered her.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Carol said, nudging her. “We’ve known for a while. You think we didn’t notice how you look at her?”

Nat added, “Or how she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching?”

Y/N’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her throat felt tight.

Carol leaned back on her elbows. “We figured it out when you two had that tension after the Tony party. And the almost kiss? Yeah, we saw that.”

Y/N rubbed her hand over her face. “You guys knew all this time?”

“We suspected,” Nat said, softer this time. “But we didn’t want to push. Honestly? We’re just glad she makes you happy.”

“Really happy,” Carol grinned. “Like stupidly-smiling-at-your-phone happy.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, but her heart swelled too. “It’s not just… a thing, you know? It’s real. It’s her.”

Nat gave her a nod. “We know.”

“And we’re with you,” Carol said. “Step-siblings or not, that doesn’t change what you felt *before.* It’s not wrong. It’s just complicated.”

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Nat said, bumping her shoulder. “Now tell us—did she *really* leave that hickey on purpose?”

Y/N groaned, but smiled. “You have no idea.”

---

That night, when Y/N got home, she found Wanda curled up in her bed already—pretending to scroll on her phone but clearly waiting for her. Her hair was messy from showering, her bare legs tangled in the blanket, one of Y/N’s hoodies swallowing her frame. She looked up as soon as Y/N walked in.

“Hey,” Wanda greeted softly. “How was it with your friends?”

Y/N closed the door behind her, dropped her bag on the floor, and crawled into bed beside her. She didn’t say anything right away, just nestled close and let his fingers brush Wanda’s thigh over the blanket.

Wanda turned to look at her more closely. “What is it?”

“They know,” Y/N said quietly. “Nat and Carol. About us.”

Wanda froze. “What? How—”

“They figured it out a while ago,” Y/N interrupted gently. “They saw the way we look at each other. The kiss before we even knew we were gonna be stepsiblings. And apparently, I’m really bad at hiding how much I love you.”

Wanda sat up a little, her brows furrowing. “What did they say?”

Y/N smiled. “They said they’re happy for me. For us. That it’s real. That it doesn’t matter we became siblings after. That it’s complicated, not wrong.”

Wanda’s face softened. “They really said that?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. And they’re right.”

Wanda was quiet for a second, lips pressed together as emotion built behind her eyes. Then she leaned down and kissed Y/N slowly, almost reverently.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “I was so scared… That we’d lose everything if people found out. That people would think I’m disgusting for loving you.”

Y/N sat up and cupped her cheek. “But you’re not. And you’re not alone.”

Wanda rested her forehead against Y/N’s. “You told them you love me?”

Y/N grinned. “It kind of slipped out.”

Wanda bit her lip and smiled through the tears brimming in her eyes. “Good. Because I love you too. So much it scares me.”

They stayed tangled up in each other’s arms, warm under the covers and safe in their little corner of the world—one where, slowly, they didn’t have to hide everything anymore.

---

The morning light filtered through the blinds, soft and golden. Y/N woke first. Wanda was still asleep, her face buried against Y/N’s chest, one leg thrown lazily over her hip. She looked peaceful in a way Y/N hadn’t seen in weeks—no furrow in her brow, no trace of the anxiety that usually haunted her features.

Y/N reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair from Wanda’s face. God, she was beautiful. Dangerous, messy, complicated—but beautiful.

And she was hers.

At least here, in this room, in the quiet corners of their hidden world.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the moment. Carefully, trying not to wake Wanda, she reached for it.

Carol: “Brunch? Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. Just need mimosas and gossip.”

Y/N smirked. She typed back:

“Only if you’re buying. And Nat better behave.”

Another message came in right away.

“No promises. Bring your girl if you want. Or don’t. Your call.”

Y/N stared at the screen for a second. Then she set it down and looked at Wanda again.

She didn’t want to rush her. Wanda had been through enough—years of pretending, of hiding her heart, of doing what was expected of her. Y/N wouldn’t add pressure on top of that.

Still… it was nice to know they weren’t completely alone in this.

A sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Who was that?”

Wanda blinked up at her, still half-asleep.

“Carol,” Y/N said, brushing her thumb along Wanda’s arm. “She wants to go to brunch.”

“Just you?”

“Yeah. She said I could bring you if I wanted. But no pressure.”

