Adi

“Nat, can we try something?” Natasha looks up from her phone, giving you such a dark, suspicious look that you can’t help laughing. “It’ll only take like a couple of minutes.”

“Does it involve me getting up from the couch?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Then no.”

“Nat!” You laugh, nudging her with your foot. “It’ll literally only take like a couple of minutes.”

“This is something stupid, isn’t it?”

“Of course not. What would make you ask that?”

“You’re the one always asking dumb questions. Like whether I’d still love you if you were a worm.”

“I’m still waiting for an answer on that now that you mention it,” Natasha rolls her eyes and you grin, nudging her with your foot again. “Nat-”

“Do not ask me the worm question again.”

“Why are you so grumpy today, huh? Is that a question you can answer?”

“Because I’ve been home ten minutes and you’re already bothering me.”

You grin, never taking her grumpy attitude seriously. You’ve seen Natasha in a genuinely bad mood before and this definitely isn’t it. Natasha’s never in a bad mood around you even though she likes to pretend that she is. “In theory though… If I were a worm…”

Natasha groans loudly, glaring at you when you laugh. “You’re a pain in my ass. You know that?”

“Would you carry me around in a little wormy enclosure so I could still do all the things I like?”

“Like what?”

“Like going to the movies-”

“You want me to take, what, a box full of dirt and other worm things into the movie theatre?”

“Well yeah otherwise I might dry up and die if I was a worm. Then my death would be on your hands and you’d feel so guilty.”

Natasha glares at you again, “Don’t even joke about that.”

“If you took me to the compound you’d have to make sure one of the bigger Avengers didn’t crush me. Like Thor. You’d have to be careful where he put down Mjolnir.”

Natasha turns her attention back to her phone whilst you giggle at her pouty, irritated expression. Eventually Natasha lets out a long-suffering sigh “Fine. If you were a worm, I’d still love you. I’d carry you around in your stupid little worm enclosure so you could still do all the things that you like doing now. Happy?”

“You’d have to make sure no birds ate me.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And don’t let any spiders near my little worm enclosure. They’re scary enough, let alone if we were around the same size.”

“Fine. Fucks sake… No spiders, no birds, still take you to the movie theatre. I got it.”

You grin “Now can we do that thing I wanted to do?”

Natasha groans again, rolling her eyes “What do you want to do?”

“I need you to stand up.”

“I told you, I’m not getting up from the couch.”

“And I told you it’ll only take a couple of minutes. Humour me?”

“I’m always humouring you and your nonsense.” Natasha whines as you stand up from the couch, taking her hands and pulling her up with you. She huffs as she stands in front of you “Fine. What are we doing?”

You stretch your arms out “Okay, do this.” Natasha rolls her eyes but copies you. “Awesome, now do this.” You put your hands in the air so Natasha does the same. "Perfect! Now just stay still for a minute."

You reach forward to put your hand on her cheek when she suddenly grabs your wrist “What are you doing?”

You burst out laughing at the alarmed look on Natasha’s face “What- Why did you-”

“Well what were you doing?”

“Nothing bad. Why did you freak out like that?”

“I don’t know, I thought maybe you were gonna tickle me or something.”

You laugh harder then grab Natasha’s hand as she goes to sit down again “Nat, I’m not- I’m not gonna tickle you, jeez. Just trust me, I wanna try something.”

“Tell me what you’re trying-”

“It won’t work if I tell you, just please trust me. I wouldn’t do anything bad. And even if I did you’d just beat my ass anyway.”

Natasha huffs but puts her hands up again and this time tries her best to suppress any flinches and the urge to grab your wrist. You put your hands on her cheeks and lean forward, kissing her. Natasha’s confused but it takes her less than a second to put her arms down, to wrap them around you and to pull you closer as she deepens the kiss. For a moment Natasha forgets all about your ‘annoying’ (secretly endearing) questions and just focuses on how it feels to hold you in her arms, and the feel of your lips against hers.

When you pull away you lean your forehead against hers “See… That was okay, right?”

“That… What exactly was that?”

“I wanted to see if you’d melt into the kiss. I took a video of it.”

Natasha groans, pulling out of your arms to flop back onto the couch “You were videoing me again? This is a dumb TokTok thing, isn’t it?”

“TikTok but I think you knew that and just enjoy deliberately misprouncing it,” You sit down next to her, grabbing your phone. “Don’t you wanna see? It’s a TikTok trend, the videos are really cute. And you melted into mine.”

Some cold has been going around your workplace, and it was only a matter of time until you caught the bug as well. You’ve been unhappily cooped up in your apartment for almost half a week, your nose somehow both runny and stuffed up, your muscles achy, and a small fever making you feel freezing at all times.

But despite your woes, you’ve still managed to let Liho in each day, dragging yourself out of bed to the door and welcoming the cat with some chin scratches and greeting her with a voice that’s much scratchier than normal.

Liho has been a nice companion during your illness, hanging out with you while you’re bedridden, but because you’re bedridden, that also means that you haven’t seen Natasha recently. You’re avoiding thinking about how you’re actually starting to miss her.

You’re coughing—which isn’t out of the ordinary these days—a raspy wheeze that takes your breath away, when there’s a knock on your door.

“Delivery!” Natasha calls out through the closed wood. She’s carrying Liho in her arms, and after you open the door, she promptly hands the cat to you. You don’t hesitate to take her from the redhead, petting her as you hold her, but you’re undeniably confused.

“Brought you something,” Natasha states matter-of-factly.

“You brought me… Liho?”

“Yep.”

“She already came by today.”

“Your point?”

“So, you just decided to personally deliver her again?”

Natasha shrugs, pretending to be nonchalant for just a second before choosing to reveal her true motive. “Honestly? Haven’t seen you much these days. I just wanted an excuse to knock on your door.”

“I’m sick.”

“You sound like it.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, knowing your voice isn’t what it usually is, but then you’re scrunching up your nose, a sneeze impending. One, two, three sneezes leave you, and Natasha’s face twists in sympathy.

“Poor thing,” she murmurs at your pitiful expression as you sniffle.

“You should probably go,” you say, disappointed but not wanting to get her sick as well, “I’m contagious.”

Natasha just nods, disappointed too, but she knows you’re right. “Swing by whenever you’re feeling up to it. I always have time for pretty women,” she says teasingly.

This time, you’re actually thinking about going, actually mulling over taking her up on the offer of spending more time together, but your stubbornness still wins out. Unlike usual, you don’t outright reject her though, instead landing on a noncommittal answer.

“Mmm, maybe,” you reply, humming in contemplation and then drawing out the word.

Natasha smiles. “Well, that’s progress.”

Your cold only continues to get worse, now a sore throat and constant headache ailing you.

After a few more days of you still not showing up at Natasha’s door—because she truly believed that this time there was a good chance you would—she decides to pay you another visit, Liho trailing behind her.

Natasha makes her way to your apartment, plastic Tupperware in hand, and knocks.

“Please tell me you didn’t try to cook again,” you say when you see it’s her, eyeing the food she’s brought with her.

“I didn’t,” she reassures before tacking on with a smirk, “I think, for everyone’s sake, I should refrain from entering the kitchen from now on. I bought this from the bodega.”

“Thank fucking god,” you joke.

“Okay, my cooking was bad, but it wasn’t that bad.”

“Liar. The number of foodborne illnesses I think it could give someone is high.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Salmonella; E. coli; Botulism, perhaps.”

Natasha snorts. “There’s noway you’d get Botulism.”

You shrug, grinning. “I truly think it’s a possibility with you.” Your gaze is drawn to the food once again. “That for me?”

“Yep,” she answers easily.

“What is it?”

“Soup.”

“You brought me soup?”

“Figured you could use it. You still sound awful.”

You give her a mock offended look.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“Are your self-preservation instincts nonexistent?” you counter, “You’re going to get sick.”

Her smirk transforms to a softer smile at your concern. “I won’t get sick. I have a far superior immune system than you… and I brought a mask.”

You scoff.

To Natasha’s slight surprise, you do open the door all the way, allowing both her access to your apartment for the first time and Liho access to your apartment like always. She was cautiously optimistic but not necessarily expecting you to give in considering your previous pattern of constantly turning down her requests to get to know one another. The place is cozy, decorated with personal touches here and there and pops of color. She pulls a mask out of her pocket, putting it on and immediately walking toward your kitchen, soup in hand, turning around to face you once she’s standing by the counter.

“Bowl?” she asks.

“Top right cabinet.”

“Spoon?”

“Middle drawer,” you say, pausing before continuing, “You know, I’m decently touched you brought me food. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Can’t have you dying on Liho now, can I?”

It’s a front, and you both know it. Despite your early impression of Natasha, cocky and self-assured, asking you out time after time as if positive that one day she’s going to wear you down enough to give in—which you keep telling yourself you’re not, you’re definitely not—she’s really managing to now make you see her in a different light, changing your ever irritating perception of her, proving herself to be more than you initially thought.

“Just Liho?”

“Just Liho,” Natasha confirms, “What can I say? The feline likes you.”

“Are you finally admitting she likes me more?”

“That’s definitely not what I’m saying.”

You huff out a laugh, but it quickly transforms into a rough coughing fit, and Natasha is by you in an instant. She only hesitates for a moment before placing a hand on your back, uncertain if her touch is going be accepted but wanting to soothe. She begins to gently brush her fingers up and down, trying to counteract the obvious discomfort that the coughs racking your body are bringing you.

“You okay?” she asks when your coughing finally subsides.

You nod weakly. “Peachy. Don’t worry. It’s not the first time I’ve been sick like this.”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen you sick though.”

“Still like the view?”

Natasha smirks. “Absolutely. Even with a runny nose and your gross hacking, you’re still a sight for sore eyes. Now, go sit on the couch.”

“Bossy.”

“Please go sit on the couch.”

You don’t have it in you to argue further that you’re fine and don’t need to be babied, and honestly, you can’t deny that you’re enjoying the pampering from the redhead. It’s been a long week of trying to take care of yourself, and you’re more than appreciative of having someone concerned enough to do it for you.

You gratefully take the bowl from her hands as she holds it out to you and begin gradually eating, blowing on the broth and putting it into your mouth. The warmth of it sits pleasantly in your chest. Natasha takes a seat next to you, perhaps too close, but she can’t resist, your shoulders just barely brushing, and you make no move to shift away. She takes that as a good sign.

Once you’re finished, with an extreme lack of energy, you try to get up to put your bowl in the sink that’s currently piling with used dishes that you’re simply too tired to clean, but Natasha’s quick to gently push you back down.

“Nope, you’re staying down” she murmurs, grabbing the bowl from you to do it herself. “You need rest.”

You just nod, and when she returns, once again setting herself beside you, you feel your eyes beginning to droop, your shoulders slumping with exhaustion and fatigue. You’ve been sleeping so much lately, your body begging for respite from your illness, and it’s doing it again.

Your head drops to Natasha’s shoulder to her surprise, and you let out a shuddery breath at her solid and steady presence at your side.

“Rest,” Natasha repeats softly, hand coming up to gently comb through your hair, untangling the strands that you haven’t been able to brush recently. The action is calming, comforting, and you can’t help that it relaxes you.

You’re growing to trust her, your like of and affection for her increasing with every exchange, and Natasha’s desire to be with you is only furthering as well. At first, her flirting was silly, a superficial attraction that she was acting on, but now, she relishes in the interactions she has with you, and she’s trying to demonstrate that in other ways than just the banter that comes so naturally to her.

You finally fall asleep, your breaths evening out, your body going lax, and Natasha smiles fondly at your still form. She moves out from under you, slow as to not disturb you, and then gently picks you up in a bridle carry, one arm situating itself under your knees, the other supporting your back as she starts to walk you to your bed. She finds herself cradling you close, your head in the crook of her neck, your soft breaths hitting her skin in a way that’s much too intimate for her to handle right now.

She unhurriedly sets you down, not wanting to release you just yet, but eventually she brings herself to. With your head now on a pillow, and the duvet now halfway placed over you, Natasha gets you curled up cozily for your nap and tucks you in. Liho follows along, jumping onto the bed and positioning herself on top of your chest, her quiet purring lulling you even more into unconsciousness.

Natasha makes sure you’re settled, sleeping peacefully, and gets up, walking back out to the living room and taking a glance around your messy apartment. She knows what she has to do—what she wants to do for you—and she pauses as she considers where to start.

She opens the window to air out the apartment first. She sees to the trash full of used tissues next. Dirty dishes you’ve been too preoccupied with your sickness to tend to come after. Then disinfecting the counters and surfaces follow.

When she completes the household chores, she nods, pleased with her work, happy that you’ll wake up to a tidy space… and hopefully you’ll be feeling better after your nap as well.

She wants to stay; she doesn’t want to leave you. But her phone chimes with a message from work, Fury summoning her for an important and required meeting. She sighs. You’re sick, and you deserve someone to be here as you rouse, but she knows Fury and knows the importance of her job, her responsibilities as an agent almost always high priority.

She scrawls out a note onto a stray notepad you have laying on your counter, moving back to the bedroom to place it on your nightstand, takes one last look at you to make sure you’re resting okay, and reluctantly exits your apartment.

You stir a couple of hours later, slightly disoriented from sleeping so deeply, from waking up in your bed and not next to Natasha on the sofa. You try to remember what transpired before your nap. The soup. Falling asleep against her. Natasha seemingly having carried you to bed.

You call out for her when you find her nowhere in sight but receive no response, and then you notice the note. You deflate as you read it, wishing that she was still here, still around to be a silent presence that watches over you, that takes care of you, that provides you with company despite you not necessarily ever giving her a reason to.

‘Had to head out. Left Liho with you for some cuddles. Next time, you should let me give you some too.’

Your hand moves to pet Liho, her purring getting louder, as your thoughts are overwhelmed by Natasha. You two aren’t dating; you two aren’t together… but for some reason, after today, it sort of feels like you are.

Natasha leaned back against the cold interior wall, gloved fingers drumming a soundless rhythm against her thigh holster. Below them the city sprawled dark veins of streets lit in orange. Somewhere in that maze, Hydra had a bunker full of stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. intel and a data broker who knew how to use it.

“Three minutes.” came the pilot’s voice over the comms.

Steve was going over the plan again, “Sam, rooftop sweep. Wanda, you’re with me on the entry. Natasha-”

“Ventilation shaft, east side.” she finished, pushing off the wall. “Get in, find the server, ghost out with the hard drive before anyone notices. I remember.”

Sam snorted. “She just wants the vents. Spiders and spiders.”

“Bird jokes from the man in wings.” Natasha replied. She felt the faint twitch at the corner of Steve’s mouth even through the helmet. He passed her one last look and she gave him a short nod in return and checked her gear.

The quinjet dipped and the building came into view through the hatch window, “Intel said minimal resistance.” Wanda murmured.

“Yeah, well..” Natasha said, “intel’s been wrong before.”

The hatch opened with a hiss. Cold air and the faint tang of smoke rushed in. Sam was off first, wings flaring in the night. Steve and Wanda jumped together, dropping toward the shadowed alley beside the compound.

Natasha went last, stepping cleanly out into the dark. “Widow in position.” she whispered.

“Copy.” Steve’s voice crackled in her ear. “On your mark.”

She moved low along the rooftop, hugging the shadows beyond the sweep of the security lights. Up close, the place looked wrong. The outer patrols were lazy and cameras turned on predictable arcs.

“Anyone else getting a bad feeling?” she muttered.

“Bad how?” Sam said.

“Like they cleaned the house before we got invited over.”

She found the vent near the east corner, just where the schematics said it would be. The grate was newer than the surrounding metal, almost polished. She didn’t like that either.

She popped the cover, slid into the shaft and let the darkness close around her. She moved silently, elbows and knees flowing like water, counting turns, counting moments.

Two ducts down, a left turn, and she had a perfect view of the corridor leading to the server room through a narrow slotted vent. Empty, no guards and the keypad on the reinforced door glowed a steady green.

Nope.

“Steve.” she hissed. “Change of plans. This is a setup.”

“Define setup.” Steve said.

“Define ‘no guards on the most important room in the building.’ I’m backing out.”

A faint click sounded behind her in the shaft and her body reacted before her mind finished processing: she twisted, knees bracing, hand flying to her belt. A thin mist burst into the vent from a hidden nozzle above her and a cold metallic-smelling spray that hit her face, her eyes, her throat.

Natasha held her breath instantly, lungs burning as she slammed an elbow into the side of the duct. She shoved herself forward anyway, pushing through the chemical fog, vision already starting to smear at the edges. Her head felt too light and way too heavy.

“Natasha?” Steve again, louder this time. “Natasha, talk to me.”

She couldn’t pull enough air to answer. The muscles in her chest spasmed, reflex forcing a shallow inhale. The gas scorched its way into her lungs and fireworks went off behind her eyes. She kept moving. Just a little.. but the world swayed, metal shifting under her palms like liquid.

Her hand slipped and her shoulder slammed into the vent wall. Her limbs suddenly felt far away, like they belonged to someone else. The last coherent thing Natasha registered was the faint echo of boots on metal above the shaft and the sense, distant and darkly amused, that her bad feeling had been right. Then the world dropped out from under her.

She woke to pain. Her shoulders throbbed with a bright, steady burn and her arms were stretched above her head, pulling at the sockets. Cold seeped in through the back of her suit and the air smelled like bleach, rust, and something coppery and old that she knew too well.

She cracked her eyes open and the light made halos around itself, her vision still swimming. Her boots were on, she could feel the edge of the sole scraping the floor barely.

They had her suspended, chains running from metal cuffs at her wrists up to a bracket in the ceiling. Her toes just brushed the concrete, enough to send a faint tremor up her legs as she tried to take some of the weight off her arms. They’d stripped her of her gear. No belt, no stingers, nothing. Even her earrings were gone.

She rolled her head, slow and careful, taking in the room. Four concrete walls, one heavy metal door with a bolted lock and no handle on the inside. A table along one wall with neat rows of…tools. She didn’t look too long at those. A camera in the corner, red light blinking.

She shifted her weight, testing the give in the chains. They clinked faintly but didn’t rattle in any way that said loose bolts. Her shoulders burned brighter at the movement. Behind the hum of the light and her own breathing, she could make out faint sounds through the walls. Distant footsteps, a muffled shout, too distorted to make out words.

Suddenly, metal scraped on the other side of the door and Natasha’s gaze snapped to it. Her body shifted, feet bracing as much as they could on the slick concrete. She let her face smooth out, for all that the light overhead made every line sharper.

The lock clanked and the heavy door swung inward with a slow, grating squeal. The man who stepped in first was flanked by two armed guards in black tactical gear, the stylized Hydra emblem on their shoulders. Their weapons stayed low, not quite pointed at her, but she could tell by the set of their hands: ready.

The men walked with an easy, practiced confidence, hands behind his back, dark hair combed neatly away from his forehead. His suit was too well tailored for this concrete hole, dark fabric catching just enough of the light to look expensive rather than shiny.

He stopped a few feet from her, close enough that she could smell his cologne under the bleach and rust and he smiled.

“Agent Romanoff.”

The voice hit first. It reached past the pain, past the flickering light, and grabbed at an older memory. Natasha’s lips curved, just barely. “You really need a new hobby.” she said.

Surprise flashed across his face before the smile widened. “Ah. You do remember.” He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen on a table. “I take that as a compliment. Considering how many you put in the ground.”

It came back in shards. Years ago, a Hydra facility in the Caucasus mountains. A list of names and accounts tying half a dozen senators to Hydra’s payroll. A man in a lab with a disarming smile and a mind for systems, not weapons. He’d used information like a blade, dividing and gutting organizations with a few keystrokes and one whisper in the right ear.

She’d put a bullet through his shoulder then, watched him go down bleeding, before he vanished into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. S.H.I.E.L.D., which had been riddled with Hydra like a corpse full of maggots..Of course he’d gotten out.

“Last time I saw you..” Natasha said slowly, “you were handcuffed to a hospital bed, ranting about restructuring intelligence ecosystems. I have to say, the decor hasn’t improved.”

His eyes glittered, “You should remember my name if you’re going to mock me.” he chided. “Morozov, but Hydra preferred ‘Architect.’”

“Cute.” Natasha said. “Does it come with a business card?”

One of the guards shifted, jaw tightening at her tone. Morozov noticed, but he didn’t look away from her.

“I heard you died.” she went on. “Burned facility, missing body, the usual drama. I was almost disappointed.”

Morozov stepped closer, not enough to be in reach, he knew better than that but enough that the details sharpened: the faint grey at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Time had worked on him, but not softened him.

“Hydra does many things poorly.” he said. “Recruitment, public relations, basic sanity. But we excel at survival. You should know. You survived us too.”

He let that hang there for a moment and Natasha met his gaze without flinching. “I walked out.” she said. “You crawled.”