Wanda yawned and tucked her face back into Y/N’s chest. “Mmm. Not ready for that.”

“I figured,” Y/N murmured, kissing the top of her head. “You don’t have to be.”

They laid there in silence for a while, letting the minutes stretch.

Then Wanda’s voice, softer this time:

“Do you ever think about what’ll happen when people do find out?”

Y/N hesitated. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“And?” Wanda pulled back just enough to look up at her.

Y/N met her eyes. “I think… it’ll be hard. And messy. People won’t understand. But I also think… I don’t care. Because I love you.”

Wanda’s breath hitched. Her eyes searched Y/N’s face, looking for doubt. She found none.

She swallowed. “I love you too.”

And just like that, it felt easier to breathe.

---

Y/N’s POV

The diner was one of those local joints that hadn’t changed since 1997—red vinyl booths, faded photos on the wall, and a jukebox that only played songs older than everyone in the room. The food wasn’t great, but it was cheap, and nobody’s parents came here. That made it perfect.

Carol waved Y/N over the moment she stepped through the door, a smirk already tugging at the corner of her mouth. Nat was sitting across from her, sipping a chocolate milkshake like she didn’t have murder in her eyes.

Y/N slid into the booth beside Carol, tugging her hoodie tighter around her body. Her hair was still a little damp from her rushed shower, and she had barely remembered to grab her phone and wallet.

“You’re late,” Nat said, giving her the usual deadpan stare.

“I was asleep,” Y/N replied with a shrug. “Sorry for not leaping out of bed the moment your royal highness summoned me.”

Carol snorted. “You mean you were busy having a secret sleepover with your forbidden girlfriend.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Carol—”

“I didn’t say who.” Carol raised her hands innocently. “But you’re glowing. You literally look like someone who just made out with a Greek goddess and then cuddled for eight hours straight.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just stared at the menu, though she knew it by heart. Nat set her milkshake down and leaned forward.

“You guys aren’t telling your parents yet, are you?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. We’re not telling anyone. Not officially.”

Carol looked between them. “Good. Not because you should be ashamed—but because people suck. Especially adults. And *especially* adults who think they know what’s best for you.”

Nat nodded. “They’ll try to make it about themselves. Twist it into something it’s not. You two deserve better than that.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. It was weird, hearing support. Real support. The kind that didn’t come with strings or guilt.

“I don’t know how long we can keep it a secret,” she admitted. “It’s hard. Being with her in private, and then pretending like we’re just classmates when we’re around everyone else…”

“Yeah, well,” Carol said, reaching for a fry from Nat’s plate, “high school’s a temporary hellscape. Love is a little less temporary, if you’re lucky.”

Y/N finally looked up. “You think we’ll be okay?”

Nat met her eyes, serious for once. “If she loves you the way you love her? Yeah. You’ll survive this.”

Y/N’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “That’s surprisingly optimistic coming from you.”

“I’m not always a cynic,” Nat said. “Sometimes I believe in stupid things. Like love. And waffles.”

Carol grinned. “Speaking of—let’s order before my blood sugar crashes and I start crying.”

Y/N laughed, for real this time. And for a moment, the tension slipped off her shoulders. Maybe everything wasn’t perfect. Maybe it was going to get worse before it got better.

But she had friends who cared.

And somewhere across town, Wanda was probably still in her bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like Y/N’s shampoo.

That had to count for something.

Carol took the last fry from Nat’s plate, ignoring the death glare she got in return, and leaned across the table like she was about to interrogate a suspect.

“So,” she said, “how long has *this* been going on? And don’t lie—we’re legally bonded by brunch trust.”

Y/N blinked. “Brunch trust isn’t a real thing.”

“It is now,” Carol shot back. “Spill it.”

Nat rested her chin in her hand, clearly intrigued. “Yeah. Start from the beginning. The *real* beginning.”

Y/N hesitated, stirring her orange juice with the straw even though it didn’t need stirring. “We… kissed. The first time? Back in May. After debate practice. We weren’t even supposed to be alone.”

Carol’s eyebrows practically flew off her face. “May?! That’s—months ago! That's even before the wedding of your parents! You’ve been sneaking around that long?”

Y/N groaned and slumped in the booth. “No. We didn't actually talk about the kiss after that.”

Carol’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what? You kissed and then just didn’t talk about it?”

Y/N sank lower in her seat. “It was… complicated. I thought it meant something. But she panicked. Said it was a mistake.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything yet.

Y/N kept going, the words tumbling out now that the dam had cracked. “She avoided me after that. For weeks. Then at the wedding—my mom’s wedding—she showed up with her family, all smiles and pretending nothing had happened. But she kept looking at me like… like she couldn’t breathe.”

Carol snorted into her soda. “That’s so her.”

Nat finally spoke. “So when did it become a thing again?”

Y/N looked down at her lap. “When we started living together.”

Carol leaned forward. “And then?”

Y/N smiled faintly. “We tried to avoid for our parents sake. But didn't work, and then she kissed me again. This time she didn’t run.”

Nat blinked slowly, processing. “Wow. Okay. So she’s… what, your girlfriend now?”

“Yes...I asked her a few weeks ago” Y/N hesitated. 

Carol clutched her chest like she’d just been shot. “You asked her? Y/N, the queen of dodging feelings? I need this moment framed.”

Nat smirked. “I thought hell would freeze before you made the first move.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. 

Nat’s smirk softened into something warmer. “So now what? You’re together, sneaking around, living in a house where your mom and her dad who just got married can’t know about it?”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s hard. We leave notes in each other’s notebooks. We meet in the laundry room like it’s some kind of spy mission. Sometimes she sneaks into my room after everyone’s asleep just so we can fall asleep together.”

Carol grinned. “You two are so dramatic. I love it.”

“She makes me feel like I’m not hiding anymore,” Y/N admitted, voice quieter now. “Like I don’t have to pretend with her. Even if we can’t be out in the open yet, when we’re together… it feels real. Safe.”

Nat reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Carol raised her glass again. “To love. And to secret laundry room meetings.”

Y/N clinked her glass with theirs, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

She didn’t know what the future held. But for the first time in a long time, she knew she wasn’t facing it alone.

---

AT NIGHT

The house was quiet—finally. After hours of polite laughter and clinking silverware and pretending she wasn’t checking the time every five minutes, Y/N lay in bed, her bedroom dark except for the faint streetlight glow slipping through the blinds.

She was scrolling on her phone, trying not to reread the same text Wanda had sent two hours ago: 

“Dinner’s almost over. I miss you.” 

Short. Sweet. Dangerous.

Then—click.

The soft creak of her bedroom door.

Y/N sat up immediately, heart picking up.

Wanda slipped inside, closing the door behind her like a secret. She was wearing one of Y/N’s oversized hoodies—black, soft, too long on her—and socks that muffled her footsteps as she padded across the room.

Y/N barely had time to whisper, “Hey,” before Wanda crawled onto the bed like she belonged there—because she did—and wrapped her arms around Y/N’s middle, burying her face in her shoulder.

“I missed you,” Wanda mumbled, voice sleepy, muffled, and raw. “You were gone all day.”

Y/N smiled into her hair, holding her tight. “I asked if you wanted to come. And you told me to go.”

“I know what I said.” Wanda peeked up at her with a pout.

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair away from Wanda’s face. “Carol and Nat kept grilling me about us.”

Wanda groaned and flopped back dramatically onto the pillow beside her. “Let me guess. Carol said we were dramatic?”

“Verbatim,” Y/N chuckled.

They laid there for a moment, their legs tangled together, quiet stretching between them like silk. Wanda sighed and rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand.

“I hate pretending,” she said softly. “At the table, I kept wanting to reach under and hold your hand.”

Y/N turned to face her. “You did enough pretending last year. You don’t have to pretend with me anymore.”

Wanda’s gaze flickered to Y/N’s lips, then back to her eyes. “I know. That’s why I missed you so much today. Because when I’m not near you, it feels like I go back to holding my breath.”

Y/N leaned forward and kissed her—soft, slow, like a promise. “Then stay.”

“I was already planning to,” Wanda whispered, curling closer.

Y/N reached over to turn off the lamp. The room dipped into near darkness, filled only with the sound of their breathing and the occasional creak of the old house settling.

Wanda’s fingers found hers under the blanket, locking together naturally.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Y/N murmured.