He laughed quietly, “You always did prefer violence to conversation, Agent Romanoff.” he said. “Which is…unfortunate.”

He turned away, strolling toward the table of tools along the wall. He trailed a finger along the metal surface, not touching anything yet. “I have a problem.” he said conversationally. “You could help me solve it.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you gassed me in a ventilation shaft.” she replied.

“Your friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. what’s left of them have something I want. Access to old databases, old files, buried operations. Hydra ghosts still walking in borrowed skin. Your new family, the Avengers, built a lot of their infrastructure on the rubble. I want it all.”

Natasha went very still. “You broke into our systems before.” Morozov continued. “You know the framework. You know where the cracks are. You know the people.” He glanced up at her. “And you even volunteered your phone once, if I recall.”

Her mouth felt dry. That little piece of past resurfacing in a present she did not like. “And you think..” she said slowly, “that if you hang me from the ceiling long enough, I’ll just hand you the keys?”

His smile thinned. “I think..” he said, “that everyone breaks. The question is how much you take with you when you do.”

“You really think SHIELD’s going to leave access codes lying around in my head?” she said. “That I have Avengers fail-safes memorized like grocery lists? You’re outdated, Architect. The world moved on without you.”

Morozov watched her for a long beat, eyes searching her face. Then he sighed, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I suspected as much.” he said. “You’re not a database..You’re leverage.”

He set the tablet down again with a soft click and turned toward the door. “Bring her.” he said to someone outside.

Natasha shifted her weight again, chains jingling faintly. “What, getting your hands dirty yourself is too much effort these days?” she asked. “I thought Hydra believed in initiative.”

He paused at the threshold, half turned. “Oh, I’ve learned to delegate.” he said. “Interrogation is an art, but it’s also..exhausting. And I have much larger structures to maintain.”

The door opened wider and for a moment, all Natasha could see was the darker rectangle of the hall beyond. Then boots stepped carefully over the threshold. The person who entered was different from the guards. Leaner build, a little shorter. Dressed in black tactical gear that fit just a bit too well, like it had been adjusted and readjusted to someone who’d grown into it fast.

“Agent L/N.” Morozov said, as if introducing someone at a dinner party. “Meet Natasha Romanoff. Natasha, this is the woman who is going to ask you some very important questions.”

You didn’t flinch at the way he said it. You stood very straight, hands clasped behind your back and from this angle, Natasha could see the faint, yellowing shadow of a bruise peeking above the high collar of your suit, the edge of what looked like a metal band around your throat, mostly concealed by fabric. Some kind of restraint? Control device?

Natasha filed it away, expression giving nothing. Morozov stepped between them, turning slightly so Natasha could see both their faces. His hand settled on the younger woman’s shoulder with casual familiarity that made her shoulders pull even tighter.

“If you don’t cooperate..” he said to Natasha, voice almost gentle, “it will not be easy. For either of you.” His thumb pressed, just for a second, into muscle, a reminder. “I would strongly advise you to consider that before you get creative.”

Natasha looked from his hand to his face, then to the girl’s eyes, “Here’s a fun fact.” she said. “Threatening me with other people stopped working a long time ago.”

The lie tasted bitter in her mouth and Morozov’s smile didn’t move. “We’ll see.”

He walked to the door and the guards followed. One of them glanced at Natasha as he passed, eyes briefly meeting hers, before snapping forward again. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy clang.

Natasha and you were alone and for a moment, neither of them moved. The chain above Natasha creaked softly as her weight shifted, her muscles trembling with the effort of staying upright.

You took a slow breath and your shoulders dropped a fraction, the rigid set easing just enough to show how tense you been standing in front of Morozov.

You moved, not toward Natasha, not immediately. First, you crossed to the wall opposite the camera. You didn’t look up at it, but you angled your body just so, giving it a clear profile as you reached for the table.

Natasha watched every detail: the way your fingers curled around the edge of the metal, the slight tremor that ran through your hand before you forced it still. The way you picked up a pair of latex gloves from a box, rolling them on with practised efficiency. Then you picked up a scalpel. Its blade flashed once under the strip light, a cold, clean line and you turned.

The chain above Natasha’s head groaned again as she adjusted her stance, trying to ease the throbbing in her shoulders.

“You’re quiet.” Natasha said, voice low, conversational. “New to this? Or just shy?”

You stopped a meter away, right at the edge of Natasha’s reach. Your fingers tightened on the scalpel’s handle, just enough that the knuckles.

“Talking won’t help you.” You said.

Natasha arched a brow. “Debatable. It’s helped me plenty in the past.”

Your gaze flicked to her wrists, the red skin, the already-forming bruises. Something flashed in your eyes, anger maybe, or disgust, but it shuttered almost instantly.

You took one more step closer and Natasha rolled her shoulders as much as the chains allowed, “Okay then.” she said softly. “Let’s get this over with.”

By the fourth day, the room knew her.

It knew the pattern of Natasha’s ragged breathing, the creak of the ceiling bracket when her weight shifted, the rhythm of chains grinding in their anchor. It knew the stain her blood made when it dried and got washed away and dried again. Bleach and copper and sweat had sunk into the pores of the concrete.

And it knew the sound of your boots. You’d come in twice a day, every day, like clockwork. Each time a little more composed, a little more efficient. You spoke rarely, hands doing most of the talking, tightening restraints, checking her pulse, adjusting the angle of the chains to expose new targets and give old ones a chance to swell and bruise.

You were careful and you knew exactly how long to hold the stun baton to leave muscles twitching and useless without stopping her heart. You knew exactly where to put the blade so cuts bled just enough, shallow and ugly, never deep enough to risk losing your subject. You broke skin, not bones. You made pain, not permanent damage.

Hydra liked their assets alive and Natasha hung from the ceiling and let herself be a problem. Pain moved through her in waves: electric fire along her side where the baton had kissed ribs; a steady throb in her shoulders; the sting of thin cuts along her forearms and thighs, each one a bright little nerve buzzing under her skin. Sweat plastered red hair to her temples; her suit hung open from the sternum up, fabric peeled back so you had access to skin.

You didn’t meet her eyes much at first. You kept your gaze on your hands, on the tools, on the places your orders said to hurt. Your expression behind your eyes stayed flat, controlled, but you were too young to hide everything.

The first time you pressed the baton to her side, your hand shook. Only a little but you felt the tremor in the current. By day four, the tremor was mostly gone. You had a script, “Facility locations.” you said now, tone flat. You reached for the small bottle and cloth again, dampening it. Disinfectant dabbed carefully at the slice you’d just opened along her bicep. “Old S.H.I.E.L.D. fallback sites, anywhere that survived the purge.”

Natasha let the silence stretch and you dabbed a little harder than necessary. She hissed, a soft exhale between her teeth.

“Avengers’ secure channels.” you went on, as if ticking items off a list. “Protocols. Off-site weapon caches. Emergency extraction contacts. How you get out when you fall.”

Natasha let her head loll, eyes closing, chains creaking above. “You want my Netflix password too?” she rasped. “Maybe I’ll start with that.”

The corner of your eye twitched. It was small, but it was there and your gloved fingers pressed the cloth to the wound. “You’re not helping yourself.” you said.

“Not my habit.” she replied.

You stepped back, tossing the stained cloth into a metal bin. The scalpel returned to its spot on the table with a soft clink. You wiped the blade down with practiced motions, disinfectant pad whispering over steel. Natasha watched your shoulders as you worked. The way they hunched slightly, like you were bracing for something that never came from her.

From behind you, the lock on the door clanked and you went very still. Natasha felt the change in you like a shift in air pressure. Your spine straightened, your chin angled toward the door and the hand holding the scalpel tightened, then loosened quickly, as if you remembered the camera, remembered eyes.

The door swung open and Morozov’s silhouette filled the frame for a second before he stepped in. No guards this time, he didn’t need them with her hanging half-conscious and you between them. His gaze flicked over the room, taking in the tools, the blood, the sheen of sweat on Natasha’s skin.

“Progress?” he asked lightly.

“She’s resistant,” you said. Your voice held the same professional flatness, but Natasha heard the edges of it, the way the words ran a little too fast, like you were eager to get them out and done. “But she’s tiring. The pain will…slow her thinking.”

Morozov’s eyes slid to Natasha and she let her head stay down. He took a step closer, shoes clicking on concrete.

“Hmm.” he murmured. “She looks…impressive.”

His hand reached out and fingers brushed a line where you’d opened skin along Natasha’s forearm. Not touching the wound, he wasn’t stupid but close enough to feel the heat.

“Romanoff.” he said, almost fond. “You never disappoint. Still nothing to say?”

Natasha let a small, broken laugh escape. “You talk enough for both of us.” she whispered. “Have you considered therapy? Might help with the god complex.”

He smiled, “She’s still lucid.” he noted to you, as if she weren’t even there. “Good. Don’t break her too quickly. Valuable assets are more fun when they know what they’re losing.”

He turned his full attention to you then. Natasha watched your body react before your face did. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly and you shifted your weight like you wanted to step back and forced yourself not to.

Morozov closed the distance between you with casual familiarity. You held your ground, but Natasha could see the fight in every rigid line of you.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, tone smooth. “You’ve made impressive strides this week.”

His hand came up and without asking cupped your cheek. His fingers slid along the line of your jaw. From the camera’s angle, it probably looked affectionate. A mentor praising a promising protégé.

From where Natasha hung, she saw the way your eyelids twitched. The quick flare of your nostrils as you forced yourself to breathe slow.

“I had my doubts when they brought you to me.” Morozov went on soft and his thumb pressed a little harder against your cheekbone. “Damaged goods are…unreliable. But you learn fast and you understand consequences.”

Your gaze stayed fixed on some point just over his shoulder. Natasha tracked it: the camera.

“I understand..” you said.

“Do you?” His fingers trailed lower, briefly touching the high collar of your suit where it hid the metal band at your throat. Natasha saw the barest flicker of blue beneath the fabric, like a device light catching breath.

You froze just for a heartbeat. Then forced yourself to swallow, the movement visible against his hand. “Good.” Morozov murmured. “Because if she doesn’t start talking soon, I’ll need to make an example.” His eyes lifted and meet yours. They had gone flat and cold.

Natasha felt your reaction in the air, more than saw it. A sharp, invisible recoil and for the first time since you’d walked into this room days ago, real fear flashed across your eye.

Morozov smiled, satisfied and patted your cheek lightly, like rewarding a dog. “Keep at it.” he said, “I expect results.”

He turned and walks back toward the door without another glance at Natasha. He reached for the handle and left with a pleasant, “Carry on.” the door closing behind him with the now-familiar clang.

You didn’t move for a few seconds. You stayed exactly where he’d left you, shoulders squared toward the door, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Then, slowly, you turned back to her.

Natasha lifted her head, meeting your gaze. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been a moment ago. The mask of pain shifted into something cooler, more intent.

“He always this handsy with his employees?” she asked. “Do you all get the deluxe package, or are you special?”

You jolted, it wasn’t a big motion just a small, startled jerk like someone had snapped fingers in front of your face. Your grip tightened on the scalpel you’d almost forgotten you were still holding.

“I thought you were out.” you said, too quickly.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Natasha’s mouth tugged up at one corner. “I don’t nap well to the sound of people threatening to fry their own agents.”

A flush rose along your neck, visible just above the collar. You stepped toward her, anger flaring as a shield. “You don’t-” you started, then cut yourself off. Your eyes hardened. “You heard what you were supposed to hear.”

“Oh?” she said softly. “Because what I heard was ‘she’s damaged goods’ and ‘I can’t touch the Avenger, so I’ll hurt the girl instead.’” She rolled her wrists in the cuffs slightly, chain clinking. “That about sum it up?”

Your jaw clenched. “You should focus on yourself.” you snapped. “You’re not here to analyze me.”

“Funny.” Natasha murmured. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all week.”

Your fist moved before your brain caught up. The punch caught her in the ribs, just under one already bruised welt. She grunted, body jolting against the chains, breath hitching. Pain flared hot and bright behind her eyes, but she rode it out, sucking air through her teeth.

You stared at your own gloved hand like it had betrayed you. Then you curled it into a fist at your side.

“Keep talking..” you said, quieter now, “and it’s going to get worse.”

“You keep pretending you like this..” Natasha shot back, “and it’s going to get worse for you.”

Something went very still in your face. For a second, the mask slipped. Behind it she saw a flash of something she knew too well: bone-deep exhaustion, threaded with a kind of quiet, shaking terror that had nothing to do with the person in front of you. Then it was gone and you stepped back, turning away, busying yourself with wiping an already-clean instrument.

“I don’t care if you talk.” you said. Your voice had gone flat again. “I just care if you answer.”

You didn’t turn back around and Natasha let her head rest briefly against her raised arms, feeling her pulse hammer in her wrists against the metal.

“Yeah..” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “That’s the problem.”

You left her like that, hanging, muscles screaming, skin stinging without another word, the door slamming shut behind you, leaving only the buzzing light and the echo of your footsteps.

By the seventh day, the bruises had started to overlap. There was no more clean skin for you to work with on her torso, so you went for the legs, the arms, carefully avoiding major arteries. Electrical burns marked her side in ugly, blotched arcs. Her wrists were raw and her voice was rough from dehydration and disuse.

She still hadn’t given you anything useful.

Bits of false intel, trivial things, fragments that led nowhere. Names of defunct safe houses. Outdated codes that would set off silent alarms the second anyone tried to use them. Enough to keep you from looking completely ineffective on the camera feed. Not enough to be called cooperation. You came in that morning walking stiff, like you’d slept on concrete. There was a new bruise high on your cheekbone, someone had hit you with a ring on.

“You know..” Natasha rasped, “you’re going to run out of real estate eventually. Maybe just paint me? Save time.”

“Shut up.” you muttered.

You picked up the baton and for a second, your thumb hovered over the activation switch. Then you set it back down with more force than necessary and reached for the scalpel instead.

“I’ve been thinking.” Natasha continued, ignoring the way the blade gleamed. “Dangerous habit, I know.”

You walked toward her and the scalpel rested between your fingers. Your eyes were dark, shadowed, like you hadn’t slept.

“Maybe I misjudged you.” she said. “You’re not Hydra.”

“Excuse me?” you said slowly.

“You heard me.” Natasha said. “Hydra likes zealots. People who believe the lie so hard they’re happy to die for it. That isn’t you.”

You took the last step, as if sheer forward motion could undo the moment of hesitation. You stood close enough that she could see the faint freckles on the bridge of your nose, the tiny scar near your left brow.

“What am I then?” you asked.

She looked down deliberately at the metal band at your throat, the faint bruising where it met skin. Then at the mark on your cheek.

“Leverage.” she said. “Just like me.”

You swallowed. “The collar?” she went on, tone conversational, like they were chatting in a café instead of a cell. “That’s not Hydra fashion. That’s a control device. Probably shock-based, maybe with a tracker built in. You don’t put that on loyal agents, you put it on assets you can’t afford to lose.”

Your free hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing the collar under your suit. You caught yourself halfway and forced your hand back down.

“Stop.” you said.

“The bruise on your cheek?” Natasha continued, relentless. “That wasn’t from a fight. Wrong angle. Wrong shape. That’s a ring. Someone wanted you to remember who’s in charge. Let me guess: your ‘performance review’ didn’t go well last night?”

“Stop.” The word came out sharper, cracking.

“You flinch every time he touches you.” Natasha said. “You breathe shallow when you hear his steps in the hall. But you don’t flinch when I do this.” She shifted her weight and let her boot slide clumsily along the floor until it bumped your ankle. The touch was light, clumsy given her restraints, but deliberate.

“I’ve seen soldiers afraid for themselves.” she said. “They look at the tools, the doors, the exit routes. You..” she tilted her head, studying you, “you keep looking at the camera.” Your gaze flicked up to the blinking red light.

Got you, she thought, “Who are you really afraid he’ll hurt?”

The question hit you like a blow and for a heartbeat, all the tension in your body dropped out, leaving something raw and exposed behind your eyes.

“Don’t.” you whispered.

It wasn’t a threat, it sounded almost like a plea. Natasha went quieter. She could feel the room like a live wire, the camera a red eye in the corner, watching.

“You’re not the first person Hydra’s chained.” she said. “You won’t be the last. They took you. They strapped that thing around your neck. They’re holding something over you. Family? Someone you care about? Your own life?” She blinked, letting exhaustion seep into her voice, a crack in the armor that made her seem less like the Avenger and more like the ex-asset who’d once worn a different kind of collar. “I get it.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” you shot back, but it came out shaky.

“I know fear.” she said. “And I know the sound of someone trying to convince themselves they’re the monster so they don’t have to feel bad about what they’re made to do.”

Her words hit something and you stepped back like she’d burned you, “If you keep this up..” you hissed, “I..I will make it worse. I have to.”

“Do you?” Natasha asked softly. “Or does he?”

You stared at her and the silence stretched, pulsing between you. On the other side of the camera, Morozov would be watching and listening, evaluating every micro-expression.

“We’re done talking about me.” you said. “He wants infrastructure. Locations. Codes. That’s what we’re going to talk about.”

You moved back to the table, grabbing a strip of cloth and twisting it between your fingers to give your hands something to do. The scalpel clinked down harder than you intended and Natasha let herself sag a little, feigning more exhaustion than she felt now that adrenaline had her humming.

“You can keep doing this.” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keep hitting me, cutting me, shocking me. You might even get something he wants, eventually. But when he’s done with me…” She let the sentence trail off, heavy. “You know what happens to you, don’t you?”

You froze, it was written all over you. In the stiffness of your shoulders, in the way your fingers tightened on the cloth until the fabric creaked. In the hollow look that flashed across your eyes before you turned your head away so the camera wouldn’t see.

“He doesn’t let loose ends walk.” Natasha continued, relentless but quiet. “Not prisoners, not coerced agents or witnesses. Once I’m emptied out, you’re redundant and Hydra hates redundancies.”

“Shut up..” you said again, but it sounded like you were talking to yourself as much as to her.

“I’m not your enemy.” she said.

“You’re an Avenger.” you spat, fury finally breaking through. “You’re the Avenger. Do you have any idea what they showed me before they brought me here? What they blamed on you? On your team? Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch everything you love burn and be told it’s all because they didn’t care enough to stop it?”

Natasha’s heart stumbled. There it was.. A crack big enough to see through.

“Yeah..” she said quietly. “Actually. I do.”

You froze halfway through your next breath, eyes locked on hers and all the noise in the room, the buzzing light, the hum of distant machinery fell away for a second. There was just the two of you and the weight of too many ghosts. Natasha watched your eyes flick up to the camera again, that tiny red dot blinking in the corner. Her ribs hurt with every breath, but she still had enough air for one more push.

“He’ll never see you as anything but a tool.” she rasped. “You know that, right? The second I’m empty, you-”

The scalpel kissed her side before she finished. A clean, practiced line along an existing bruise, turning purple into red. The pain was white-hot, ripping a hiss from her throat. She jerked against the chains, metal biting raw wrists.

Your hand didn’t shake this time. “You think I don’t know what he is?” you asked quietly.

“You think I don’t know exactly what he’s capable of?” Your eyes were darker now, voice dropping low enough that the mic in the ceiling would still pick it up, but barely. “You’re famous for it, right? Reading people. Getting under their skin. But you don’t know me.”

Natasha swallowed against the taste of copper. “I know fear when I see it.”

Something in your face flinched, not physically, but behind the eyes. Then your jaw locked.

“He has my family.” you said, and there it was, dropped like a stone in a pond.

Natasha’s breath stuttered and you saw it and almost laughed humourless. “Yeah. That’s right. Not my handler. Not my boss. Some I actually chose.” The words came faster now, pressed out by pressure building under your skin. “He showed me a live feed. Showed me what he can do to them if I breathe wrong.”

Your fingers tightened on the scalpel handle. “And now you want me to risk their life?” you finished, voice gone quiet and lethal, “For a woman whose job is manipulating people?”

Natasha flinched like you’d hit her with the baton and you took the opening, stepped into it, because that’s what you’d been trained to do.

“He warned me about you.” you went on. “About all of you. The Widow, the witch, the soldier, the captain. ‘They’ll use whatever they can,’ he said. ‘Pain. Sympathy. They’ll look for cracks. You don’t have any.’”

Your mouth twisted, “But I do.” you added, almost to yourself. “I have some. And he owns them.”

Silence pooled for a second and Natasha’s shoulders ached. Blood from the new cut ticked down her side, “I’m sorry.” she said.

The words slipped out before she could stop them and for a heartbeat, you looked startled. Then your expression hardened like frost forming. “Keep it.” you said. “I don’t need your pity. I need you to talk.”

You wiped the scalpel, calm again and when you turned back, whatever crack had opened was sealed over. “If you try that again.” you added, voice low and steady, “if you try to make me doubt for even a second, I will make sure you regret it. And it won’t be because I want to. It’ll be because I don’t have a choice.”

You stepped closer, close enough that she could see her own reflection warped in the scalpel’s metal. “And I’m not risking them.” you said, each word precise, “for you.”

This time, when the baton snapped to life in your hand, there was no hesitation in the way you pressed it to her ribs.

Another week blurred by and the days fell into a jagged rhythm. Morning: footsteps in the hall, the familiar clank of the lock, your silhouette in the doorway. Always you. Never anyone else. You asked the questions Morozov wanted asked, your voice a metronome. You inflicted the pain he expected, your hands a routine. Sometimes blades. Sometimes electricity. Sometimes nothing but pressure on bruises already blooming like storm clouds under her skin.

Afternoon: silence, darkness behind her eyes as she drifted in and out, counting the cracks in the ceiling, the breaths between throbs in her shoulders. Evening: you again, or sometimes Morozov himself, to “review progress.”

The methods changed but your presence didn’t. If anything after that slip about your family, you hardened. Whatever edge of reluctant humanity Natasha thought she’d seen got buried under steel. You cut deeper. You held the baton just a second longer. You left her hanging a little higher so her toes barely brushed the floor.

Outwardly, you became exactly what Morozov wanted: effective, efficient, merciless. But you never left a mark on her face where a future camera might see. You never broke a bone. You never went for her hands, her fingers, the delicate tools of her trade. You never touched her throat.

And you always, always cleaned the wounds. It was a small thing, it shouldn’t have mattered. Alcohol burned. Disinfectant bit like fire. But your hands were careful, even when the rest of you wasn’t. You knew how to wrap a bandage too tightly to stop bleeding without cutting off circulation. You knew where to put pressure to minimize swelling.

“Wouldn’t want infection.” you said once, tone dry as you taped gauze along her ribs. “That would be…inefficient.”

“Touching concern..” Natasha rasped.

You didn’t answer but your fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary before you stepped away.

Natasha started noticing other things. How you stood between her and the door when Morozov came in, body angled just so, like a shield you weren’t even conscious of being. How you flinched, barely, when he praised you in front of the camera, his hand heavy on your shoulder.

How you never met your own reflection in the steel tray when you set tools down. The collar at your throat became an obsession for her. She watched the faint pulsing light under the fabric, the way your fingers brushed it sometimes when you thought she wasn’t looking, like a tongue prodding a sore tooth.

Once, late, when the room stank of bleach and the last of her screams had faded to ragged breathing, you stayed a little longer by the door.

“You’re quiet.” she managed, because filling the silence felt safer than the drift of her own thoughts.

“You’re tired.” you said, as if that answered anything.

Her head lolled against her raised arms. “You get paid by the scream or by the hour?”

You huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh and then flattened out. “By results.”

“Then you’re doing a shitty job.” she murmured.

Your eyes flicked to the camera. “Or a smart one,” she added. Your jaw worked and you opened your mouth like you might say something real.

Then Morozov’s footsteps echoed down the hall again. You shut down like someone flipped a switch. The door opened before you could move and he stepped in, immaculate as always, eyes sweeping the room.

“How is our guest?” he asked.

“Noncompliant.” you said, voice gone smooth and professional. “But patterns are emerging. She’s more responsive to certain topics. The Avengers. Old S.H.I.E.L.D. ops. We can use that.”

“And you?” He studied you, gaze lingering on the faint yellowed edges of old bruises. “Are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” you said. He stepped closer and Natasha watched the muscles in your back tighten.

“You’ve been very devoted.” he murmured. “Despite…earlier doubts.”

His fingers brushed your collar where it hid under your tactical gear and Natasha saw your shoulders twitch. “Good girl.” he said, hand patting your cheek with casual ownership.

Natasha’s stomach turned and you didn’t look at her as he left. You didn’t look anywhere at all until the door shuddered closed. Then your shoulders slumped, just a fraction.

She was supposed to hate you. It would’ve been much simpler. Hydra agent..torturer, Enemy. She knew what to do with that. She’d spent a lifetime compartmentalizing feelings, putting people in boxes: target, asset, obstacle, ally. But you refused to stay in the box she put you in.

The third week changed something. You pushed too far and Natasha had been hanging for hours already, muscles trembling with each breath, vision edging dark. You came in late; she could tell by the way your eyes darted to the wall clock first thing, the tightness around your mouth.

“Problem?” she croaked.

“None of yours.” you said.

You went harder that day, less precision, more force. The baton’s current arced along the line of her spine, making her teeth clench against each jolt. You asked the same questions Morozov always wanted asked, but there was a frantic undercurrent this time, a desperation that wasn’t for information.

“Old S.H.I.E.L.D. sites.” you snapped. “The ones that went dark but didn’t collapse. Where did they move the servers?”

“Burned..” Natasha gasped. “You should know. You crawled out of one.”

You hit her again and she screamed, “Quinjet call signs.” you demanded. “Overwatch patterns. How many pilots cleared for stealth insertion?”

“You wanna fly one?” she rasped. “You have the legs for it.”

Your eyes flashed and you grabbed her jaw, fingers digging into already-tender skin, forcing her to meet your gaze. “Stop.” you hissed. “Stop making this harder.”

“For who?” she whispered.

For a moment, something like panic flashed across your face. You let go of her like she burned you, stumbling back a step. You turned, shoulders heaving, fingers digging into your own scalp.

“Fuck..” you breathed quietly. “Fuck.”

Natasha hung there, chest rising and falling, chains creaking with each tiny shift of weight. She watched your back.

“What happened?” she asked hoarsely.

“Nothing!” you snapped.

“Liar.”

You whirled, eyes blazing. “You’re calling me a liar?”

“Professional opinion..” she said. “You’re terrible at it.”

Your nostrils flared and you took one step toward her, then another, until you were right in front of her again, so close she could see the fine tremors in your hands.

“They moved them!” you spat.

Natasha’s breath stilled. “I don’t know where..” you went on, words coming too fast. “I just know they moved them. New facility, new protocols. Less…friendly.” The last word twisted in your mouth. “And Morozov made it very clear that the slower you are, the worse it gets for them.”

Ah. There it was. The clock.

Natasha closed her eyes for a second, letting the room sway around her. “You think hurting me faster will help?” she managed.

“I think not giving him results will get them killed..” you shot back.

“And you think he’ll keep his promise if you do?” she whispered. “You think Hydra lets anyone walk away happy?”

You laughed sharp and broken. “Of course not. But maybe they walk away alive. That’s more than I get.”

The honesty in that sentence hit her harder than the baton. You saw it land and immediately regretted saying it. Your mouth snapped shut and you turned away again, grabbing for a roll of bandages with more force than necessary.

“Your belief in self-sacrifice is very noble.” Natasha rasped. “Very…Captain America of you.”

“Don’t.” you said, voice low. “Don’t you dare compare me to any of you.”

“Why not?” she asked. “You’re willing to die for people you love. That’s basically our brand.”

You clenched your jaw, wrapping gauze around her arm with brisk, efficient movements. “You are not going to get into my head, Romanoff. I know what you do. Turning people, Isn’t that what they trained you for? Seduction, infiltration, psychological-”

“Says the one monologuing about their tragic backstory..” she interrupted softly.

You yanked the bandage tight and she hissed. “This isn’t a story.” you snapped. “This is math. Input: your pain. Output: Their chances. I can’t afford to care if you’re scared or if you’re lonely or if you think I’m redeemable. That’s not my job.”

“What is your job?” she asked. “To survive? Because you’re doing a terrible job of that too.”

“Weren’t you listening?” you said. “I’m not the one I’m trying to save.”

You taped the bandage, fingers pressing hard enough to sting. Then you stepped back, chest rising and falling, something wild flickering behind your eyes.

For the first time, Natasha saw past the cold.

Past the technique. Past the collar. Underneath it all, you were breaking and not in the way she was.

“Get some rest.” you said abruptly, voice snapping back to something like neutral. “You’ll need it.”

“Promise me something..” she blurted.

You stopped mid-turn, hand on the door.

“No.” you said immediately.

“Promise me.” she insisted, surprising herself with the urgency in her own voice, “that if this kills you, it wasn’t for nothing.”

“How could it not be..” you whispered, “when the only choice I ever get is who it hurts?”

You didn’t wait for her answer and walked out, the door slamming behind you. Natasha hung there, pulse pounding in her ears and realized something that made her stomach lurch.

She didn’t hate you. She should. God, she should. You’d carved screams out of her throat, painted the floor with her blood. Your hands were the ones that tightened the restraints, pressed the buttons, turned pain into data. But in the sick, warped ecosystem of that room, you had become the only constant. Morozov came and went like a storm. Guards rotated. The camera’s red light blinked, unblinking, but it was an eye, not a person.

You were always there and learned her rhythms. When to push, when her body would snap, when to stop just short of irreversible damage. You adjusted the chains so her shoulders wouldn’t dislocate, not because you cared, she told herself, but because a ruined shoulder was bad for interrogation subjects. But it meant you touched the shackles, the chains, her wrists. She learned your rhythms too. The way your footsteps sounded on days you’d been punished, the tilt of your voice when you were lying for the camera. The tiny pause before you picked up an instrument you hated using.

The room did something to time. There were only two states: when you were in it and when you weren’t. When you were, all of Natasha’s nerves lit up, whether from pain or anticipation. She was hyper-aware of you: the brush of your sleeve, the warmth of you standing close, the smell of sweat and cheap soap clinging to your skin. She watched your eyes more than the blade in your hand.

When you weren’t, the silence was a physical weight. The absence of your voice, your footfalls, your breathing made the room feel bigger and emptier at once. She caught herself once, counting seconds after the door closed. Counting how long until she might hear you again. The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Absolutely not, she told herself. No.

She’d spent most of her life being used, shaped into a weapon by people who needed her to love them or at least depend on them to make obedience easier. She knew about trauma bonds. About Stockholm Syndrome. About the human brain’s nasty habit of clinging to the hand that fed it, even when that hand was also tearing it apart.

She had scars that spelled out those lessons. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

The next time the door opened and it wasn’t you, her heart dropped. Two guards stepped in instead, faceless behind masks, guns slung. They adjusted her chains and one of them grabbed her jaw too hard, fingers bruising, breath sour in her face as he inspected the state she was in.

“He wants her conscious.” he grunted to the other. “Don’t break the toy.” A hand cracked across her cheek and she bit the inside of her mouth until iron flooded her tongue, swallowing the sound.

When you came in that evening, late again, you froze. There was a new bruise blooming along her face, a purple-red handprint.

Your gaze snapped to the camera, then back to her.

“Who?” you asked.

She smirked, bloody mouth twisting. “Jealous?”

“Who?” you repeated. She shrugged as much as the chains allowed. “One of your friends with the guns. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him my tragic backstory.”

You moved faster than she’d seen you move yet. Your hand came up, fingers brushing carefully along the edge of the bruise without touching the center. Your thumb hovered near her cheekbone, warm and callused.

He could’ve been watching, the camera might be eating every frame but you did it anyway.

His voice echoed faintly in her memory: He warned me about you.

“Did he hit you before or after he adjusted the chains?” you asked and Natasha blinked. “After.”

“Then he was just entertaining himself.”

You went very, very still. “If anyone lays an unapproved hand on you again.” you said quietly, “Tell me.”

Natasha stared at you. “So you can…what?” she asked. “File a complaint with HR?”

Your lips twitched without humor. “So I can remind him who you belong to.”

“Possessive.” she murmured.

“Practical.” you shot back. “You’re my responsibility. His rough fun could kill you in ways I can’t explain to Morozov. He kills my asset, he risks my family. I will not let some bored bastard gamble with that.”

Her pulse did something stupid in her throat. “You are very romantic about this.” she said, because humor was easier than acknowledging the weird heat curling in her chest.

You snorted and stepping back. “You’re delirious.” But later, when you tightened the straps around her wrists, you did it with enough care that the pressure eased on the rawest patches. The way you slipped the water bottle straw between her lips at the exact angle to minimize choking, even when you could’ve just dumped it. The way you always left the room more or less the same tools lined up, drains cleaned, like control over small details was all you had.

The way, when you thought she was fully out after a session, you stood at the door and looked back at her. Not triumphant or satisfied.

Haunted.

The moment she realized she was in trouble was quiet. No screaming, no threats. Just a statement, dropped into one of the rare lulls where pain faded enough for thought.

“You keep telling yourself I’m manipulating you.” she went on. “Maybe I am. I want you alive. I want out. Our goals…for now…they line up.”

You scoffed. “I don’t like watching people be punished for me.” she said. “Never did. That’s…old wiring. If I let myself care, it’s because I can’t not. It’s not a trick. It’s a flaw.”

That did something to you. Your eyes softened, then went sharp again, like you’d remembered who you were supposed to be.

“You’re very good with words.” you said.

“Occupational hazard.”

“You’re very good at making yourself sound small and broken so people let you closer.”

“That too.”

Then, very quietly, like you couldn’t believe you were saying it, you asked, “Why do you care? About me. You don’t even know my name.”

She could have lied, she could have said: I don’t. You’re a tool.

But she didn’t. “You’re the only person who comes through that door.” Natasha said simply. “And you’re breaking yourself to keep someone else breathing. That’s…familiar.”

A beat. “It’d be easier if you were just a monster..” she added. “I’ve got enough of those.”

You exhaled, long and shaky, That’s your problem.” you muttered. “You keep looking for something worth saving.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“In this place?” You glanced around the concrete, the chains, the camera. “It’s suicidal.”

She considered that, “Maybe.” she said. “But I’ve survived worse habits.”

You stared at her a second longer, then shook your head like you were trying to rattle something loose and left without another word.

You’re in trouble, she told herself.

Because somewhere in the lines between enemy and asset, fear and fury, something else had started to root. Not love..not yet. Love was big and bright and required too much future for this concrete box.

But attachment? That lived in smaller spaces. In the hitch of her breath when she heard your footsteps and knew it wasn’t Morozov. In the way her mind, fuzzy with sleep deprivation and pain, conjured the exact pitch of your voice to fill the silence. In the sick drop of her stomach when you were late and the wrong boots passed her door.

She cared if you were alive. She cared if you were hurt. She cared enough that when she caught herself imagining putting a bullet through Morozov’s head, she saw two images: freedom and your collar unlocking.

It was irrational and dangerous. Exactly the kind of vulnerability she’d spent her whole life avoiding. And still, in the sleepless stretch of the third week’s night, hanging from the ceiling with her hands bleeding and her body one giant bruise, Natasha admitted a quiet, terrifying truth:

If it came down to it, she wasn’t sure anymore if she wanted to escape this place without you.

That was the realistic horror of it. Not that she’d “fallen” easily. But that piece by piece pain by pain, mercy by mercy you had become, in this small, ugly world, the person she couldn’t stop watching.

And that was how it started..Weeks didn’t pass in days anymore. They passed in visits. One “morning” the light never changed, but the routine said morning, you walked in to find Natasha half-conscious, lips cracked, tongue slow in her mouth. The guards on the previous shift hadn’t bothered with hydration.

You grabbed the bottle from the trolley, popped the cap with your thumb and brought the straw to her mouth. You didn’t just jam it in and dump it; you touched her chin with your gloved fingers, tilting her head just enough.

“Hey. Romanoff.” Your voice was softer than usual. “You’re not dying on me from something this stupid. Drink.”

Her eyes fluttered, focusing on you with difficulty. For a second she didn’t see the room, or the chains, or the collar at your throat.

Just you.

She sucked at the straw, greedily, water hitting her throat like glass. You drew it back, letting her breathe, then offered more. She watched your eyes the whole time. No one had ever looked at her that intently while giving her something as basic as water. Her body filed it under relief. Her brain filed it under source of relief: you.

The first time she called you anything but “Agent” was an accident. You’d just finished cleaning a long, nasty cut on her thigh. Your hands were steady. Hers weren’t. Her muscles quivered under your touch.

“You know..” she croaked, “if you’re going to keep carving me up, I should at least know what to shout when I haunt you.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Cute.”

“So?” she pushed.

You hesitated because Morozov had told you: keep it professional, keep it distant. Names were hooks. Names meant you could be called, remembered, mourned.

“I’m not-”

“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to brand the Black Widow..” Natasha rasped. “Don’t waste it.”

You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest eased just enough to let the word out.

“Y/n.”

It sounded wrong in this room, too soft for concrete and blood. It sounded like sunlight and coffee and someone saying it because they wanted you, not because they needed a report. Natasha repeated it back to you, like committing it to memory.

-

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Taglist 🏷️

Every seat is taken. Students hunched over laptops. A couple arguing in hushed voices. A woman with a golden retriever tucked under her chair. The storm has driven half the city inside.

Another crash of thunder rattles the windows.

You step forward and collide directly into someone solid. You gasp. A hand catches your elbow before you can fully lose balance.

Firm. Steady. Controlled. You look up. Green eyes. Sharp, assessing, startlingly calm.

Her hair is red, not bright, but deep, rich copper that catches the warm overhead lights. She doesn’t look soaked like you. She looks like she anticipated the rain, like she’s the kind of person who checks the weather three days ahead and plans accordingly.

Her grip loosens the second she confirms you’re stable.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “I swear I wasn’t trying to tackle you.”

Her mouth curves slightly at one corner. It’s subtle. Controlled.

“I’ve handled worse.”

There’s something in the way she says it, light, but weighted.

You laugh, assuming she’s joking.

“Good. I’d hate for my clumsiness to be the most dangerous thing you experience today.”

Her eyes flick over you then. Quick. Efficient. Like she’s cataloging.

You suddenly become aware that you’re dripping on the floor.

“Oh my god—sorry—” You step aside, looking around helplessly for napkins.

“It’s fine,” she says.

Her voice is low. Smooth. Calm in a way that feels deliberate.

You finally glance past her and realize something: she doesn’t have a table either.

She’s standing near the counter, coffee already in hand, scanning the room the same way you did.

Another thunderclap. The lights flicker. The entire cafe collectively groans.

You wince. “Please don’t let the power go out. I just need one dry place in this universe.”

Her gaze shifts toward the ceiling when the lights flicker again.

She doesn’t look worried. She looks alert.

You hesitate, then gesture vaguely toward the seating area. “Um. Do you want to maybe share a table? I mean, if we can find someone willing to sacrifice a chair?”

There’s the faintest pause. She studies you again, as if trying to determine motive.

You blink at her.

“You’re not serial killer vibes, I promise.”

Her brow lifts slightly.

“And what are serial killer vibes?”

You grin. “You know. Twitchy. Too much smiling. Unnecessary eye contact.”

You realize, mid-sentence, that she’s making very steady eye contact.

You freeze. She doesn’t smile wider.

“If that’s the metric,” she says evenly, “I should be concerned about you.”

You snort. Okay. She’s funny. Dry. You like that.

The lights flicker again and this time they go out completely.

A few people yelp. The espresso machine dies mid hiss.

Everything falls into an eerie dimness, only gray stormlight filtering in through the windows.For a moment, the cafe is quiet except for rain hammering against glass.

Emergency lights click on near the back hallway, casting faint amber glows.

“Well,” you murmur, “that’s dramatic.”

Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly. Not tense. Ready.

You don’t notice the way she automatically steps so her back is near a wall. You don’t notice how she scans exits first, people second.

You’re too busy wringing water from your sleeve.

“I guess we’re stuck,” you say. “Unless you’re planning on sprinting back out into that.”

You glance toward the window just in time to see wind whip rain sideways.

She follows your gaze. “No,” she says quietly. “I’m not in a hurry.”

You nod, oddly relieved.

A barista announces they’ll wait out the storm and serve whatever they can manually. A few candles are brought out. People settle.

You spot a small two top near the window, recently vacated.

You look back at her. “Truce?” you offer lightly. “Shared table until the apocalypse passes?”

A beat. Then she inclines her head once.

“Nat.”

You smile. “Nat,” you repeat. “I’m y/n”

You tell her your name. She says it once, softly, like she’s testing the sound. You don’t know why that makes your stomach flip.

You sit across from each other by the window.

Rain streaks down the glass in uneven rivers. Thunder rolls lower now, less sharp but more constant. The cafe hums with murmured conversations and the scrape of chairs.

A candle sits between you, flame trembling slightly in the draft.

You cradle the mug the barista hands you, something warm and sweet, and sigh as heat seeps into your fingers.

“Best decision I’ve made all day,” you murmur.

Natasha, Nat, watches you over the rim of her cup.

“You’ve had a bad day?”

You shrug. “Not catastrophic. Just… one of those days that feels like it’s slightly out to get you.”

She tilts her head almost imperceptibly. “Explain.”

You smile faintly. “Well. I oversleep. Miss the bus. Spill coffee on my shirt at work. My boss decides today is the perfect day to micromanage everything. I drop my phone in a puddle. And then the sky opens like it personally hates me.”