Wanda kissed her knuckles. “Goodnight. Don’t let me oversleep and make it obvious I was here.”

Y/N smiled. “I won’t. Probably.”

Wanda giggled quietly, then leaned in, brushing her nose against Y/N’s. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I really missed you.”

Y/N’s voice was a whisper. “I missed you too.”

And then, without hesitation, Wanda closed the small distance between them and kissed her—gentle, warm, and lingering.

When they pulled back, Y/N was smiling in the dark.

“Okay,” Wanda mumbled, snuggling into her again, clearly trying to hide her blush. “Now I can sleep.”

Y/N wrapped her arms around her. “Then sleep, baby.”

They drifted off like that—tangled in each other, lips still tingling from the kiss, hearts beating in sync.

---

A Week Later

The rain outside tapped gently against the windowpane, a soft rhythm that filled the quiet of Y/N’s bedroom. The door was closed, the lights dimmed to a low, golden hue that barely reached the corners of the room. Wanda sat cross-legged on the edge of Y/N’s bed, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the hem of her sweater—Y/N’s sweater, really. It still smelled like them.

Y/N stood near the desk, pretending to scroll through something on their phone, but their eyes kept drifting to her. Wanda caught them once and smiled. That quiet, dangerous smile that said she knew what they were thinking—because she was thinking it too.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Wanda murmured, tilting her head. “Everything okay?”

Y/N hesitated, then set the phone down and crossed the room slowly, their gaze never leaving hers. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About?”

Y/N sat beside her, knees brushing. “Us.”

Wanda’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. She turned slightly to face them, her green eyes scanning their features. “Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” Y/N reached for her hand, their fingers brushing over hers like they were testing how much closeness they could get away with. “But I’ve been thinking about how little time we get like this. Just... you and me. No interruptions. No doors we have to lock. No pretending we’re just step-siblings.”

Wanda didn’t look away. She squeezed Y/N’s hand gently, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think about that all the time.”

There was a pause—heavy with meaning, but tender.

Then Y/N took a breath and said softly, “What if we could get away for a while, this weekend?”

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly, and she leaned back just enough to see Y/N’s face clearly. “A weekend trip?”

Y/N nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind Wanda’s ear. “Yeah. Just us. Somewhere quiet. Maybe the lake house Nat’s aunt offered me before. No step-sibling dynamics. No school. No gossip. Just you and me.”

Wanda's expression softened even more. “You’ve been planning this?”

“A little,” Y/N admitted. “I didn’t want to pressure you, especially after last time. But I thought… maybe we could use a few days where we don’t have to pretend. Where we can be together without the world watching.”

Wanda stayed quiet for a moment, then let out a breathy laugh. “You’re serious.”

Y/N smiled and laced their fingers together. “Completely.”

Wanda nodded slowly, then leaned in again, their foreheads brushing. “I want that too,” she whispered. “More than anything.”

Y/N grinned. “So it’s a yes?”

“It’s a hell yes,” Wanda murmured, kissing her again—slow and full of promise.

There was a sharp knock on the door, followed by the sound of it creaking open. Wanda instantly pulled back, her breath catching in her throat, while Y/N scrambled upright, quickly sitting on the edge of the bed and pretending like they’d just been talking about schoolwork or something equally innocent.

“Y/N, can I borrow your charger?” Y/N’s mom asked casually as she stepped just halfway into the room.

Y/N cleared her throat, glancing toward the nightstand. “Uh, yeah. It’s right there. The white one.”

Her mom smiled, grabbing it without noticing the pink flush on both girls’ faces. “Thanks, sweetie. Wanda, your dad’s looking for you, by the way. Something about the groceries.”

Wanda nodded quickly, already standing. “Right. I’ll go help.”

“Okay, goodnight, girls.” Her mom gave them a warm smile, none the wiser, and closed the door behind her.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Y/N exhaled. “That was close.”

Wanda leaned in, smirking despite her still-racing heart. “Too close.”

Y/N chuckled. “Maybe we do need that weekend trip sooner than later.”

Wanda kissed her cheek quickly before slipping toward the door. “Good. Because now I’m counting the days.”

---

Let me know what you guys think!

[purifiedclitoris69]

Cool Off

Natasha Romanoff x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: A hot-headed, cocky pyrokinetic Avenger struggles to control their powers—and the growing tension with Natasha Romanoff.

You weren’t born a hero. Hell, you’re still not sure you want to be one. But somewhere between the burning buildings and the broken bones, you became something they couldn’t ignore.

Your powers showed up early—violent, untamed, and triggered by rage. One minute you were a kid being cornered by people who thought they could hurt you, the next you were standing in the middle of an inferno, untouched, heart pounding, hands still glowing. You didn’t cry. You didn’t apologize. You liked the power.

As you grew, so did the fire. So did the attitude. You learned to own it—your temper, your heat, the way flames lick at your skin like they know you. People called you dangerous, reckless, impulsive. You called it survival. Eventually, you stopped flinching when they whispered “monster.” You started smirking instead.

Now you’re the walking wildfire of the team—hot-headed, loud-mouthed, and impossible to ignore. You talk big because you can back it up. No one wants to spar with you in the training room. You’ve melted more than one combat dummy and set off multiple fire alarms just breathing too hard.

And yeah, you’re cocky. Arrogant, even. But beneath the fire and the biting sarcasm, there’s something else. A need to protect. A need to matter. You’ll never admit it out loud, but these people—this dysfunctional team of weirdos and warriors—they’re the closest thing you’ve ever had to a family.

You’d burn the world down for them.

All they had to do was light the match.

Being part of the Avengers means being part of a dysfunctional family—emphasis on dysfunction. You’re the chaos in the calm, the match everyone forgot was lit until the whole room’s up in smoke. The team keeps calling you a “loose cannon”, which is ironic considering you’re also the one they call when things go really sideways.

You get on everyone’s nerves, but they’d be lying if they said they didn’t love you.

Steve tries to keep you in check. Keyword: tries. He’s constantly telling you to “watch your temper” or “think before you act,” and you just grin and ask if he wants you to knit a sweater and write in cursive next. He lectures, you roast him, but there’s a weird father-figure comfort in the way he never gives up on you—even when you’re blowing holes through the training room walls.

Sam? He’s your sparring partner and your verbal sparring partner. The two of you bicker like siblings on a long car ride. You steal his food, call him Birdbrain, and he threatens to throw you off the Quinjet every time. But if anyone outside the team ever looked at you the wrong way, Sam would be the first to step between you and danger

Clint is your partner-in-crime. You once dared him to shoot an arrow through a flaming hoop you made mid-air. He did it. You high-fived. Nat screamed. It was a great day.

Bruce is wary of you. Understandably. He says you “remind him of a bad day.” But he respects your strength and sometimes lets you hang around when he’s working in the lab. You don’t push him, and in return, he gives you space when the fire under your skin starts burning too hot.

Wanda gets it. She sees the fire in your head as well as the one in your fists. You two share a quiet understanding beneath all the sarcasm. She’s the one who talks you down when your temper edges toward dangerous. You never admit it out loud, but sometimes when the nightmares come, it’s her voice that helps you breathe.

Tony loves the fire. It’s entertaining to him, he can’t comprehend how dangerous it is to fuel. Always matching your sarcastic remarks or commenting on the guests that leave your room. Sometimes you think he lives to see you react—burn.

And then there’s Natasha.

Your dynamic with Natasha is… complicated.

From day one, the two of you clashed. She’s ice; you’re fire. She’s calculated; you’re impulsive. She walks into a room and sizes it up like a chessboard. You? You kick the door open and set the board on fire just to see how the pieces scatter.

She says you’re a headache. You call her uptight. She rolls her eyes when you flirt, and you flirt harder. It’s almost a game now—this push and pull, this unspoken dare between you.

You call her Natty, just to get under her skin. You wink at her in briefings, lean too close when you’re teasing, whisper “You love me, admit it,” like it’s a joke. She scoffs, mutters something sharp, and walks away before anyone sees the corner of her mouth twitching up.

But beneath her cold exterior and your loud bravado, there’s something simmering—something that neither of you touches directly. You feel it when her eyes linger too long after a mission, when she patches you up in silence and her fingers hover just a second longer than they need to. You feel it in the rare moments she lets you see behind her walls, and it terrifies you more than any fire ever could.

She gets on your nerves. You get under her skin. And yet, when everything’s falling apart, she’s the one you find standing beside you—silent, steady, and always watching your back.

Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s danger. Maybe it’s both.

But whatever it is, it burns.

———

You weren’t exactly recruited—you were contained.

After your powers triggered a four-alarm inferno in downtown Berlin during a run-in with a mercenary crew, SHIELD made a call. Fury showed up, grim as ever, and gave you two options: be a weapon for someone else, or learn how to control your fire with people who won’t flinch when you burn.

You chose the Avengers.

It’s been six months. Six long months of testing your limits, pissing off Rogers, burning through reinforced training mats, and learning that your powers don’t just react to anger—they thrive in it.

And Tony? God, Tony’s made it his life mission to poke the metaphorical bear.

———

You’re in the hangar, fresh out of a debrief that felt more like a public execution. Tony wouldn’t shut up about the “scorch marks” you left on the Quinjet floor, and Fury went off about “restraint, discipline, collateral damage, Wildfire, damn it!”

Your fists are clenched. Smoke rises off your skin in thin wisps, heat radiating off you in thick waves. The air itself wavers around you.

Everyone else had the sense to leave, but Natasha?

She leans against a crate a few feet away, arms crossed, like she’s watching a particularly unimpressive fireworks display.

“You done throwing your tantrum?” she asks, arching a brow.

You whip around. “Back off, Romanoff.”

“Original,” she mutters. “You burn a hole in the floor again and Fury’s going to tan your ass.”

“I said back off,” you growl, eyes flickering orange. The fire is crawling up your arms now, licking your shoulders. You’re shaking. The control you’ve spent months building is crumbling fast.

Natasha doesn’t move.

“Breathe,” she says, quietly now. “Unless you want to turn this place into a kiln.”

“Don’t pretend you care,” you snap, voice cracked with heat. “You’re just waiting for me to slip up so you can say I told you so.”

“Oh yeah,” she says dryly, pushing off the crate and walking toward you, unbothered by the scorched floor or the way your body temperature is climbing. “I live for watching your emotional meltdowns. Better than Netflix.”

You laugh once, sharp and bitter. “God, you’re such a—”

But then she’s closer. Her voice drops, no longer playful, but not unkind either.

“Look. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re about to come apart. To be the weapon everyone expects to misfire.”

Her eyes search yours—calm, sharp, unsettlingly gentle.

“You don’t have to prove anything. Not to Stark. Not to Fury. And sure as hell not to me.”

Your breath hitches. The fire falters, sputters, confused. You blink and realize you’ve been trembling. Not with rage. With fear.

You don’t even notice your knees give out until she catches you.

Not gently, but not coldly either—just… present. Strong. Real. Her arms steady you, her touch cooler than your skin, grounding like ice on a burn.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, your voice cracking.

“No, you’re boiling over.” She smirks faintly. “Shocking, I know.”

You snort, half-laughing through a breathless exhale. “You really know how to comfort someone.”

“It’s a talent,” she says. “Now come on. Let’s get you cooled off before you burn off your eyebrows again.”

You look at her—really look. And in her expression, under the teasing and the sarcasm, there’s something soft. Something vulnerable. Something that mirrors the mess inside you.

You’ve always flirted with her, joked and prodded and pushed—but this is the first time it feels dangerously real

And maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one who’s afraid of what happens if that fire ever turns inward—if the two of you stop fighting it.

You’re still shaking, the fire inside you reduced to embers that stubbornly cling to your skin like static. Natasha doesn’t say much as she guides you through the compound—hand on your arm, firm and warm, a silent anchor.

You expect her to take you to medical, or maybe one of the training rooms. But instead, she wordlessly leads you down the hall toward the Avengers’ private lap pool, tucked away behind reinforced glass and sterile white tile.

She flicks the lights on. They hum softly as the water glows a cool, blue-green.

“Strip,” she says, already kicking off her boots.

You blink. “Wow. Should’ve lost control sooner.”

She glares. “Don’t flatter yourself, Wildfire. You’re a human flamethrower and you need to cool off.”

Still, there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth—half-smirk, half-internal war. You mutter something about bossy redheads and peel off your shirt. Your skin’s flushed, your chest still rising too fast. The moment your feet touch the water, your body sighs—like the fire inside you exhales all at once.