You gesture vaguely toward the storm. She listens without interrupting. Actually listens. Not the polite nodding kind. Focused. Present.

You laugh softly. “Sorry. That sounded way more dramatic out loud.”

“It’s not dramatic,” she says. “It’s cumulative.”

You blink at her. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Exactly.”

Something about the way she understands that so quickly settles something in your chest. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Doesn’t say “it’ll get better.” Doesn’t dismiss it.

Just acknowledges.

The candlelight catches the planes of her face. There’s a small scar near her jaw you wouldn’t notice in bright light.

You tilt your head slightly.

“You always this observant?” she asks quietly.

You blink. “Me?”

She nods once. You hesitate.

“I don’t know. I guess I like details.”

“Details are important,” she says. There’s weight in it again.

You smile. “You say that like you’ve built a career on it.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Something like that.”

You assume corporate. Maybe law enforcement. Maybe something vague and intense.

You don’t pry. Thunder booms again, closer this time. The lights flicker weakly but stay out.

The cafe dims further as clouds thicken. You lean back in your chair, watching the rain.

“I kind of love storms,” you admit.

She studies you. “Most people don’t.”

“I know. But it forces everyone to slow down. You can’t rush a storm. You just… wait.”

She’s quiet at that. Her gaze drifts to the window, watching water distort the city beyond it.

“I don’t like waiting,” she says softly.

You glance back at her. “Control thing?”

Her eyes flick to yours. “Maybe.”

You grin faintly. “I hate not being in control too. But storms don’t care.”

“No,” she agrees. “They don’t.”

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The cafe has settled into an odd intimacy, strangers sharing candlelight, voices lowered instinctively.

You notice the way she sits. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed but poised. Feet planted firmly.

Ready.

“You’re very calm,” you say without thinking.

She lifts her gaze. “I don’t panic easily.”

“That’s a good trait.”

“It can be.”

You tilt your head. “Is it not always?”

Her eyes linger on you a second too long. “It depends on the situation.”

You don’t know why, but a chill runs up your spine that has nothing to do with the rain. Then someone drops a tray near the counter and you both glance over.

She reacts faster than you. Always faster.

When you look back at her, she’s composed again. “You come here often?” you ask.

“Yes.” There’s a beat. “You?”

“Too often,” you admit. “It’s close to work. And they spell my name right.”

“That’s important.”

“Very.”

She takes another sip of her coffee. You study her hands. Steady. Strong. There’s something precise about the way she moves. You catch yourself staring.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You just… you seem like you’re somewhere else.”

Her brow lifts slightly. “Somewhere else?”

“Yeah. Like you’re sitting here but also running calculations in your head.”

She goes still. You laugh awkwardly. “That sounded creepy. I swear I’m not profiling you.”

Her gaze softens by a fraction. “What makes you think I’m calculating anything?”

You shrug. “You keep glancing at the door. And the windows. And that guy by the counter.”

Her eyes narrow just slightly. “You’re very observant.”

You grin. “Told you. Details.”

She considers you. “And what do the details tell you?”

You pretend to think deeply.

“Hmm. You don’t like having your back exposed. You don’t fidget. You watch reflections. So either you’re incredibly anxious… or incredibly prepared.”

A beat. “Which do you prefer?” she asks.

You meet her eyes. “Prepared.”

Something unreadable passes through her expression. Thunder shakes the windows hard enough that a few people gasp.

The wind howls. The door rattles. The emergency lights flicker and die.

The entire cafe plunges into near blackness. A few screams. A baby crying somewhere near the back.

You inhale sharply. For a split second, you feel it, disorientation. Vulnerability.

And then her hand covers yours. Firm. Grounding.

“You’re okay,” she says quietly. Her voice cuts through the noise like a steady line.

Your pulse steadies almost instantly. You didn’t even realize she’d reached across the table. Her thumb presses lightly against your knuckles, anchoring.

You swallow. “Backup plan?” you whisper.

“Yes.” You don’t ask what it is. Strangely, you trust that she has one. 

Gradually, phone flashlights flick on around the cafe. Soft glows illuminate faces. The storm outside intensifies, lightning flashing white through the windows.

Your heart is still racing slightly. Her hand hasn’t moved. You look down at where your fingers rest beneath hers.

She notices you looking. Her hand withdraws immediately. Professional. Controlled. You miss the contact instantly.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “It helped.”

She studies your face as if verifying that.

“You don’t scare easily,” she observes.

You shrug. “I mean, I do. Just not… at weather.”

“That’s good.” You tilt your head. “Are you scared of storms?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. Then quieter, “I’m cautious.”

You nod slowly. “Fair.”

The cafe owner announces they’re officially closing until power returns. But no one can leave yet, the wind is too strong.

So everyone waits. More candles are distributed. Someone starts playing soft acoustic music from their phone speaker.

The atmosphere shifts from tense to strangely intimate. You lean your chin into your palm.

“So, Nat,” you say lightly. “What do you do when you’re not analyzing cafe layouts?”

Her eyes flicker with amusement. “Travel,” she says.

“Oh? For work?”

“Yes.”

“Exciting?”

“Sometimes.”

You grin. “That’s suspiciously vague.”

She doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. Instead, you say, “I work in publishing. It’s significantly less mysterious.”

She hums softly. “Books are powerful.”

You blink. “Okay, that sounded dramatic.”

“They shape how people think,” she says simply.

You stare at her. “Are you secretly a philosopher?”

“No.” But there’s something almost fond in her tone.

The candle between you flickers wildly as another gust slams the building. Instinctively, you lean forward, shielding the flame with your hand.

She mirrors the motion without thinking.

Your hands almost touch again.

You freeze. So does she. The candlelight casts shadows along her cheekbones. Her eyes look darker in this light. Closer. Everything feels closer.

Outside, lightning splits the sky. Inside, the world has narrowed to the small circle of warm light between you. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.

You blink. “We met thirty minutes ago.”

“Yes.”

“And you had expectations?”

“I always do.”

You smile faintly. “What were they?”

“That you’d be nervous.”

“About?”

She gestures vaguely to herself. You laugh softly.

“Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

You study her face. You see strength there. Confidence. Something sharp and honed. But you also see exhaustion. Subtle. Carefully hidden.

“I’m not,” you say honestly.

“Why not?”

You consider that. “Because you don’t feel dangerous.”

It’s a bold statement. You don’t know why you say it. Her gaze sharpens. “And if I was?”

You shrug gently. “I don’t think you’d hurt me.”

Silence stretches. Thunder rolls lower now, further away. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“That’s a risky assumption,” she says softly.

“Maybe.” You hold her gaze. “But I don’t think you’d sit here talking about storms if you were.”

For a long moment, she just looks at you. Like she’s trying to understand something she doesn’t quite recognize.

Finally, “I don’t sit with people,” she admits.

You smile faintly. “I’m honored.” A small exhale leaves her. Almost a laugh.

The storm begins to shift. The thunder spaces out. The rain lessens from violent sheets to steady downpour.

The cafe murmurs with cautious relief. You glance at the window. “I think it’s calming down.”

“Yes,” she agrees. Neither of you move.

You realize something slowly. When the storm ends… this does too.

The thought lands heavier than you expect. You clear your throat.

“So,” you say lightly, “if the world wasn’t ending via weather, what would you be doing right now?”

She considers that. “Training.”

You blink. “For?”

“A marathon.”

You grin. “Liar.”

Her brow arches. “You don’t have marathon energy.”

“And what energy do I have?”

“More like… tactical yoga instructor.”

Her lips twitch. “That’s specific.”

“I stand by it.” The rain softens further. Someone cheers quietly near the door as wind dies down. You feel time slipping. You don’t want it to. You don’t know why that feels important.

“You said you don’t like waiting,” you say softly. “But you stayed.”

Her gaze shifts to you.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question hangs between you. Simple. Loaded. She studies your face carefully, as if deciding how much to give.

“The storm,” she says finally.

You tilt your head. “That’s not the full answer.”

A long pause. “No,” she agrees.

Your heart beats louder in your ears. “You don’t have to tell me,” you add quickly.

She watches you a moment longer. “I stayed,” she says slowly, “because you didn’t look at me like you expected something.”

You blink. “What would I expect?”

“An explanation. A story. A reason to be impressed.”

You frown faintly. “I just wanted coffee.”

That earns you the smallest, realest smile yet. And suddenly, you understand. Whoever she is outside this cafe, people expect things from her.

You don’t. The lights flicker back on. A collective sigh fills the room. Applause breaks out. The espresso machine hums to life.

Reality floods back in harsh fluorescent brightness. You squint slightly. She straightens in her chair. The spell shifts.

You hate it.

“Well,” you say softly. “I guess the apocalypse is postponed.”

“Yes.”

People begin gathering belongings. You hesitate. This is the part where strangers part ways.

You don’t want that. You don’t know why. But you don’t. You stand slowly. She does too. The rain outside is now a gentle drizzle. The sky still gray but clearing.

You sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For making the dark less… dark.”

Her eyes soften. “You did that.”

You smile faintly. There’s a pause. A crossroads. You could let this end here.

A storm. A stranger. A moment.

Instead, “Would you,” you begin, then almost back out. “Would you want to do this again? Preferably without catastrophic weather?”

Her gaze sharpens slightly. Assessing. Considering risk. Considering you.

“Yes,” she says.

Your breath catches slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Relief spreads warm through your chest. You fumble slightly for your phone. “Can I—?”

She’s already pulling hers out. Efficient. You exchange numbers. Her contact simply reads: Nat. No last name. You don’t question it.

“Text me,” she says.

“I will.”

Another pause. Closer now. You realize how tall she is when you’re both standing.

The air between you feels charged in a different way now.Not storm charged. Something quieter. More personal.

“You’re still calculating,” you tease softly.

“Always.”

You step slightly closer. “Am I passing?”

Her eyes drop briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“Yes.”

Your pulse stutters. The door opens. Cool, rain washe air filters in. People begin stepping out cautiously. She looks toward the exit automatically. Then back at you.

“I’ll walk you,” she says.

You blink. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Your heart does something complicated. “Okay,” you say softly.

You step out together. The city smells clean. Washed. Refreshed. Puddles reflect dim streetlights. You walk side by side, close but not touching. She matches your pace effortlessly.

You steal glances at her. She notices every time.

“So,” you say lightly. “Do storms usually improve your day?”

She thinks about that. “No.” 

You smile. “Me neither.” A comfortable silence settles.

Not empty. Full.

When you reach your building, you stop under the awning. Rain drips gently from the edge.

You turn toward her. “Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome.”

You hesitate. You don’t want it to end like a business transaction. Impulsively, you step forward and wrap your arms around her.

Just a quick hug. Warm. Sincere. She goes still in surprise.

Then her arms come around you. Firm. Protective. For a second, she holds you like she’s memorizing the shape of you.

Then she steps back. Composed again. But her eyes are softer than before.

“Text me,” she repeats quietly.

“I will.”

You step backward toward your door. She doesn’t move until you’re safely inside. You glance back through the glass. She’s still there.

Watching. Then she turns and disappears into the damp night.

Inside your apartment, you lean back against the door, heart racing.

You don’t know who she is. You don’t know what she does. You only know that for one storm lashed hour, the world narrowed to candlelight and green eyes and steady hands in the dark.

And you want to sit across from her again.

Outside, the last rumble of thunder fades into silence. Somewhere down the block, Natasha Romanoff allows herself a small, private smile.

She doesn’t like waiting. But this, this might be worth it.

Weeks pass the way storms do, quietly at first, then all at once.

It starts with coffee again. You text her the morning after the storm.

You: So. Preferably no thunder this time?

She responds three minutes later.

Nat: No promises.

You smile at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.

The cafe becomes yours in a way that feels unspoken.

Same table by the window. Same soft hum of conversation. No power outages this time, just late afternoon sunlight spilling gold across wooden floors.

Natasha is already there when you arrive. She always is. You pretend not to notice.

She’s dressed simply, dark jeans, fitted jacket, heels that look expensive but practical. Her posture is relaxed but deliberate, back to the wall, eyes tracking the room before settling on you.

There’s that almost imperceptible shift in her expression when she sees you.

Like something inside her loosens.

“You’re early,” you say as you slide into the seat across from her.

“I’m punctual.”

“You’re fifteen minutes early.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “Prepared.”

You grin. “There it is again.”

“What?”

“That word.”

She studies you. “You notice patterns.”

“Publishing,” you remind her lightly. “I live in subtext.”

Her lips twitch. The flirting is softer now. Less cautious. It slips into the spaces between sentences. You lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Be honest. Did you scope out the exits before I got here?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

You laugh. “I feel very safe right now.”

“Good.”

It’s the way she says it.

Not teasing. Certain.

The cafe dates turn into dinner almost accidentally. You’re standing outside after one of those long coffee afternoons when you say, “I’m starving.”

She glances at you. “There’s a place two blocks down.”

“You’ve memorized nearby restaurants too?”

“Yes.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You’re either incredibly thorough… or secretly planning a coup.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You’ll never know.”

You step closer without thinking, shoulder brushing hers as you fall into step beside her. She doesn’t move away.

The restaurant is small. Dim. Candlelit again, though intentionally this time. The space between you feels different in this kind of lighting, less accidental, more aware.

You catch her looking at you when you’re laughing.

Not glancing. Looking. It does something steady and warm in your chest.

“You do that,” you say lightly.

“Do what?”

“Study me like I’m a puzzle.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Maybe you are.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And I like puzzles.”

The air shifts. You swallow.

It becomes a rhythm. Coffee. Dinner. Walks in the park when the weather cooperates.

Natasha walks half a step behind you at first.

You notice. Eventually, you slow just slightly until she’s beside you instead. She doesn’t comment. But she stays there.

The park smells like grass and sun warmed pavement. Kids run past. Dogs bark. The world feels painfully normal.

You like watching her in normal settings. She doesn’t. She scans the tree line sometimes. Watches people too long. Tracks movement instinctively. But then you say something ridiculous, and she forgets to be on guard for a few seconds.

Those seconds feel important.

“Do you ever relax?” you ask one evening as you sit on a park bench, your shoulders brushing.

“I am relaxed.”

“You just assessed that jogger’s stride.”

“He’s favoring his left knee.”

You stare at her. “How do you even notice that?”

She shrugs lightly. “Habit.”

You rest your chin in your palm. “You’re fascinating.”

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Dangerous word.”

“Fascinating?”

“Yes.”

You smile softly. “Good.”

You don’t ask what she does. You want to.

Curiosity burns at the edges of your restraint. She travels often. Disappears for days sometimes with short texts.

Work trip. Back Thursday. Be safe.

You don’t pry.

Instead, you ask how the flight was. If she slept. If she ate.

She answers vaguely but consistently. And she always calls. The late night phone calls start casually.

One night you text her at 11:42 PM.

Can’t sleep. Storm’s back. Your phone rings thirty seconds later.

Her voice in the dark is different.

Lower. Less guarded.

“Still like storms?” she asks.

You roll onto your side, staring at the faint city light bleeding through your curtains.

“Only when I’m not alone.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m here.”

You smile softly. You talk about nothing and everything.

Your neighbor’s terrible music taste. A book you’re editing. The way she once got stuck in an airport for twelve hours and learned three card tricks out of boredom.

“Show me,” you demand.

“Over the phone?”

“Yes.”

She laughs quietly. It’s rare. You cling to it. The flirting slides in slowly.

“You miss me?” you ask one night, teasing.

A beat. “Yes.”

Your breath catches. “You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.”

“I don’t lie unless necessary.”

“That’s comforting. I think.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“Do I miss you?”

“Yes.”

You smile into the darkness.

“Terribly.”

Silence. But not empty. Charged.

The first time she comes over, it’s unplanned.

She texts: Landed early.

You reply: I have leftover pasta and bad wine.

She’s at your door twenty minutes later. You open it barefoot, hair slightly messy, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. She freezes for half a second.

You notice. You lean against the doorframe. “You going to come in or just evaluate my security system?”

Her eyes flick briefly to the lock.

“Already evaluated.”

“Of course you did.”

She steps inside. Your apartment is small. Warm. Books stacked on the coffee table. A blanket tossed over the couch.

She moves through the space quietly, absorbing details.

“You don’t have many sharp corners,” she observes.

You blink. “That’s… an odd compliment.”

“It reduces accidents.”

You laugh.

“Nat, who hurt you with furniture?”

A faint smirk. Dinner turns into sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out.

Your knees brush. Neither of you move away.

The wine makes you softer. Braver.

“You’re hard to read sometimes,” you admit quietly.

“I don’t mean to be.”

“I know.”

You turn your head to look at her.

“I don’t need to know everything,” you add. “About your job. Or where you go.”

She watches you carefully.

“Why not?”

“Because you always come back.”

Something in her expression shifts. Subtle. Vulnerable.

“That’s not guaranteed,” she says softly.

“It is for me,” you reply.

You don’t know why you’re so sure. But you are.

The flirting escalates in small, deliberate ways. Her hand at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded sidewalk. Your fingers brushing hers accidentally and lingering a second too long. The way she looks at your mouth mid sentence and doesn’t immediately look away anymore.

One evening in the park, you’re sitting close enough that your thighs press together.

“You’re distracting,” she says suddenly.

You grin. “How?”

“You talk with your hands.”

“That’s distracting?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She turns her head slowly. “Because I watch them.”

Your pulse jumps. “Oh.”

Silence stretches. Her hand moves slightly. Close. Not touching.

You make the decision. You lace your fingers with hers.

Her breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. Her grip tightens. Warm. Strong. Steady.

You smile softly, staring ahead at the skyline.

She watches you instead.

The first almost kiss happens on your couch. Late. Past midnight. You’re both laughing about something stupid, some childhood story she shared in fragments.

“You were competitive?” you tease.

“I still am.”

“Prove it.”

Her eyebrow arches.

“How?”

You lean closer without fully realizing.

“Bet you can’t go a full minute without staring at my lips.”

Her gaze drops instantly. You inhale sharply.

“That was immediate,” you whisper.

“You said prove it.”

Her voice is quieter now. Closer. The air thickens.

You’re aware of everything, her knee against yours, her hand resting near your thigh, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with your detergent.

“Nat,” you murmur.

“Yes.”

But neither of you moves that last inch. The tension hums.

Then her phone buzzes. The sound slices through the moment. She pulls back slightly, eyes hardening in a way you haven’t seen directed at you before. She checks the screen.

Something unreadable passes over her face.

“I have to take this,” she says.

You nod, trying not to show the flicker of disappointment.

She steps into your kitchen. Her voice drops into something colder. Sharper. Professional.

You can’t hear the words. Only tone. When she comes back, she looks composed again.

“I have to leave,” she says.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

You stand slowly.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes.”

It’s automatic. Too automatic. You don’t challenge it. You step closer instead.

“Be safe,” you say quietly.

Her hand comes up to your cheek. It’s the first time she’s touched your face. Her thumb brushes lightly under your eye.

“I will.”

Her forehead almost touches yours. Almost. Then she steps back. She leaves like she always does, controlled, precise.

You stand in the quiet after, heart racing, lips tingling with something that didn’t quite happen.

Later that night, your phone buzzes.

Nat: I’m sorry.

You type back immediately.

For what?

Three dots.

Disappear. Reappear.

Nat: For leaving like that.

You stare at the screen.

You always come back, you type.

A long pause.

Then I will.

You smile softly in the dark.

Weeks ago, she was a stranger in candlelight.

Now she’s late night laughter and steady hands and almost kisses interrupted by secrets you don’t ask about.

You don’t know what she does. You don’t know why her voice changes on certain calls. But you know the way she looks at you like you’re something fragile she doesn’t want to break.

And the way she always, always comes back to the cafe. To you. And somewhere between rainstorms and park benches and midnight confessions, you realize. You’re already falling. You just don’t know how far she’s willing to fall with you.

This night settles softer than usual.

No rain. No thunder. Just the low hum of the city outside your apartment window and the faint glow of streetlights striping your ceiling.

You’re on your back in bed, phone pressed to your ear, blanket twisted around your legs. The call has already lasted… you check the time.

Two hours. Neither of you has noticed.

Natasha’s voice is quieter at night. Not tired, quieter in the way people sound when they stop performing the version of themselves the world expects.

“You’re still awake,” she murmurs.

“You called me,” you reply, smiling into the darkness.

“You answered immediately.”

“You wanted me to.”

A soft exhale crosses the line. Not quite a laugh.

“You always know.”

Your stomach tightens faintly at the tone. There’s something different tonight, less guarded edges, more intention in the spaces between words.

You roll onto your side, tucking the phone closer. “Where are you?” you ask.

A brief pause.

“My apartment.”

You’ve never been there. You picture it anyway, clean lines, minimal clutter, everything placed deliberately. You imagine dim lighting, maybe a single lamp on, her leaning against a counter while she talks.