Natasha doesn’t cannonball or dive. Of course not. She slips into the water like it’s part of her, all grace and calculated movements. She ends up floating beside you, eyes half-lidded, arms spread over the surface like she’s waiting for the silence to say what neither of you has.

“So,” she finally says, voice softer than you expect, “you wanna tell me what that was about?”

You shrug, eyes trained on the pool tiles. “Tony pushed. Fury barked. I snapped. What else is new?”

“That’s not all of it.”

Your jaw tightens. “I’ve spent most of my life being afraid of what I am. People flinch when they look at me. I get too angry and I become this… thing.” You swallow. “And part of me likes it. The heat, the power. It scares me, and I think it scares them too. I’m not like you, Nat. I can’t hide what I am.”

She watches you for a long moment before speaking.

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to be turned into something you didn’t ask to be?” Her voice is low. “I spent years being shaped into a weapon. Made to bury who I was. Smile when ordered. Kill when told.”

You turn your head, meet her eyes. She’s close now—close enough to feel the ripple of her breath across the water.

“I see the way you fight it,” she continues. “The way you laugh and push people away before they can do it first. It’s not just heat you’re holding back.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet. But something softens in you.

“I didn’t think you noticed,” you finally say.

Natasha tilts her head. “I notice everything.”

You chuckle under your breath. “Of course you do.”

There’s a long pause. The water moves between you in gentle waves.

Then you say it, quieter than anything you’ve said during your time with the team.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

She blinks. That cool composure falters for half a second—cracked, not shattered. She glances away like the admission struck something unguarded in her.

“That’s dangerous talk,” she says, voice a little too even. “Especially from someone who lights up like a damn matchstick.”

You smirk. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

Silence again. This time, heavier. More charged.

She shifts closer, and now you’re inches apart—warmth meeting warmth, though the pool should be cooling you both. Her eyes flick down to your lips, just once, before she glances away, guarded again.

“You don’t scare me,” she murmurs.

You blink. “Why not?”

She looks at you, expression unreadable. “Because I’ve danced with fire before.”

Your breath hitches. But neither of you leans in. Not yet.

Instead, you float there in the quiet tension—words unspoken, feelings barely contained—letting the water carry what the fire left behind.

For once, you don’t feel like you’re about to burn the world down.

You just feel seen. The silence between you stretches on, taut and electric.

She’s still watching you from beneath those long lashes, eyes dark in the soft shimmer of the pool lights. That unreadable expression—cool, controlled, calculating—is starting to crack. You see it in the way her fingers twitch in the water, in how her mouth parts like she wants to say something but won’t.

You move first.

Not because you’re bold—but because you’re done pretending.

Your hand brushes her arm under the water. Testing. She doesn’t move.

Then you shift closer, and your voice is nothing but a whisper:

“Say something, Romanoff.”

She meets your eyes. Her voice is low, rough. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I say what I want to say…” Her pupils flare with something raw. “I’m not going to be able to stop.”

You inhale sharply. “Then don’t stop.”

And just like that, the match ignites.

She surges forward, closing the space between you with a force you don’t expect—but crave. Her hand grips the back of your neck, the other splashing up water as it finds your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. And then—

She kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s not hesitant.

It’s devastating.

Mouths colliding in a desperate tangle of months of tension and biting sarcasm and flirtation that meant too much. Her lips are hot against yours, her body pressed to yours like she’s trying to erase the space that ever existed between you.

You groan into her mouth, hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against you in the water. She lets you. She wants it. You can feel the shiver roll through her as your fingers splay across the small of her back.

Her legs wrap around you before you even register it, and the heat between you has nothing to do with your powers now. Your heart is pounding. You feel like you’re burning alive again, but this time it’s not dangerous—it’s hers.

When she finally pulls back, your foreheads rest together, breath ragged, water rippling wildly around you both.

You whisper, “So, uh… that was…”

“Shut up,” she breathes, lips brushing yours again.

And then she kisses you again—slower this time, but no less intense. A confession written in the way she leans into you. A vow hidden in the way her thumb traces your cheek under the water.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like a weapon.

You just feel wanted.

And when she finally whispers your name against your lips like it’s a secret—barely audible, almost reverent—you realize you’re already undone.