“What time did you get back?” you ask.

“Late.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

A beat. “…Not much.”

You smile softly. “I knew it.”

Silence stretches, but it isn’t empty. You can hear faint movement on her end, fabric shifting, maybe her pacing.

“You worry about me,” she says quietly.

“You give me reasons to.” Another pause. “You don’t even know what I do.”

You trace a line along your blanket absentmindedly.

“I know you disappear sometimes,” you say. “And you come back quieter than before.”

Her breathing shifts slightly through the phone.

“And that doesn’t scare you?”

You think about it honestly.

“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”

“Why?”

Because it’s you, you almost say. Instead “Because you’ve never given me a reason to doubt you.”

The line goes very still. When she speaks again, her voice is lower.

“You trust me.”

It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

A long silence follows, heavier than the others, charged in a way you can’t quite name.

Then, “What are you wearing?” she asks.

Your breath catches. The question is casual in wording. Not casual in tone. You shift under the blanket, suddenly aware of everything, the quiet room, your heartbeat, the way her voice sits directly against your ear.

“…Why?” you manage.

A faint hum of amusement. “Answer.”

Your pulse picks up. “Just a t-shirt,” you say slowly. “And shorts.”

You can practically hear the way her focus sharpens.

“Color?”

You swallow.

“Gray.”

“Soft?”

“Yes.”

Another silence, but warmer now, heavier. You stare at the ceiling.

“What about you?” you ask, softer.

Fabric rustles faintly on her end.

“Tank top,” she says. “Sweats.”

Your mind supplies the image instantly, the defined lines of her arms you’ve noticed a hundred times, the relaxed posture she only allows when she feels safe.

Your stomach flips.

“You’re quiet,” she observes.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

You hesitate. Then lean into it. “You.”

A slow inhale travels through the speaker. “You shouldn’t.”

“Too late.”

Her voice drops another degree. “What exactly are you thinking?”

Your heart pounds. The air in your room feels warmer. You roll onto your back again, pressing your free hand over your eyes.

“That you do this on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“Lower your voice like that,” you murmur. “Ask questions you know will get reactions.”

You hear a faint shift, maybe she’s sitting down now.

“And it works?”

“Yes.”

A soft, almost pleased hum.

You exhale shakily. “You’re bold tonight.”

“I’m comfortable tonight.”

The words settle deep.

“With me?” you ask.

“Yes.”

Your chest tightens. You whisper before you can stop yourself, “Good.”

The quiet stretches. Not awkward, magnetic. You can almost feel her attention through the phone, focused and deliberate like it always is when she looks at you in person.

“You remember the couch,” she says suddenly.

Your stomach drops. “…Yeah.”

“The bet.” Heat crawls up your neck.

“You cheated,” you say weakly.

“I was interrupted.”

Your fingers curl in the blanket. “What would’ve happened?” you ask.

You don’t know why you ask. Maybe you do. Her answer comes slower this time.

“I would have kissed you.”

Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller.

“You sound very certain,” you whisper.

“I am.”

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears now. You force a shaky laugh. “You say that like you’ve already decided.”

“I have.”

The confidence in it makes your stomach tighten. You shift onto your side, instinctively curling closer around the phone.

“Nat…”

“Yes.”

You hesitate, then: “Why haven’t you?”

A long pause. When she speaks, her voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Because if I start,” she says, “I won’t want to stop.”

Your breath leaves you slowly.The words settle heavy and warm under your ribs. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, failing.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur.

“You said I wasn’t.”

“Not like that.”

Silence again.

Then, quieter, “Say my name.”

You blink. “I just did.”

“No,” she says gently. “The way you do when you forget to think first.”

Your pulse spikes. You stare into the dark, nerves sparking along your skin.

“…Natasha.”

The effect is immediate, her inhale sharp, controlled but affected.

You didn’t imagine it.

“Again,” she murmurs.

Your voice drops without meaning to.

“Natasha.”

A faint exhale. You’re gripping the blanket now.

“You like hearing it?” you ask softly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

“Because you don’t say it like anyone else.”

Your throat feels dry.

“You’re unfair tonight.”

“You’re still here.”

You smile faintly, heart racing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The admission sits between you. Warm. Intentional. You close your eyes, letting the quiet hum of the call wrap around you both, two separate spaces somehow feeling shared.

Eventually her voice softens again. “You should sleep.”

“You first.”

A faint chuckle.

“Stay on the line,” you murmur.

“I will.”

Neither of you hangs up.

Your breathing gradually slows, but the warmth remains, lingering under your skin long after words stop.

And somewhere in the quiet, with her presence steady in your ear, you realize the line between almost and inevitable is getting thinner every night.

The next night is warm. Streetlights glow amber. A breeze lifts the hair at your temple. Natasha stands close, closer than usual, one hand tucked in her pocket, the other hanging loose at her side, relaxed in a way that only happens when she’s with you.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say, soft, sincere.

“You thanked me last time.”

“I’m allowed to be grateful twice.”

She huffs a small laugh, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

That look. It steals air from your lungs.

Her voice lowers. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you’re deciding something dangerous.”

Your breath catches. “Maybe I am.”

The shift is immediate, her posture stills, focus narrowing on you with absolute attention. Not analytical. Not tactical.

Wanting.

She takes one step closer. You don’t move back.

“You’re sure?” she asks quietly, like she’s giving you a final exit, her words steady but her breath just a little uneven.

You nod.

“Natasha…”

Her name leaves your mouth softer than you mean it to, and that’s what breaks her restraint.

She cups your face with both hands and kisses you. Deep, immediate, consuming.

Heat floods your chest so fast your knees almost go weak. She presses into you gently but firmly, mouth warm, controlled and starving at once. Her thumb strokes along your jaw as if memorizing it, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment longer than she’ll ever admit.

You gasp softly against her lips, and that’s all it takes.

Her arm slides around your waist, grip strong, lifting you off the ground as though you weigh nothing. You instinctively wrap your legs around her hips, arms around her shoulders as the kiss grows hotter, deeper, more urgent.

You can feel her breathing change against your mouth, quicker, rougher, her control slipping at the edges.

“Nat—” you whisper into the kiss, breathless.

She groans softly, barely audible, but enough to make your stomach tighten.

Your back meets your apartment door, she’s carried you there without breaking the kiss. Her mouth moves against yours with a hunger held back for too many nights of almosts and interrupted moments.

“Open the door,” she murmurs against your lips.

You fumble for the knob without looking, impossible with the way she’s kissing you, with her hands holding you securely against her body.

You manage to turn it. The door swings inward.

Natasha nudges it shut with her foot, slow and deliberate, never letting you down, her lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then your throat, soft, warm, leaving sparks in every place she touches.

Your breath stutters.

Her voice is low, almost a whisper at your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” she says, but there is no distance in her tone now, no doubt, only the ghost of restraint and the burn of everything she’s wanted.

You tighten your grip around her.

“Don’t stop.”

Her answering exhale is a shiver against your skin, a release, a surrender.

She carries you further inside, your legs still around her waist, your hands in her hair, her mouth finding yours again with a heat that leaves your thoughts sliding apart.

Everything else, the city, the night, the weeks of tension, dissolves until there’s only the sound of her breath and your heartbeat and the soft thud of the door clicking shut behind you.

And then the world falls away. The moment deepens. And nothing between you is “almost” anymore.

Natasha carries you deeper into the room, your legs anchored around her waist, her hands gripping you with a certainty that makes your pulse thrum. She kisses you like she’s been waiting weeks, no, months, for permission.

Her mouth is warm, confident, coaxing yours open until the kiss turns slow and hungry all at once. Your fingers slide into her hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from her throat, quiet, but undeniably wanting.

She presses you gently against the wall, bodies aligned from chest to hip. The hard line of her torso meets the soft curve of yours, heat building where your bodies touch. Her hands travel, one spreading along your lower back, the other climbing to the back of your thighs, holding you steady as she deepens the kiss.

Her lips move to your jaw, then under your ear, kissing there with enough softness to make your breath catch, enough intent to make your knees tremble even though they aren’t holding you up.

You turn your head slightly, giving her more space, more access. She takes it, her mouth tracing down your neck, open mouthed kisses slow and deliberate, each one leaving a heat that spreads across your skin.

“Natasha…” you whisper, fingers curling hard into her shoulders.

She breathes against your throat, voice low, husky now. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Her hands slide under the edge of your shirt, cool fingertips against the warm skin of your waist, skimming upward, exploring, learning you. Her touch is reverent and hungry all at once, palms warm as they travel the curve of your sides, memorizing the shape of you.

Your shirt lifts slightly as she moves, exposing more skin to the air, to her mouth when she returns to kiss along your collarbone. She follows the line with slow, lingering attention, her breath brushing your skin, making you shiver.

You tug lightly at her hair again and she lifts her head, kissing you deeply, a kiss that drags a soft sound from your chest you didn’t know you were capable of making. She swallows it with a low hum of approval, her thumb stroking your waist in a steady rhythm meant to ground you, even as she pulls you deeper into the moment.

When she finally lowers you from her arms, your legs feel unsteady, but her hands remain on your hips, grounding, steady. She steps forward, guiding you gently back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of your couch.

You sink onto it. She follows. Kneeling between your legs.

Her hands slide up your thighs slowly, fingers tracing along their curve through fabric, thumbs brushing inward with teasing intention that steals your breath. She watches your reaction closely, pupils dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling just a little faster.

You reach for her face, guiding her back up toward you, and she meets your mouth again, this kiss deeper, slower, more consuming than any before. Her hands slide beneath your shirt again, higher this time, her palms spreading over your ribs, her thumbs brushing the underside of your bra in a way that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch.

You arch slightly into her touch.

She notices.

Her lips leave yours for your throat once more, kissing down its length with open mouthed heat, her teeth grazing lightly along sensitive skin before she soothes the spot with her tongue.

Your fingers tremble where they grip her shoulders.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs against your skin, her breath warm, controlled, barely.

You shake your head, voice soft and breathless. “Don’t stop.”

She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for weeks, and her hands slide up your sides again, slower, deliberate, shaping you, appreciating you, her touch both tender and hungry.

Your shirt lifts higher. Her mouth follows.

Trailing along your sternum. Your ribs. The edge of soft fabric.

Her lips find a spot just beneath your bra, warm skin she kisses once, twice, lingering, and your hips lift instinctively in response, a soft sound catching in your throat.

She smiles against your skin. A low, pleased sound.

Her hands smooth along your waist again, her thumbs tracing soft circles, her body pressing between your legs in a way that sends heat pooling in your core.

She lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, flushed, breathing deeper now.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers.

Not demanding. Inviting.

Your pulse hammers, your body already leaning toward her, your hands sliding to the back of her neck as you pull her closer again.

“I want you,” you breathe.

Her lips crash softly but decisively against yours, a kiss that steals thought, steals breath, steals everything except the heat spiraling low in your stomach and the way her body fits against yours like she’s meant to be there.

Her hands move again, slow, warm, exploring, and you melt into her touch, her mouth, the moment you both stopped pretending you weren’t falling into.

She leans back just enough to pull your shirt over your head. The movement is slow, almost reverent, her eyes never leaving yours as your shirt drops somewhere beside the couch.

Her gaze trails down your body, lingering like a touch.

You’ve never been looked at like that, like she’s memorizing every inch of you, like she’s been starved for this exact moment.

Her fingers slide along your waist again, softer now, tracing the shape of you, her thumbs brushing the dip just above your hips.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

You pull her closer by the front of her shirt, your legs tightening around her hips as you kiss her again, this time with all the heat she’s coaxing out of you. Natasha answers instantly, shifting her weight so she fits between your thighs more solidly, her body pressing flush against yours.

The sensation steals your breath.

Her hands explore without hesitation now, up your sides, across your back, fingers spreading wide as if to feel as much of you as she can. When her palms slide higher, brushing the edge of your bra again, you gasp into her mouth.

She shivers. Actually shivers. Her forehead presses to yours, her breathing unsteady.

“If you keep making sounds like that…” she whispers, her voice breaking just a little, “…I won’t be able to take this slow.”

Your entire body tightens in response.

You drag your lips along her jaw, kissing down the column of her throat, feeling the muscles tense under your mouth. She tilts her head slightly, giving you access, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your back to hold you closer.

Her breathing stutters when you kiss just below her ear.

You whisper, “Maybe I don’t want slow.”

Her fingers tighten on your skin, her breath catching hard.

“Careful,” she murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been holding myself back for weeks.”

You kiss her again, slow but deep, guiding her down until she’s hovering over you, her body pressed along yours from knees to chest. Her shirt drags upward with the movement, exposing warm, taut skin beneath.

Your hands slide up under her shirt, fingertips skating over toned muscle, feeling the way she trembles, barely, but enough.

Her voice breaks on a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

You lift her shirt slowly, feeling each inch of her as it rises. She lets you. When the fabric pools on the floor, there’s nothing between you but heat and breath and weeks of building tension snapping loose all at once.

Natasha kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. Her thigh shifts between yours.

Your back arches. Her mouth finds your shoulder, then your chest, her kisses scattering heat across your skin as her hands roam everywhere, your waist, the curve of your hip, the small of your back, touches turning more urgent each second.

You pull her closer, your bodies fitting together like they’ve done this a hundred times in dreams you never admitted having.

Her lips hover at your ear. Her breath warm. Her voice low. Her hands sliding boldly along your sides.

“Tell me,” she whispers, “if you want more.”

Your answer is immediate, breathless, honest, wanting.

“Yes. More.”

Her exhale is shaky, almost a groan. And the last bit of restraint she’s been holding onto breaks.

You don’t even get a full breath before she forces you back into the cushions, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Her weight follows immediately, warm and solid, her thigh sliding between yours and spreading your legs apart with slow, deliberate pressure.

The contact makes your stomach drop.

Your mouth opens against hers and she takes advantage instantly, the kiss turns messy, hungry, almost impatient. Whatever restraint she had is gone now; she kisses like she’s been holding it in for too long.

For a brief second her fingers thread with yours, squeezing, then she pins your wrists above your head.

Your chest rises under her, trapped between her body and the couch as her mouth drags down your throat in hot, open mouthed kisses that leave heat blooming everywhere she touches.

“You feel that?” she murmurs agains your skin, breath uneven. “What you do to me?”

Her thigh presses up again, slower, harder.

A broken sound escapes you before you can swallow it back.

Natasha lets out a low, satisfied exhale, almost a chuckle.

Her hand slides down your side, no hesitation now, fingers curling around your waist and pulling you tighter into her. You feel the tension in her body, the way she holds you like she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she loosens her grip even a little.

When she kisses you again it’s rougher, teeth catching your lip before she soothes it with her tongue, stealing the breath right out of you.

Your legs tighten around her instinctively.

She groans, deep, unguarded, the sound vibrating through you.

Her hips move in response, slow and heavy, dragging friction through you that makes your back arch before you can stop it. She pulls back just enough to watch your reaction.

Her pupils are blown wide.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re already shaking.”

Her hands slide down and lift you into her lap in one smooth motion, forcing you to straddle her thighs. The new angle pulls a startled sound from your throat.

Her grip on your hips tightens instantly.

“Y/n,” she mutters, but she’s the one guiding you down, setting the pace, slow, rolling, deliberate. “You won’t last if you keep doing that.”

Your hands clutch her shoulders, forehead falling against hers as your breathing tangles together.

“Look at me,” she says softly.

You do, and her composure cracks.

She pulls you down harder against her, guiding your movement with unmistakable intent, each motion pulling another unsteady breath from you.

“That’s it,” she whispers, almost approving. “Don’t hold back now.”

Her mouth moves restlessly along your jaw and throat, like she can’t decide where she wants you most. Her voice drops lower, rough with want.

“I’ve imagined this,” she admits quietly. “You like this… don’t you? Being handled.”

Your fingers dig into her.

She exhales sharply and presses her forehead to yours.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’m not stopping.”

She breaks the kiss, both of you gasping for air. She looks down at your heaving chest, her hands still on your hips. She bites her lip, looking back up at you with those intense dark eyes. "God, you're responsive..." 

Natasha tightens her grip on your hips, pulling you even closer, causing you to let out a small whimper. "And those sounds you make... fuck." 

She leans in again, kissing along your jaw and neck.

Natasha nips at your pulse point, making you gasp and tilt your head to the side, giving her more room. She takes advantage, kissing and sucking along your neck, her hands sliding up from your hips to your ribcage. She pauses there, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts.

"You're so sensitive," she murmurs against your skin, her voice sending shivers down your spine. "I wonder how you'd react to my mouth here..." Her thumbs slowly circle upwards, barely grazing the undersides of your breasts.

You arch into her touch instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. She groans softly in response, the sound vibrating against your neck. 

Your hands slide up her back, gripping her shoulders as she explores your sensitive skin. She pulls back to look at you, her pupils huge and dark with arousal.

She breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck and chest. "I need you," she pants against your skin, her fingers trembling as they unhook your bra.

"Then take what you want," you breathe out, your voice shaking with need. Your hands move to her face, thumbs gently tracing her high cheekbones.

"Please, Natasha... I've wanted this for so long." Your hips roll against hers instinctively, seeking more friction. "Don't hold back with me." You pull her back to your mouth, kissing her desperately, like you're both drowning and each other are the only air left.

Natasha kisses you back with equal desperation, her hands trembling as they push your bra aside. She breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses down your chest, her tongue swirling around one hardened peak before taking it into her mouth. 

You gasp and arch into her touch, your fingers tangling in her red hair.

"I’m in love you," she whispers against your skin between kisses. "I love you so much." Her hands shake as she pushes your pants down.

"I love you too," you whisper back, your voice breaking with emotion as you lift your hips to help her remove your pants. 

You're completely exposed now, trembling and open before her.

"I love you more than anything... Please, Natasha..." You reach for her, pulling her back up to kiss you fiercely. "Make love to me... " Your legs wrap around her waist instinctively, pulling her close.

She kisses you back with so much love and passion that it brings tears to your eyes. She slowly pushes you back onto the couch, breaking the kiss only to trail her lips down your neck and chest.

"I'll make love to you " she whispers huskily. "Slowly and thoroughly, so you'll feel how much I love you." She spreads your legs gently and settles between them, looking up at you with so much tenderness. "I want you to feel every single touch..."

Your trembling hands move to her belt, fumbling with the buckle. She helps you, kicking her jeans off while simultaneously unhooking her own bra. She hovers over you, bare and real and breathtaking.

"God, you're beautiful," you breathe, your eyes trailing over her curves in the dim light.

She smiles softly, lowering herself back down to meet your body with hers. "So are you." 

Her lips find yours again as she settles between your thighs, skin against skin. The contact makes you both gasp.

Natasha's body is warm and soft where it meets yours, her skin sliding against yours in the most perfect way. 

She kisses you deeply, her tongue tasting every part of your mouth like she's memorizing you. Her breasts press against yours, nipples hard and sensitive, making you both whimper into the kiss. 

She grinds her hips slowly, letting you feel how ready she is. "I want to take my time..." she whispers against your lips. "But I don't know if I can."

You pull her into another deep, desperate kiss, your legs wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. Your hands roam over her body, touching and memorizing every curve and plane.

"Don't hold back," you pant against her mouth. "I need you... Now." Your hips lift to meet hers instinctively. "Please, Natasha..." Your fingers dig into her back as you break the kiss to trail kisses down her neck and collarbone.

Natasha's breath hitches at your words and actions, her hips moving in response. She's so wet that you can feel it against your own heat, making you both gasp and moan. 

"Fuck," she whispers, burying her face in your neck. "You're gonna make me lose control." She kisses your neck roughly, biting gently before soothing the sting with her tongue.

You tilt your head to give her more access, your hands sliding down to grip her ass and pull her closer.

"Then lose control," you whisper back, arching into her. "I want all of it... I want you wild and needy..." 

Your words seem to break the last of her non existing restraint. She kisses you messily, hips moving with more purpose now.

"You have no idea what you do to me..." she pants against your mouth. "I've wanted you like this for so long..."

She slides down your body, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along the way. Her hands grip your inner thighs, spreading them wider as she settles between your legs. She looks up at you one last time, dark green eyes full of worship and desire, before she lowers her mouth to kiss your hipbone, then your inner thigh, then finally her tongue is sliding through your folds.

"Oh god—" You cry out, fingers immediately tangling in her hair.

She groans against you, the vibration sending shocks through your entire body.

Natasha's tongue works magic, licking and sucking at your most sensitive spots. She hooks her arms under your thighs, pulling your legs over her shoulders to get deeper access. Her mouth is relentless, kissing, licking, sucking, driving you wild with pleasure.

"Shh..." She whispers against you when you moan too loudly, "...let me worship you." Her fingers join her tongue, pushing inside you slowly.

Your back arches off the couch at the invasion, a loud cry ripping from your throat. "Natasha!" 

Your hands pull at her hair, hips bucking against her face. She groans in response, the sound vibrating through you as she starts to move her fingers in and out, curling them just right to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision white. 

"Oh god, oh god, oh god..." You chant, head rolling back as pleasure builds quickly.

Natasha keeps the perfect rhythm, her tongue flicking against your clit while her fingers move inside you. She feels you getting closer and closer, your legs shaking over her shoulders.

Without warning, she closes her mouth over your clit and sucks hard, her fingers curling even deeper.

"Fuck!" You scream, entire body convulsing as an intense orgasm rips through you. "Natasha, fuck, yes!" Your hands pull at her hair, holding her mouth against you as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

Natasha doesn't let up, keeping her mouth and fingers moving until she's wrung every last drop of pleasure from you. 

When you finally collapse back against the couch, chest heaving, she lifts her head, her face shiny and wet from your release.

"Look at me," she commands softly. 

You open your eyes, finding hers intense and dark.

"I want you to see what you do to me." She slowly pulls her fingers out of you and brings them to her mouth, sucking them clean with a satisfied groan.

You don’t wait to recover, you push her back gently, making her lie down on the couch. You straddle her hips, your hands sliding up her body to cup her breasts. She watches you with heavy lidded eyes, already breathless from pleasing you. 

You lean down and capture one nipple in your mouth, sucking hard while your hand squeezes the other breast.

"Fuck..." She gasps, arching into your touch. "Baby..." Her hands grip your hair tightly. "I need..." She trails off as you kiss down her stomach.

You push her thighs apart gently, settling between them. Looking up at her, you see her biting her lip, green eyes dark with anticipation. You kiss her inner thigh first, then the other, teasing her. 

When you finally lick a stripe up her wetness, she moans loudly, fingers immediately tangling in your hair.

"Yes," she whispers, lifting her hips off the couch. "Please, baby..." Your tongue pushes inside her, and she cries out your name, her thighs trembling around your head.

You work her with your tongue and fingers, learning what she likes best. You find that she loves it when you suck on her clit while curling your fingers inside her, hitting that perfectly sensitive spot. 

She spreads her legs wider, giving you full access. Her wetness coats your face as you eat her out hungrily, determined to make her come undone like she did for you.

"Deeper... Right there..." She pants, grinding against your mouth. "God, you're good with that tongue..."

You suck harder on her clit, your fingers moving faster, curling perfectly. Natasha's hands tighten in your hair, pulling you deeper. 

Her hips buck against your mouth frantically.

"I'm close," she gasps. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't—" She cuts off with a sharp cry as her orgasm hits, her thighs clamping around your head, body shaking as she comes hard against your mouth. You keep licking through it until she's gently pushing you away. 

You finally ease off only when she's gently pushing at your shoulders, spent and breathless.

When you lift your head, you see her completely wrecked, chest heaving, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. She looks absolutely blissed out.

"Baby..." She whispers, reaching for you.

You crawl up her body, settling against her chest. Her arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you close, hearts pounding against each other. She kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, gentle now, tender.

You nuzzle into her touch, smiling softly. You're more than okay, you're happy, sated, and completely in love. 

You turn your head to press a soft kiss to her jaw, then burrow into the crook of her neck. 

"Mmm," you hum contentedly, wrapping your arm around her waist to pull her even closer. "I love you." You breathe out softly, placing a gentle kiss on her pulse point. "So much."

Natasha melts at your soft touches and gentle words. She turns her face to press a tender kiss to your forehead, holding you close like she's afraid you might disappear. 

"I love you more," she whispers back, voice thick with emotion. 

Her hand slides up your side possessively, fingers splaying out on your stomach. "So much more." She shifts closer, until there's no space between you, legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, hearts beating as one. She presses another soft kiss to your hair. 

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Stay with me,” she murmurs. “Just like this.”

The hum of voices filled the lecture hall. Students shuffled notebooks and half-empty coffee cups, scrolling through slides as the professor set up at the front desk. Natasha Romanoff sat in her usual seat - second row, in the middle. 

Her laptop was open, almost full page of notes from last week’s lecture. She didn’t need to take them, she already remembered most of it, but it was easier to look busy than approachable. 

Then the professor called out her name, “Romanoff, you are with (L/N). You will be partners for the mid-term research.” 

Natasha blinked once, eyes flicking up toward the voice. You were sitting near a window, head tilted slightly, sunlight catching on your hair. You looked calm and focused. She didn’t know you. She thought she’d seen you in class before maybe once or twice. You always sat quietly, never raising your hand, never whispering to the people around you. 

Still, Natasha nodded in your direction when your eyes finally met hers. You gave a small, polite smile. There was something in it. Soft, but distant. 

When the lecture ended, she packed up quickly, as always. The professor’s words replayed in her head: partners. 

Natasha wasn’t good at working with people. Not because she couldn’t, she just didn’t like the awkward pauses, the shallow introductions, the way people either wanted too much from her or nothing at all. 

Still, a project was a project. She could handle it. 

She spotted you walking toward the door, notebook in hand, “Hey,” Natasha said, raising her voice slightly to catch your attention. 

But there was no response. 

You kept walking. Maybe you didn’t hear her. Natasha frowned, quickening her pace. 

“Hey!” she said again, louder this time. Still nothing. You reached the hallway, the crowd of people around you. 

Natasha's jaw tightened. She wasn’t used to being ignored, “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath. 

~ 

The place smelled like espresso and cinnamon. Wanda Maximoff was already sitting by the window, red sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, laptop open. She looked up when Natasha slid into the seat across from her. 

“You look like you want to murder someone,” Wanda said, smirking, “Midterms?” 

“Group project,” Natasha muttered, stirring the coffee she bought, “Professor paired me up with someone from our seminar. (L/N).” 

“Oh, her,” Wanda said immediately, recognition flashing in her eyes, “She sits near the window, right?” 

Natasha nodded, “Yeah. I tried to talk to her after class, and she just ignored me. Walked off.” 

Wanda blinked, “She ignored you?” 

Natasha leaned back in her chair, annoyed but mostly at herself now, “I thought she was being rude. So I followed her out. Tried again, nothing.” 

Wanda frowned, setting her mug down slowly, “Natasha… you didn’t know?” 

“Didn’t know what?” 

Wanda’s expression softened, almost pitying, “She’s deaf.” 

The spoon in Natasha’s hand stilled. For a moment, all she could do was stare. 

“What?” she said finally, voice small. 

Wanda nodded, “Yeah. I think she lost her hearing a few years ago. I’ve had a few classes with her before. She’s really sweet.” 

Natasha leaned back slowly, the chair creaking under her weight. Her eyes dropped to the swirling coffee in her cup. 

Deaf. 

The word hit her like a slap she hadn’t seen coming. Her mind replayed the scene in the hallway, you walking ahead, calm, unaware, while she kept calling your name, growing sharper with every step. She could still hear the edge in her own voice, the irritation. The way she’d muttered unbelievable like it was your fault. 

“Shit,” Natasha muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

Wanda arched an eyebrow, “So I take it you didn’t know.” 

“No,” Natasha said. The word came out too fast, too harsh, “No, I didn’t. I just thought she...” she stopped herself. The rest sounded stupid now. She let out a slow breath, “I thought she was ignoring me.”  

Wanda tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eye despite the sympathy underneath, “Not everyone who doesn’t talk back to you is ignoring you, Nat.” 

Natasha shot her a half-hearted glare, “You’re hilarious.” 

Wanda smiled into her cup, “You feel bad now, don’t you?” 

Natasha didn’t answer. But the guilt settled low in her stomach. She hated getting people wrong. 

“She must think I’m a jerk,” Natasha muttered after a moment. 

“Probably not,” Wanda said gently, “She’s used to people not realizing right away. But you could apologize. You know, like a normal person.” 

Natasha gave her a flat look, “You mean walk up and say ‘sorry I acted like an idiot because I didn’t realize you’re deaf?’” 

“Maybe not those exact words,” Wanda said with a soft laugh, “You could learn how to say it in sign language.” 

Natasha blinked, “Sign language?” 

“Yeah,” Wanda said casually, scrolling through her phone, “It’s not that hard to learn the basics. Here.” She turned the screen toward Natasha, a short video of someone signing sorry with a simple circular motion over their chest. 

Wanda smiled, “See? You could do that. She’d probably appreciate it.” 

Natasha leaned back again, arms crossed, pretending to think it over, but her mind was already spinning. 

She’d never been one for gestures, not the kind that mattered, anyway. But there was something about you, that made her want to try. 

Maybe it was guilt. 

Maybe it was curiosity. 

Maybe it was something else entirely. 

By the time Wanda was finishing her tea, Natasha had already pulled out her phone and typed in: Basic ASL signs. 

Wanda smirked, “You’re looking it up already, aren’t you?” 

Natasha didn’t look up from the screen, “Shut up.” 

“Mm-hm. Sure.” 

Maybe this was ridiculous. 

Maybe it was the first thing in a long time that didn’t feel like it. 

~ 

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the lecture hall, pale and gold, turning the air into something soft and hazy. Natasha walked in earlier than usual, her fingers twitching slightly around the strap of her bag. She’d practiced for nearly an hour last night, first in front of the mirror, then in front of a YouTube video, then again without looking, until she was sure she’d got it right. 

Well. Mostly sure. 

Her mind replayed the motion over and over again. It looked easy enough until she tried to do it with you standing there in front of her, watching. 

You were already there, in your usual seat near the window. Same calm focus. Same little sunlight halo catching in your hair. The sight made something shift quietly in her chest. 

Natasha exhaled and crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. 

You looked up as her shadow fell across your desk. Natasha hesitated, and then her fingers moved. 

The motion wasn’t graceful. It was stiff, almost hesitant, her hand brushed her chest, the small circular motion coming out more awkward than she’d hoped. But she did it anyway. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Your eyes widened, first in surprise, then in something brighter. The corners of your lips lifted into a grin so wide it made Natasha’s heart stutter. 

You straightened in your seat, eyes sparkling, and your hands immediately began to move. It was a blur of motion, a rhythm all its own. There was joy in it, Natasha could tell. 

Except she had absolutely no idea what you were saying. 

Natasha’s brain tried to catch up, she recognized maybe one or two signs from the videos she’d watched, but the rest was gone in a rush of graceful movement. It left her frozen, eyes darting helplessly between your hands and your face. 

“I...” she started, then stopped, cheeks heating fast, “I, uh… didn’t get any of that.” 

You paused mid-motion, realization dawning across your face. A soft pink touched your cheeks, and you pressed your lips together. Natasha rubbed at the back of her neck, embarrassed. 

“I’m sorry,” she added quickly, “I just... I only learned like two signs. You were really fast.” 

That’s when you spoke, your voice cutting gently through the noise of the room. 

“Oh,” you said, softly, “Sorry. I got a little excited.” 

Natasha froze. Your voice wasn’t what she expected. It was quiet, yes, but warm, low and rich in a way that sank straight under her skin. It sounded like sunlight filtered through glass, imperfect but impossibly soft. 

And just like that, she forgot how to breathe. 

You looked at her, shy now, your eyes flicking down for a second before meeting hers again, “That was good,” you said softly, “But you don’t have to. I can read lips.” 

Her shoulders eased a little. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until then. 

“Oh,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to look casual and failing miserably, “Still… I wanted to try.” 

You tilted your head slightly, a small, curious motion and then, you spoke again. 

“Thank you, Natasha.” 

Her name left your lips so gently it barely felt like sound. More like a warmth that brushed through the air between you. 

Natasha froze. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it carried something that made her pulse stutter. A quiet strength. A softness she hadn’t expected.  

The professor called the class to order then, breaking the small, delicate moment hanging between you. Natasha sat down beside you for the first time, heart still racing a little too fast for comfort. 

As the lecture began, she caught herself glancing sideways, at the curve of your hand as you wrote, the faint concentration in your eyes as you watched the professor’s lips. 

~ 

Over the next few weeks, something subtle began to shift between you and Natasha. What started as awkward coordination over notes and shared slides turned into quiet routines, meeting early before class to outline ideas, staying after lectures when the room was nearly empty and the light outside turned honey-gold against the glass. 

Natasha found herself watching you more than she should. You had this way of moving, deliberate and calm, your expressions clear and alive. She learned to read them, to recognize the way your lips pressed together when you were trying not to laugh. 

Her signing got better, slowly but surely. The motions that once felt stiff began to loosen, to find rhythm. You always noticed her effort, always smiled when she got something right, and every time she saw that smile, something fluttered in her chest. 

Still, you didn’t speak often. You signed most of your conversations, and Natasha liked that. It made her listen differently, not with her ears, but her eyes, her patience. But sometimes, when you did decide to speak, it caught her off guard every single time. 

The first time had been in the library. She’d said something sarcastic, lips twitching into a smirk, and you’d laughed, an actual laugh, soft and breathy, before replying out loud. Natasha swore she forgot the rest of the sentence she’d meant to say. The sound of your voice did something to her she couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t about volume or tone, it was the way it felt, something precious you didn’t give away often. 

After that, it kept happening in small, unassuming moments. When you said her name to get her attention. When you quietly read part of your notes aloud, forgetting she was listening. When you muttered an absent “thanks” after she handed you your coffee. 

Every time, Natasha froze. Her pulse jumped, her chest tightened, and she’d have to look away before she gave herself away. She wasn’t used to feeling like this, to being the one caught off balance. But around you, it kept happening. 

By the time the project was nearly done, Natasha realized she wasn’t thinking about research anymore. She looked forward to your meetings for reasons that had nothing to do with work. 

~ 

The library was nearly empty, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights mixing with the soft scratching of pens and the occasional rustle of paper. It was finals week, and exhaustion hung thick in the air like fog. 

Natasha sat beside you, elbow propped on the table, eyes fixed on her laptop screen. Her notes had started to blur hours ago. The text no longer made sense, just lines and shapes that refused to stay still. 

You sat across from her, head bowed over your notebook, the glow from your small desk lamp painting a halo around you. Your handwriting was steady, neat even now, though your eyelids were starting to droop. 

Natasha had noticed. She’d noticed everything. 

The way you tried to hide a yawn behind your hand. 

The way your pen slipped a little from your fingers. 

The way your focus wavered, but you kept going anyway. 

She leaned back in her chair, watching the shadows move across your face. You didn’t see her looking. You rarely did. Natasha had gotten good at timing her glances, at pretending to be focused on her screen whenever your eyes might flick up. 

You kept writing until your head dipped forward once, twice and finally stayed there, your cheek resting against your folded arm. Your pen rolled away, landing softly on the open page. 

Natasha stared for a moment. 

Your face looked softer like that. Peaceful. The kind of peace she didn’t often see, didn’t often feel. She waited a few seconds, making sure you were really asleep, before moving quietly. 

The air was cool in the library. She noticed you shiver once, just barely, and before she even thought about it, she shrugged off her hoodie. The soft grey fabric still smelled faintly like coffee and her shampoo. She hesitated only a moment before draping it over your shoulders, careful not to wake you. 

When the hoodie settled around you, you sighed and relaxed deeper into the chair. 

Something twisted in her chest, a strange mix of tenderness and panic. 

She should go. She should pack up and leave, let you sleep. But she couldn’t make herself move. 

Instead, she sat back down. 

Her eyes lingered on your hand resting near the edge of the table, your fingers curled loosely against the page. She wanted to touch them. Just once. See what it would feel like. 

But she didn’t. 

She leaned back, crossing her arms, her gaze drifting up to the window. Outside, the world was quiet, the city lights blurring into soft gold streaks against the night. 

~ 

The evening was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt full rather than empty. A soft hum of the radiator, the faint tapping of rain against the window, the warm golden lamplight that softened the edges of everything. 

Natasha sat cross-legged on the floor of your dorm, back leaning against the side of your bed. A half-finished mug of tea rested near her knee. You sat across from her, a deck of cards lay scattered between you, half-forgotten from a game. 

Natasha tapped the floor to get your attention, “You don’t talk much,” Natasha said quietly. 

You froze, just for a moment. 

You thought for a moment. Your hands moved before your voice did, “It feels strange,” you signed, knowing she could follow most of it now, “To talk when I can’t hear myself.” 

Natasha blinked, then she spoke, “I like hearing you speak.” 

Surprise flickered across your face. Natasha's eyes softened as soon as she saw it. 

“I mean,” she added quickly, fingers brushing through her hair, “You have a really nice voice.” 

You smiled, your hands still resting in your lap, “You really think so?” you asked, using your voice.  

Natasha nodded, her throat feeling oddly tight, “Yeah. I do.” 

For a moment, neither of you moved. Natasha couldn’t move her gaze from you. 

You tilted your head a little, studying her, then said, “You’re staring.” 

Natasha huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, “Yeah,” she admitted, “I guess I am.” 

You hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing over the back of her hand. She didn’t pull away. 

“I like you,” you said softly, the words barely more than a breath. 

Natasha’s lips parted, her pulse skipped. For a second she looked like she might forget every sign she knew. Then, a small smile curved her mouth. 

“I like you too,” she signed. 

she's not like the type to pull you somewhere when she's mad, she does that shit privately and doesn't make it obvious. why? people will talk and frankly it's none of their business - after a mission she looks all bloodied, and messy and honestly you find it kind of hot

and you DEFINITELY will say that to her too, and she finds it funny of course, giving you a small look before realizing you're dead serious and on top of that you look like you want her to absolutely eat you alive.

whenever this happens you two always end up in her room, you on her thigh and her hands on your hips. she guides you through it, moving your hips back and forth - up and down, also letting you absolutely unravel on top of her and just on her thigh in general. kissing on your skin, calling you gorgeous and other cute pet names. her voice very soft, tender. she treats you with care, like you are a princess. she makes sure to touch ALL the right places to make you squirm, whine and have any other pretty noises fall out of your mouth - it's like music to her ears, she can't get enough of.

she bites, marks, whatever but it's usually in obvious places for people to ask questions, but she never makes it obvious that's it's her. she is just silently proud of herself

she has special names for you, and leaves scratch marks on your shoulder or small nail idents from holding you

she lovesss to hold your wrist together as you wither beneath her, calling you beautiful, perfect - she puts her fingers up to your mouth and commanding you, not asking you - to suck. and you do. of course you do - you make eye contact with her as you do so, your mouth sucking, and lapping greedily at her fingers before she pulls them away with a small pop.

"i think that's enough now" earning a whine from you "don't worry, im not done" a genuine smile forming on her face

she mover her fingers inside you - mimicking each noise you make with a grin on her face.

"fuck you're so hot" you moan out, and she cocks her eyebrow "hm, yeah?" tilting her head as she curls her fingers inside you. "tell me how that feels"

and of course you can't, your head falls back into a pillow and all you can see are stars as your belly fills up with a familiar warmth

"awh.. so talkative just a minute ago." she hummed. she leaned closer and puts her thumb on your clit, rubbing it as her fingers go in and out of you. her mouth finding yours - swallowing each and every one of your moans whines her mouth leaving yours and going down your skin, leaving a trail of warmness all across your body as she marks you and makes her way to your nipples. then she starts to suck and kiss them.

you arch into her touch, like your body is begging for hers even though the words can't even form in your mouth. and she loves it so much. she can feel you on your fingers, how close you are, how your walls close in on her. she can't help but moan softly with you. "i can feel you, you're close.." she spoke softly, looking up at you from your breast as she kissed and marked them.

"cmon.. just cum on my fingers" she cooed, egging you on. rubbing and squeezing your side with her free hand. moving her head up to keep her eyes on you while you do unravel on her hand.

she watches your breath shallow out, your eyes locking in on hers as you do cum. your mouth falling agape as your orgasm comes over you - and of course she helps you through it. slowing her hand down. feeling your body also slow down, she watches the smile appear on your face as you pull her down for a soft kiss. "mmn i love you" you mumble against her lips "i love you so much"

you make sure to tell her how pretty she looks, how well she did as she does the same for you. "you ready to do some more?" she whispers against your lips.

you whine at the idea and immediately nod.

━═━────༺༻────━═━ ━═━────༺༻────━═━

Everyone said she was doing better. They didn’t see the days she spent wallowing in bed, staring at the ceiling until her eyes ached, letting messages pile up and meals go cold. They only saw her when she surfaced—clean clothes, practiced smile, the right words at the right time. But the version of her they praised felt like a role she couldn’t remember auditioning for. And in the quiet, she kept wondering: what if this was all there was?

She really thought she was better.

There were weeks—whole weeks—when things felt light enough to carry. She made plans. She laughed at jokes she actually found funny. She even caught herself humming in the kitchen once, and it almost made her cry, that quiet, ordinary joy.

But something shifted. Slowly, then all at once. The lightness turned brittle. The laughter rang hollow. She started canceling plans again, deleting messages before sending them, sleeping through sunrises without meaning to.