[purifiedclitoris69]

Come Home

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Mercenary fem!Reader

Summary: You finally come home from a long mission with Yelena to free another widow from the Red Room's control, littered with bruises from a drawn-out fight. After tending to your wounds, you and Natasha share a soft moment in the silence.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, non-graphic wounds, mentions of blood.

Word Count: 833

AN: First ever work on this blog! It's a short one, but I'm finally getting back into writing after half a decade away from it :>

The slamming of the door, something that would have had Natasha reaching for the pistol strapped under the coffee table in her youth, signalled nothing more than your irritated return as she paused the movie she had been watching. Before she got the chance to put the remote back down, a pair of arms wrapped their way over her shoulders, your chin coming to rest on the crown of her head, as a long sigh winded its way out of your lungs. 

“How was Canada?” She spoke, tone gentle as to not disturb the quiet moment that had formed between the two of you.

You muttered an incomprehensible answer, shifting to bury your face in crimson hair, hands holding tighter as she swivelled in your grip to face you fully. A short breath left her lips as she took in the bruise over your left eye, her gaze raking down your face, down to a hand-shaped splatter of blood covering your throat, the red hue tainting the collar of the ancient, grey, SHIELD issue shirt you sported.

She stood wordlessly, grasping a hand that she now noticed was equally spotted with blood, and led you to the kitchen, gently shoving you onto one of the barstools that rested against the kitchen island while socked feet padded over to the bathroom in search of the first aid kit that the two of you kept well stocked.

Nat peeked her head around the corner of the doorframe as she heard muffled curses, looking back at your perched form to see you struggling to lift your bloodied shirt over your head, arms flailing in sleeves that bunched around the biceps. With a low chuckle, she silently shuffled over, kit in hand, before setting it down on the counter and reaching out to slow frantic movements.

“Let me,” she muttered, hands slipping up bruised skin to life the shirt from your form, revealing scrapes and bruises from a violent life led, “What happened here?” she questioned, fingers skirting over a particularly nasty bruise over your ribs.

“Y’know, you guys could’ve warned me that the red room taught you how to kick like a goddamn kangaroo. That widow almost sent me off of the damn roof with that one” you chuckled, brushing your hand over the aforementioned bruise as you watched her open the zipper and pull out a tube of ointment and a couple of rolls of bandages.

“Kangaroo? Really? I would’ve taken you for more of a Jackie Chan girl, honestly.” She mused, popping open the cap of an antiseptic bottle to clean out a particularly nasty gash on your arm.

You shook your head with a smile, gritting your teeth at the sting of antiseptic before glancing back up at her, meeting a thoughtful gaze.

“You got her though, right?” She worried, eyes flitting back to your battered torso, guilt clouding over her features for a moment before she schooled them, unrolling a roll of bandages to cover the gauze pad she’d placed over the wound.

You nodded, leaning back against the counter as you spoke. “Yeah, Lena caught her trying to head down the fire escape and freed her.”

She hummed noncommittally, focused eyes raking over her work. Bandages wrapped around your ribs, bruises with ice packs held over them with cold fingers. “You should’ve let me help you, then maybe you wouldn’t-”

“Hey. I knew what I signed up for when you and Yelena asked me to help free the rest of the widows. And god knows you’ve already got your hands full with all the Avengers shit you’ve got going on. I can deal with a few bruises and scrapes here and there if it means keeping the world off your shoulders, Nat.” You spoke, hands sweeping to rest over hers.

“Plus I’m pretty sure Yelena would kill me if I took away our sister-in-law bonding time.” you said with a grin, head lowering so you could meet guilt-ridden eyes.

“She would kick your ass.” She mumbled, a small smile growing on her lips.

“So hard.” You chucked.

“So hard.” She echoed, eyes finally rising to meet yours, as you sat for a moment, just taking it in with quiet shared breaths.

Natasha leaned forward, a wordless message catching between you as you echoed her movement, foreheads meeting as you both let your eyes flutter shut, silence enveloping the room as you share breath in a rare quiet moment with the ruthless work that you two did.

It had been a long time since the two of you were in your shared apartment for longer than a few days, with Natasha flying out to the compound to attend to her Avengers duty, and you being sent out every time a new widow was found, but in the rare moments of peace like this, it was all you and Natasha could do to hold onto each other and reassure the other that you were, here, present, and you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.