It wasn’t like before.

This time, the hole didn’t feel like falling. It felt like sinking. Like the darkness was made of syrup, thick and clinging, pulling her down in slow motion while everyone above thought she was still standing.

And the scariest part wasn’t just being back here again.

It was how uncomfortable it felt to fight it now. Like dragging her limbs through quicksand just to stay in place. Like even hope had started whispering, what’s the point?

She didn’t want to give up.

But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep pretending not to.

it went unnoticed by her closest friends.

They still came to her with their breakups, their family drama, their spiral-texts at 2 a.m. She answered them all, every time, because that’s who she was — the “strong one.” The listener. The one who always knew what to say.

No one ever asked how she was, not really. And if they did, it was in passing, like a polite formality before diving into their own chaos.

She used to find purpose in that. Being needed. Being useful. But now it just felt like everyone had mistaken her for a lifeboat—never wondering if she, too, was sinking.

She smiled through it, nodded in all the right places.

But sometimes, in the middle of someone else's crisis, her thoughts would drift. Not to advice, not to comfort, but to silence. A silence so loud it made her stomach ache.

And when the calls ended and the messages stopped, when the night was quiet and her room was dark again, that silence would creep back in and curl around her like smoke.

She wasn’t anyone’s therapist.

She was just tired. And no one seemed to notice that she was unraveling, piece by quiet piece.  

She relapsed again just to try and cope with her twiddling feelings of loneliness and hurt.  No one noticed.

She was supposed to be a success story after all, so why would they? 

The nights she spent crying with so much pain in her heart and nothing to do with it, left with no one to talk to. No one to really hear her. Only the walls would be the one to witness the breakdowns. 

Her friends and girlfriend hadn’t even noticed.

Not Natasha, with her sharp eyes and softer heart, always too caught up in trying to fix everyone else. Not Yelena, who could read a battlefield like a map but somehow missed the war happening behind her best friend’s eyes.

So here she lay, heart aching and so broken and alone, left with nothing but the thoughts she tried so hard to outrun.

The ones that whispered, maybe they’d finally notice if you were gone.

She hated that thought. Feared it. But it had been showing up more often lately, quiet at first, then louder, until it filled the spaces even music couldn’t drown out.

Her legs and arms throbbed beneath the blanket — not from exhaustion, but from the marks she left behind on the nights she needed the pain to feel real. Nights when the emotional weight was too heavy to carry in silence, so she carved it into skin, hoping the sting might drown out everything else.

It wasn’t about attention. It never was. It was survival in the ugliest form — a desperate attempt to keep from disappearing entirely.

She stared at the ceiling, eyes dry now — not because she’d stopped crying, but because she had nothing left to give.

It wasn’t that she wanted to die. She just didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Didn’t want to keep dragging this hollow body through a world that only saw what she pretended to be.

And the thought that cut the deepest was the one she could never say out loud:

I was supposed to be the success story.

She’d survived the worst. She’d fought, healed, smiled again — wasn’t that supposed to be the end of the story?

But here she was, still sinking. Still hurting. Still alone.

“Kate, please! Don’t leave…I need you!” You begged your girlfriend through the phone as tears ran down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry Y/n, but it’s over.” Then she hung up. Your phone fell from your hand as your whole body started to tremble. Your mouth fell open with a silent sob as you let her words echo in your mind.

It’s over.

How could she do this to you? You damn near gave up everything for her and she couldn’t even bother to break up with you face-to-face. You even came out to your mother for her only for her to leave you because she couldn’t come out to hers. How could you be so stupid?

Your attachment issues had made you blind in so many relationships which always led to you getting taken advantage of at the end. You should have known better. You knew it was dangerous how attached you had gotten to her in such a short amount of time yet you brushed it off telling yourself she was the one. That she was different. That she wouldn’t hurt you. Jesus, what were you even doing? And now it doesn’t mean a thing.

You sobbed into your pillow as you let sleep take over. This was the final nail in the coffin. You had lost the last person in your life that kept you going. If you didn't do something to get yourself out, you were most definitely going to get completely lost in a spiral…again.

The next morning you woke up with a pounding headache. You got up and slowly walked into the kitchen of your one bedroom apartment to take some advil. As you opened your fridge to get water your eyes diverted to the business card stuck to the door with a magnet. Your college counselor gave it to you a while ago. It had the number to a therapist she had suggested you called. You didn’t listen to her before but now you could definitely use a therapist.

After you took advil, you took the card and your phone and took a seat on your couch. You typed in the number and made the call.

“Good morning, how can I help you?” A sweet secretary answered.

“Good morning um…I was hoping to make an appointment with Dr…” you read the name on the card, “Harkness?”

“Of course. Give me one second while I look at the opening she has.”

“Okay…” you waited patiently.

“…She has an opening tomorrow at 12:30. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, that’s perfect actually.”

“Great. We’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” you hung up, “I hope this helps,” you said to yourself.

The next day rolled around rather fast, and soon you were sitting in the lobby of Dr. Harkness’s building, nervously waiting for your name to be called out. You fidgeted with your hands and bounced your knee trying to get over your overbearing anxiety.

Eventually, the secretary called your name and led you down a hall. She led you into a nice, spacious room. She then closed the door behind you, leaving you alone, well alone with Dr. Harkness. There was a leather couch with a matching chair across from it, there was a coffee table in between the two with fidget toys on it, and in the corner of the room was a decent sized desk with a laptop, where Agatha sat typing away.

“Um, hi…” you said nervously. Agatha looked up from her laptop, her dark blue eyes locking onto yours. She looked you up and down before giving you a small smile.

“Hello there. You must be Y/n. Please, take a seat.” She gestured to the couch. You quickly walked over and took a seat on the couch. She sat down across from you with a notepad on her lap. She scanned you for a second, taking you in and noticing your fidgety hands.

“Those are for you to use, hon,” she said referring to the fidgets on the table, “You don’t have to be scared to use them. Here,” she handed you a one. You shyly took it from her.

“Thank you. I just…this is a first for me and I didn’t know what to expect.” She gave you a reassuring smile, taking in how nervous you were. She was starting to feel a strange attraction towards you.

“Don’t worry, hon. This is a safe place. Just relax. I’m here to help you, not judge you.”

“Okay…” She jotted something down in her notebook, still keeping a small smile on her face.

“Alright, what brings you in today?”

“…Me and my girlfriend, well now ex-girlfriend Kate, broke up two days ago and I felt like I needed to do something before I spiraled.” She hummed, writing down more notes in her notebook. Her eyes darted from the paper to you, studying you closely as you spoke.

“I see. How did your relationship with her end? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“She said that she wanted to come out to her mom because she hadn’t and pushed me to do the same. My mom reacted negatively in a way I didn’t expect and when I looked for her comfort she broke up with me. I’m guessing she got scared.” She hummed again, still writing in her notebook. She could already see the damage your past relationships had done to you.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, dear. It sounds like she left you in a very vulnerable state. But I have to ask, how long were you two together?”

“Nine months…she was my first girlfriend.”

“First girlfriend huh? Why now, if I may?”

“Well I realized I liked women late in life and I couldn’t really be open about it because I didn’t know how my mom would react so I hid that part of me by dating men.”

“I see. Did any of them make you happy?”

“I…I don’t know. They were all very sweet at first but after we had sex, they all sort of distanced themselves- I thought Kate would be different.” She was starting to see a pattern here. You became incredibly vulnerable to the first person who showed you affection, to the point where they were able to walk all over you. You clearly were easy to manipulate.

“Okay. I just have some more questions. Is that okay?”

“Yeah that’s okay.”

“How was your relationship with your mother?”

“It was a bit rocky. She was good to me when I was younger but as I grew up she became my bully a bit. She would criticize my appearance and my weight which caused me to get an eating disorder. Then she kinda just…stopped.” She raised an eyebrow as you spoke, scribbling down a few more notes in her book. Her eyes then glanced up at you, studying your appearance for a second. Your body type was fairly small, it was clear that you had been dealing with a lot of mental health issues for a long time.

“I’m so truly sorry this happened to you. Was she the only cause or were there other factors that went into it?”

“One of my breakups was the tip of the iceberg. My mental health got really bad and I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything. My mom had to take me to the hospital after she found me passed out due to dehydration.”

Her eyes widened at that. This was even worse than she thought. You were truly so vulnerable. Mommy issues, attachment issues and an eating disorder. She made a mental note to herself to check up on that and any other possible disorders.

“You poor thing. How long ago was that?”

“Uhh I think a year now? My memory has been kind of fuzzy after that.” She looked up at you with a mixture of shock and concern on her face. It was no wonder why you were having such a hard time getting over Kate. You clearly didn’t know how to handle yourself on your own. You were too broken and you didn’t even know it.

“Have you ever been diagnosed with anything, dear?”

“Depression.”

“Just depression?” She couldn’t shake the suspicion that there was more than just depression. Her eyes scanned your body again, looking for more indicators of what was going on with you.

“Um…anxiety as well- how could I forget about that,” you chuckled awkwardly looking down at the fidget in your hands. She could tell you were getting nervous again. She gave you a small smile and leaned forward slightly.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, sweetie. You’re safe here, remember?”

“Right…” She continued to watch you, taking in how easily nervous you were getting. She could practically hear your thoughts and could tell that you were getting overwhelmed.

“I’m not going to hurt you, darling. I just want to help you.” She chose to take a seat right next to you, leaving only a small space between the two of you. She would have never done this with any of her patients but you…you were just so helpless. She could be the one to help you.

As she sat down right next to you, your heart began to race in your chest. You could smell her perfume, a sweet, floral scent that invaded your senses. She gave you a reassuring smile as she reached up and gently placed her hand over yours.

“I um,” you took your hand away from hers, “I don’t think this is really working for me-“ She gently grabbed your wrist, her grip surprisingly strong as she prevented you from moving away from her. She chuckled lightly, her eyes locked on yours with a hint of something behind them.

“Now now, darling. We’ve barely even started. I promise you’ll start feeling better soon.”

For the following weeks you were in her office an embarrassing amount of times. She had even given you her phone number just so you had someone to talk to in case something happened. She was truly helping you, and like always, her sweet gestures blinded your judgment. See she just wanted to take care of you but she couldn’t do so if you weren’t hers so she started using her manipulation skills to work.

She began to slowly manipulate you into trusting her more and more. Whenever you were upset, she would be the one to make you feel better. She always comforted you, listened to you and gave you whatever you needed. She slowly started giving you small ‘gifts’ to make you feel appreciated and accomplished. It didn’t take long for her to have you completely under her control.

“Kate texted me last night…” you told her as you sat in her office once again. As soon as you had walked into her office, she could already tell something was wrong. She motioned for you to sit down as she looked up from her computer with fake concern to mask the anger bubbling up. How dare she text you after what she did?

“She did?”

“Yeah…she said she wanted to meet up and talk.” you took a fidget into your hands. Her jaw clenched slightly at your words. She couldn’t believe the nerve that girl had. She didn’t have the right to talk to you after what she did. You were her’s now and only her’s.

“And what did you say?”

“That I would think about it. I don’t really know what to make of the situation.” You mumbled. She leaned back in her chair, trying to contain her anger as she spoke to you. She couldn’t show you how pissed she was, you’d be suspicious if she did.

“You’re not actually considering meeting with her, are you?”

“I don’t know yet. I do miss her-“ She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk and her chin on her hands. Her eyes bore into yours, almost looking like they were staring straight into your soul.

“You miss her? Even after what she did to you?”

“Maybe she realized what she did-“ she chuckled softly at your reply, finding it almost laughable how naive you were. But that was why she loved you. You were such an easy target. So malleable and submissive. All she had to do was put the thoughts into your head and you would eat them up like it was second nature to you.

“You really think that she’s capable of changing her mind?”

“What should I do, doctor?” you said, finally making eye contact. She smiled at you, knowing that she had you right where she wanted you. You were vulnerable and needy, just like a little puppy. You were just begging to be told what to do.

“I think you should listen to your heart, darling. Do you really think it’s a good idea to go back to someone who hurt you?”

“N-no…” She could practically see the inner turmoil in your mind. You were struggling with your feelings. Part of you wanted to meet up with Kate while the other part of you knew that it was a bad idea.

“Good girl. I’m glad you’re making the right choice.”

“What should I text her then?” She smirked as you asked her what to text Kate. It was almost too easy to get you to rely on her. You needed her so badly that you didn’t even think about making your own decisions anymore.

“Why don’t you just tell her you’re not interested? That you’re not going to see her anymore and that you’re happy without her?”

“Yeah…it’s probably for the best.” You took out your phone and started typing away. She watched you intently as you typed the message. She knew that this was the beginning of her victory. Once you finally blocked Kate, you’d be hers forever.

“I sent it.” You announced, handing your phone over to her so she could read the message. She took the phone from you and read the message you sent to Kate. She smirked again, proud of you for doing exactly as she said.

“Good girl. She’ll get the message and leave you alone for good now.” The praise brought a smile to your face. You felt so safe around Agatha. It was only after the second session that she told you to call her by her first name but you liked calling ‘doctor’. She was filling in the void all your ex partners and mother had left inside you.

She smiled back at you, noticing how the praise made you smile. It was so easy to make you feel good and give you a little validation. All she had to do was say a few words and you were putty in her hands. She had you exactly where she wanted you, under her control and at her mercy.

“What now? Do I block her number?” You said, unsure if it was necessary. She placed your phone on the table and stood up from her chair, walking around the table and over to you. She sat right next to you, putting an arm over your shoulders and bringing you closer to her.

“Yes, sweet girl. You need to block her number so that she can’t contact you again.”

“R-right,” you shamelessly snuggling closer to her, enjoying her warmth, “Can you do it for me? Please?”

She chuckled as you snuggled closer to her. She wrapped her arm tighter around you, pulling you even closer against her. She could tell how needy you were, desperate for any kind of affection.

“Of course I can, darling. Anything for you.” She took your phone and began to go through your contacts to find Kate’s number. Once she found it, she blocked the number and set your phone down again.

“I like being here with you. It makes all my nerves calm and the voices in my head telling me how I’m not enough go quiet,” you looked up at her, “Is that a bad thing?”

She smiled as you told her how you felt around her. It was exactly what she wanted to hear. She loved that you found comfort in her presence and the fact that you came to her for comfort instead of anyone else.

“Of course it’s not a bad thing, sweetheart. You should always feel safe and comfortable around me.”

“But…you’re my therapist.” She hummed in agreement, gently running her fingers through your hair as she continued to hold you close to her. Her grip on you was firm and possessive, almost as if she was claiming you as hers.

“Yes, I am your therapist, but I also care about you. I want to see you happy and I want to help you feel better.”

“What happens if someone finds out? Wouldn’t you lose your job? I don’t want you to lose your job-” you started to ramble on. She gently shushed you, her fingers still playing with your hair as she looked down at you. She knew that you were worried about the consequences of your relationship, but she didn’t care. She was too invested in you now.

“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. I’ll make sure no one finds out. This is just between us, alright?” You were too deep in thought to reply so she nodded your head for you as if you were too dumb to do it on your own. You were so cute when you got all quiet and submissive like this. She could tell that you were practically melting in her hands, unable to think for yourself without her guidance.

“Good girl, you’re such a good listener. Maybe you deserve a reward.” Your eyes lit up at the word.

“A reward?” She smiled, amused by your reaction. She could tell how excited you were just from the mention of a reward. It was adorable how easy it was to manipulate you with simple words and gestures.

“Mhm. Do you want a reward, hon?”

“Yes, please!” She chuckled again, moving her hand from your hair to gently tilt your chin up so that you were looking at her. She looked down at you with a smirk on her face, her eyes dark and filled with desire.

“Good. Now let mommy make you feel good.” She pulled away only to push you down on the sofa, making you lay down while she straddled your hips.

“Mommy?” Your eyebrows frowned trying to understand what was happening. What was she doing? Why did she call herself mommy? God you were truly dumb. She leaned down, pinning your wrists above your head as she sat on your lap. She smirked as she looked down at you, watching the confusion and innocence on your face.

“That’s right, darling. I’m mommy and you’re my good little girl.”

“I-“ Before you could protest, she silenced you with a kiss, moving her lips against yours before shoving her tongue in your mouth. She dominated the kiss, her tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. She pressed her body against yours, wanting to be as close to you as possible. She could feel your body beneath hers, the way you trembled and squirmed under her.

She roughly took off her doctor coat and shirt, leaving herself in just a bra and jeans. She started working on your clothes, taking off your jacket, sweatpants and bra. She took one of your breasts in her mouth, making you suck in your breath. Your thoughts were going one hundred miles per hour but you couldn’t find the words to tell her to stop. This could be your way of paying her back for all that she’s done for you. If you do as she asked then she wouldn’t leave you.

She took her time with you, her mouth moving from your breast to your neck. She left a trail of kisses and bite marks down your neck and across your collarbone, marking you as hers.

“God, you’re so beautiful, doll. You’re all mine, you understand?”

“I understand,” she raised her eyebrow, unsatisfied with your answer, “…mommy,” you finished. She smiled, clearly enjoying the way the word rolled off your tongue. She loved hearing you call her that, loved knowing that you were submitting to her and accepting her role as your dominant.

“That’s my good girl. You’re learning so well.” She began to kiss down your chest, moving further and further down your body.

“Wait!” you pushed her off a bit, leaning on your elbows, “What if someone walks in?” She sighed, clearly annoyed that you had interrupted her. She sat up, straddling your hips once more as she looked down at you.

“I told you, no one will find out. I locked the door, so there’s no chance of anyone coming in and seeing us.”

“S-sorry,” tears welled up in your eyes at her tone. You didn’t mean to make her upset. Now she probably didn’t want you anymore. She softened slightly as she saw the tears in your eyes. She reached out and gently wiped away a tear that was falling down your cheek.

“Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t cry. I’m not mad at you, I just don’t want to be interrupted. Understand?”

“I understand, mommy. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She smiled at your response, cupping your cheek, her thumb gently rubbing against your skin.

“I know you didn’t, pet. Just try to be quiet for mommy, alright? Can you do that for me? Can you be a good girl?”

“Mhm!” She chuckled, leaning down to capture your lips in another kiss. She slowly started to grind her hips against yours, creating a delicious friction between your bodies. Her hand slowly moved down your body until she reached the waistband of your panties. She played with it slightly before moving her hand completely under the fabric and dipping her fingers into your wetness. She smirked against your lips as she felt how wet you were already. She teased your entrance, her fingers tracing slow circles around your clit.

“So wet for me already, doll. You’re so needy.” You whined against her lips, your cheeks turning red and your hands gripping onto her biceps. She chuckled again, her smirk growing wider as she felt your grip on her biceps. She loved how responsive you were to her touch, how easy it was to turn you into a whining mess.

“Aw, are you getting desperate, baby girl?”

“More, please?” She hummed, her fingers continuing to tease you, but never quite giving you what you wanted.

“More what, pet? You have to be more specific.”

“I want…” your face flushed even more, “your fingers…inside.” You looked so cute asking for what you wanted so timidly. She gently bit down on your bottom lip before pulling away to speak.

“Good girl, being honest with mommy.” She slowly slipped two fingers inside you, curling them upwards and starting to pump them in and out of you at a slow pace. You gasped when her fingers entered you, keeping your eyes on hers as her fingers hit that spongy spot inside of you. She watched your face intently, watching every expression that crossed your features. She picked up the pace, her fingers moving faster and deeper as she started to rub your clit with her thumb.

“C-close-“ She chuckled softly, her fingers never slowing down as she felt your walls clenching around her fingers.

“Already? You’re so sensitive, baby. Such a good little slut for mommy.”

“Can I, mommy?” She smiled, her fingers still working relentlessly inside you.

“Can you what, sweetheart? Use your words, be a good girl and ask nicely.”

“Can I c-cum, please, mommy?” you asked desperately, not being able to hold it any longer. She hummed, pretending to think about it for a moment, just to see you squirm and beg more.

“Go ahead, baby girl. Cum for me. Let mommy hear you.”

“Thank you!” you moaned loudly as your orgasm washed over you. Your legs trembled around her hand as you dug your nails into her arms. As you closed your eyes and tried to catch your breath, Agatha took the opportunity to take your phone and take a picture of your fucked out form. Your lips parted, bite marks all over your neck and chest, and your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, all while her fingers remained inside you. After she took the picture, she unblocked Kate, sent the picture and then blocked her again. Now she would for sure leave you alone.

She set the phone back down on the table, a satisfied smirk on her face as she looked down at you. She slowly pulled her fingers out of you, bringing them up to her mouth and licking them clean, moaning softly at the taste of you.

“You look so beautiful when you’re all messy like this, baby.” If your face wasn’t already red before it definitely was now. Then you noticed she was still wearing most of her clothes and started feeling a bit self conscious. She chuckled as she noticed your face growing redder.

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you feeling shy now?” She asked teasingly, her eyes roaming over your naked body, taking in every inch of you.

“It’s just…why are you still in your clothes?” She chuckled, placing her hands on your thighs, her thumbs rubbing small circles against your skin.

“Because this was about making you feel good.”

“But I want to make you feel good too.” She chuckled again, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“You will, sweetheart. But you’re the priority now.” You frowned in disappointment but nodded either way. She gently lifted your chin with her finger, making you look up at her.

“Don’t pout, baby girl. You’ll make mommy feel good soon enough just not today. Let’s get your clothes back on, okay?”

“Okay.” She helped you put your clothes back on as if you were a child before standing up to put her shirt and coat back on.

“Have you eaten or drank anything today, hon?”

“Um…” you remained quiet. Truth was you hadn’t and Agatha had been on your ass since your first session to keep up with nourishing yourself. You forgot…again. She sighed, her expression turning slightly stern as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You forgot to eat and drink again, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry! I got distracted by Kate’s text. That’s the only thing I could think about all day.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval, shaking her head slightly.

“You need to start taking better care of yourself, Y/n. I’ve told you countless times that you need to eat and drink regularly. I can’t have you getting another ED again.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I will do better, I promise.” She sighed again, her stern expression softening slightly. She sat back down and pulled you closer to her, her hands resting on your hips.

“Good girl. I don’t want you to end up back in that hospital again because you didn’t eat properly. You’ve been getting so much better and I won’t let you throw that all away, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Here,” she walked over to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled a protein bar, “Eat this for now. Once I’m off the clock, I will cook you a nice warm meal.”

“You don’t have to do that-“ She gave you a stern look, cutting you off.

“I do have to. You need to eat and I can’t seem to trust you to take care of you. You will eat, take a bath, and go to bed when I take you home.”

“At your house?” She nodded, unwrapping the protein bar for you and handing it to you.

“You’re staying with me tonight. I need to keep an eye on you and make sure you’re eating and sleeping properly.” You took the protein bar and sighed in defeat. You knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer, not that you wanted her to really.

“Now stay there, eat the protein bar, and look pretty while I finish up.”

“c’mon baby girl, I thought you wanted to ride a cowgirl..” she mocked and fought back the urge to laugh. 

you pouted and still attempted to bounce on her strap because you were stubborn and didn’t want to admit you were already growing tired. 

but she had eyes and 20/20 vision so it was clear as day that you wanted off. 

you had been grinding back and forth on it which felt amazing but it wasn’t enough, you needed her to fuck you. her teasing has only gotten worse and she was just enjoying the show. 

her arms were behind her head, not holding back any remarks while she watched your sad attempt at riding her. 

it wasn’t your fault that your thighs hurt so fast, but at least now she could use this as an excuse to help train you. 

to ride horses, of course…

now, kate was brutal at times but she wasn’t a monster… 

most of the time. 

especially not when she wanted to see you cum for her. 

so she couldn’t help but fold. 

“how about some help? would you like that sweetheart?” she asked and you quickly nod. 

“here, how about you take care of this for me? and I'll wear yours.” she says and carefully takes off her cowgirl hat while you took yours off. 

she puts it on your head and you do the same, it was such a pretty sight it was making you clench against her cock. she moved down more so her body would be extended and you moved down with her so you’re as close to her as possible. 

“poor baby, got tired so fast huh?” she murmured and wrapped her arms around your waist. 

you nodded and nuzzled your face into her neck, barely able to mumble a yes as she caressed your skin, “don’t worry darlin’, I’ll take good care of you..” 

“you always do katie.” you mumble and she chuckles, “damn right i do baby.” 

her words sent shivers right down your spine making her sigh, “and i always will.” 

she squeezed your skin gently and a small chuckle escaped her lips, “but this?” she clicked her tongue and you could just tell she was shaking her head. 

she quickly added, “mm no we can’t have that…” 

you groaned and pulled away from her neck, sitting up again because of fucking course she wasn’t going to make this easy for you. 

“what fuckin’ horse are you gonna be riding like this sweetheart?” she teased, making you roll your eyes. 

on the contrary, you shouldn’t have been surprised. 

it was so like her to do something like this. 

“c’mon, I’ve taught you plenty. you barely even tried, pretty girl.” she murmured, sliding her hands down to your hips, and you sigh. 

“fine! I’ll give it an actual try but you gotta promise to not leave me hangin’ again.” you say and she nods.

“I’m no liar.” She coos, making you sigh. 

you first moved your hips back and forth like you did before, but this time her hands were gripping your skin, eyes darker and chest heaving. 

you looked right into her eyes and lifted yourself up, being about halfway then drop right down making you moan. you went back up until you only had the tip inside you and slam down, “fuck!” 

she bit her lip, watching you intently and this time being firm on not folding so quick. she had to be stern. 

you continued bouncing up and down on her cock, using your hands to play with your tits for her viewing pleasure. her mouth was salivating and it was taking everything in her body to not jump your bones that very second. 

you pinched your nipples and bounced faster, letting out pretty moans that had kate squirming. you fought back a grin and continued, watching the way her blue eyes rolled to the back of her head. 

“fuck katie-“ you moaned, making her eyes shoot open. 

your eyes fluttered while you managed to keep the same pace, now slamming down harder against her, “f-feels so good.”

“mmm I bet it does sweetheart, makin' yourself feel good f’me?” she coos and you nod, “y-yes-yes.” 

“good girl, don’t fuckin' stop.” she murmurs, making you nod. 

you ignored the ache on your thighs for as long as you could for the sake of wanting to listen but it was only getting harder. 

her hands squeezed your hips, almost digging her nails in but she went against the idea. 

you let go of your tits and made sure to bounce extra hard just so they could be bouncing along with every movement you made. you knew she'd like that view even more than she did now. 

her eyes popping out soon after just proved that.

"fuck baby… look so fuckin' pretty like that." she moans, instantly making your face flush. 

"k-kate-" you whine and she grins, "yeah?"

her hands went down and stayed on your thighs, gently going up and down. her touch brought goosebumps to your skin, just like they always did and she knew this. they went up further reaching your inner thigh and squeezing, making you slow down.

“katie this is torture.” you whined and she just chuckled, “well that’s too damn bad baby.”

“and your hands–” you cried, making her smirk, “what you didn’t think I’d keep my hands to myself now, did you darlin’?” 

a mix of a whine and a whimper came out of you earning yourself a laugh from her, "aww so cute."

“katie please-“

finally having enough, she listened. 

her hands were back on your hips and she started lifting her hips up, seeing you gasp at that then instantly pounding into you. her thrusts were the perfect amount of fast and hard, exactly how you wanted it. 

you cried out and she sat up so you could hold onto her. you held onto her shoulders while she thrusted her hips into yours, wanting you to feel every inch of her. 

you looked at her eyes, letting out the sweetest of moans making her groan, “needed you baby-“ 

hearing her made you whimper which had her aching. a cause and effect. 

“so fuckin’ tight for me, aren’t ya darlin’?” she murmurs making you cry out. 

“j-just for you-“ you moan, earning yourself a moan from her. 

“just so perfect- look at you.” she mumbles, feeling her wetness pool between her legs.

you let out whimpers, digging your nails into her shoulders while she rammed into you even harder. the room was filled with the sinful sounds of skin to skin plus everything that came out of your mouths. 

it might’ve been her favorite part, how it’s all she can hear. add on how obsessed she is with how beautiful you look when you take what she gives you. 

but have them all together… eyes all fucked out, your mouth letting out the most angelic noises, and the sounds of your creamy pussy. 

she was feeling herself getting close.

the underside of her strap gliding against her clit perfectly. 

“think I’m close pretty girl.” she murmurs and you feverishly nod. 

you went it in the pit of your stomach and all you needed was to hear her. 

“p-please let me cum- please-“ you plead and she grins then groans. 

“yeah you wanna cum for me baby? gonna cum for me like a good girl?” she coos, keeping her same pace.

“yes-yes- yes!” you whimper out and desperately bounce up and down, feeling her cock hitting deeper inside you.

you then quickly push her down, hands on her chest, and riding her like a dream. you matched her pace, going down while she went up to keep hitting that spot that she always manages to reach. 

"good girl, fuck- cum on my dick darlin', c'mon. please give it to me." she pleads, making you cry out.

your orgasm hit you hard and fast with her right behind you, shaking and grabbing you to stop bouncing. you whimpered and rolled your hips around, your legs shaking and your walls clenching on her cock as if it'd just disappear.

she let you do your little movements before the tiredness fully got you and you laid down on top of her, grabbing the hat on your head and throwing it to the side.

you pressed your lips against her neck, kissing her as your heart raced like crazy. you felt one of her hands on your head, caressing you and whispering sweet and dumb nothings. 

you both laid there, calming down, and praising each other as if you weren't on the verge of passing out.

"think you saved a horse today sweetheart.." she mumbled, making you smile against her neck.

"such a good fucking job, pretty girl." she whispers and you thanked her, "thank you katie… what can I say I learned from the best.."

All day, you'd been testing her.

First, it was the skirt. Short, way too short for your teacher's liking, barely covering anything when you sat down, legs crossed like you were trying to keep a secret.

Natasha hadn't looked at you once while lecturing —not directly, at least— but you caught the slight twitch in her jaw when you shifted in your seat.

Then came the texts.

Y/N :

do you wanna know what i'm not wearing under this? Key word : it starts with a 'P' 12:17pm.

She'd checked her phone, thinking it might've been some colleague or a work related matter but no, it was just you.

She wouldn't reply, you knew that, but you still kept going.

YN :

your chair looks really comfy. i bet it'd creak real pretty if you fucked me in it. 12:19pm.

YN :

how about i start moaning your name right now? 12:22pm.

Her response only came after class, though.

"Miss Y/L/N, you may stay behind."

No one blinked. To them, it was just a professor needing a word with a student, nothing too bad.

Oh, only if they knew.

It wasn't a question, no. She wasn't giving you the choice but letting you know that you had to stay behind. And who were you to disobey.

The second the door locks behind the last student, she speaks up.

"Desk."

You blink, heart thudding in your chest. In your mind, you'd imagined having time to dirty talk her a little more, confidence boost matters, before actually having her to lash out but things surely weren't in your favor.

"Natasha—"

"The desk. Now."

You only shut your mouth close at her imposing tone and start backing toward the said desk.

"You thought that was funy?" She asks, stepping toward you slowly, deliberately. "Distracting me during lecture like some needy little brat?"

You had already reached the desk and had sat down, palms sat on top of it from behind you for balance. "Worked, didn't it?"

She doesn’t reply and just pulls open her drawer, takes something out : a strap — black, sleek, unmistakable. Your breath hitches.

“You wanted attention.” She steps between your legs. “You got it.”

You try to reach for her, but she flips your skirt up in one sharp move. No panties, just like you’d hinted.

“Unbelievable,” She mutters, dragging the toy up between your folds, already soaked. “Coming to my class like this? I should’ve bent you over the desk right then.”

Your thighs tense.

“But this’ll do.”

She lifts you with startling ease, setting you down facing her, straddling the chair she’s sat in all semester. Her strap is firm and thick between your thighs, and your breath stutters when she guides you down onto it.

“Ride it.”

You grip her shoulders instinctively, gasping as she fills you. She hisses through her teeth, hands on your hips.

“That’s it,” She says, low. “You want to tease? Then show me what that mouth can’t say in front of the others.”

You move slowly at first, whimpering at the stretch, the pressure. Her hands drag your hips up and down, the slide slick, your skirt bouncing with every thrust. Her eyes never leave you — they burn right through.

Soon, the pace builds. Your nails dig into her. Her strap hits deep, perfectly, again and again.

“N-Natasha,” You moan, loud.

Too loud.

She snaps a hand over your mouth, fingers spread across your lips.

“Quiet,” She breathes. “Unless you want them to hear.”

Your eyes flutter. You moan against her palm, hips grinding harder. Her own breathing breaks a little. Your skirt rides higher, completely forgotten.

You bounce on her lap, wet, aching and completely at her mercy. She shifts, angling just right, making your whole body jerks.

“Oh, fuck—” It’s muffled. Her hand holds tighter.

“Louder than I expected,” She whispers near your ear, smug and strained. “You were so cocky. Thought you’d stay composed, hmm? Thought you’d drive me wild, and I’d just take it?”

You whine desperately against her hand.

“Look at you now. So fucked out, you can barely stay upright.”

Her free hand slips between you — finding your clit, rubbing sharp, fast circles.

You cry out into her palm, body trembling. It’s too much but, no, she doesn’t stop.

“Come on, then,” she growls. “Come for me and then maybe, maybe, I’ll let you walk out of here.”

You fall apart fast — moaning, shaking, collapsing against her. Your thighs twitch as she holds you through it, slowing her touch but never quite letting go.

She finally lowers her hand from your mouth.

You’re panting.

“Still think you’re in charge?” She murmurs.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re still clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Mm.” She smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

bucky left early this morning, pressing a kiss to your forehead and another to your belly, promising he'd be back in time for dinner. so you'd spent all day doing this and that around the house, folding the tiny clothes, each one making you pause and imagine the little body that would soon fill it, playing bucky's old records and napping on the couch, a blanket over your legs and a hand resting protectively on your belly.

the timer on the oven beeped and you opened the door. a wave of the heat and the rich cheesy scent hit you all at one. you closed your eyes and hummed. the baby also seemed to loved because a soft kick nudged at your side. you pulled the lasagna out to take it to the living room table, but when you turned around, you froze.

—oh my god!—you exclaimed, eyes wide as your breath caught in your throat. your heart pounded so hard against your chest, —yelena... hi.

she quickly stood up from the chair, her usual confidence slipping as her blue eyes stared onto your belly. you didn't give her enough time to analyze you because once you placed the lasagna right in the center of the table, you wrapped your arms around her in a tight sudden hug. she hesitated before she hugged you back, like you were made of glass. her arms circled around you but she didn't dare to press her body against yours, like the roundness of your belly was sacred.

—you're pregnant, —she said when you broke away from the hug. her voice was soft, almost in disbelief.

you smiled, —yeah, i am. surprise, —the delicious smell of the food filled the space but yelena's eyes never left your bump.

—but like, so pregnant, oh my god.

you giggled, —that's usually how it works, yeah.

—no, seriously, how far along are you? you're glowing. it's weird. you're glowing and soft and... —she swallowed and waved her hands vaguely in front of your bump, —so pregnant, shit.

you let out a laugh. —i'm eight months but i'm still me. just... slower, rounder and slightly more emotional.

—more emotional? so crying over commercials and talking to plants?

—try crying over baby socks and talking to lasagna.

she nodded, pressing her lips together, trying to keep a straight face. you shifted your weight slightly as the pressure in your lower back appeared again. you put one of your hands behind you, trying to relieve the ache but yelena was quick to notice and without a word, she placed the chair she was previously sitting in behind you.

—thanks, —you said with a sigh as you sat. —what are you doing here? did you talk to bucky? he said he's been trying to reach you, —asking how'd she got into your house felt pointless. if yelena wanted in, no locked doors were going to stop her, yet you didn't mind, she wasn't a threat, not to you at least.

yelena shook her head. —haven't talk to your man in months. i was... just in my apartment and decided to drop by. i don't know, —she muttered, shrugging like it could erase the weight of her words. —i thought about you. about both of you. and i guess i just... showed up.

there was a pause. a real one. you knew what being in her apartment meant for her, especially at this time of the night. she was probably alone, thinking of getting drunk, staring at nothing and trying to hold it together until she couldn't anymore. you slowly nodded but didn't say anything about it. —well, it's your lucky day, there's lasagna for the four of us, —you rubbed your belly, —and the tiramisu is in the fridge.

she blinked, —oh, no. i was just... i just came to see you. i don't want to be a bother.

you tilted your head, —you broke into my house, sat at my table, and commented on my belly. you're already bothering me, you might as well stay for dinner.

you managed to get a laugh from her. in that moment, the front door opened and bucky stepped inside. —babe? i'm h... —but he froze mid-sentence when he saw yelena at the table. it was surprise in his face but there was something warmer too, like he'd just walked into something unexpected but not unwelcome. —either this food smells good enough to summon ghosts or i've officially lost track of who has a spare key.

—yelena's here! —you announced as if he hadn't just noticed her.

—and i bet she didn't come in through the door like a normal person.

yelena just pressed her lips into a guilty smile.

bucky approached you after hanging up his jacket and dropping his keys into the bowl by the door. he leaned in, supporting the weight of his body with a hand behind you on the chair and he kissed your lips. you hummed when he leaned in further and kissed your belly over your pajama shirt.

—you know? you should answer my calls or texts sometime, —he said to yelena. —missed you today, baby. this smells amazing, —he said to you as he kissed your lips one more time.

—i've been busy, —yelena said as she bit the inside of her cheeks.

bucky tilted his head slightly and looked at her, narrowing his eyes. he'd been there, done all of it before he met you. the quiet disappearing with empty explanations, not answering to sam's messages, letting voicemails pile up, just ignoring everything that reminded him that he existed outside the limits of his own perception. so yeah, bucky knew yelena was lying.

—right, —he just said. —just don't disappear.

—i didn't disappear. i just needed a minute.

—a minute's fine, —bucky said. he made his way into the kitchen and pulled out another plate, a glass, a fork and a knife. he returned and set them in front of the empty seat beside yelena. —but you vanish and we worry. she worries.

you nodded, assuring her that you did worry about her.

—i didn't mean to worry anyone.

—you don't have to mean it for it to happen.

yelena finally gave a small nod in return to bucky's words. he met her eyes and slowly nodded back. they were never much of words, the two of them. you had taught bucky how to open up overtime, he used to struggle with it but he got better with your help. but his bond with yelena grew from a very different space, his relationship wasn't shaped by long talks or heartfelt confessions. a strange brother-sister dynamic that was built in the shared silences, exchanged glances, sarcastic jokes and the unspoken comfort of just being there.

bucky stepped back into the kitchen.

—but the important thing, —you gently nudged her chair out, inviting her to sit at the table. —is that you are here now with us.

she finally sat down, her hands resting in her lap as she looked around the table. bucky came back from the kitchen, casually placing a bottle beside yelena's plate. it was her favorite spicy sauce, the one brand she always reached for. she stared at the bottle and then she looked up at you, then at bucky. this and your words you just said did something to her. it wasn't just the sauce, it was the fact that you'd thought of her and left space for her. no one had ever waited for her before, not like that.

—okay, let's eat, —you said, grabbing the big serving spoon. you grabbed yelena's plate, guests first, and served her a generous portion of lasagna. then you turned to bucky's plate and yours last.

yelena grabbed the sauce almost immediately, twisting off the cap and pouring it over her food. she hummed as she took another bite, eyes closing for a second. bucky slid his hand across the table and laced his metal fingers through yours, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

—how did that happen? —she pointed at your belly with her fork.

—you wanna know while we're having dinner? —bucky asked as he raised his eyebrows.

you kicked him softly under the table and yelena rolled her eyes, —no, not that. i mean, how? why now? you guys have been solid for years.

you glanced at bucky, who met your eyes with a little knowing smile, the kind that said, we've been through hell but made it out together. —well, it didn't feel terrifying to think about the future anymore.

bucky gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his metal thumb drawing circles over your skin. yelena didn't say anything right away, she just looked at the two of you for a long moment, like she was trying to decide whether to make a joke or actually feel something. —i was not prepared for all this emotions with my lasagna, —she finally said.

—sorry. hormones, —you let out a breathy laugh.

—she cried over baby socks last week, —bucky said looking at yelena.

—they were so tiny, —you added defensively. —and pink.

yelena's eyes widened as she turned to bucky. she leaned back after finishing her food, folding her arms as if she needed to process that. —pink? bucky barnes... a girl dad?

—terrifying, right?

—ugh, don't listen to him. he's gonna be the best dad. he already is, —you said. bucky smiled as he got up from the table and stacked his, yelena's and your plate to take them to the kitchen. —she's got him wrapped around her little finger already.

—that's the most terrifying part, —he made his way back with the tiramisu, carrying it like it was a treasure. he slid another plate in front of each of you.

during the dessert, you told yelena how bucky spent in the baby aisle what felt like an eternity, trying to choose between two tiny overalls, one with strawberries and the other one with ducks, just to end up buying both. you told her how he talked to your belly in a high pitched voice and how he had somehow ended up in a forum for modern girl dads which he checked every morning over coffee.

—you had gone soft, bucky, —yelena teased him.

—she's gonna need a tough aunt, —you said giggling, your voice casual, like the words had just slipped out without weight. but they hit yelena hard. you wanted her there? in your daughter's life? as her... aunt? she swallowed as she finished her tiramisu. it wasn't a title yelena had ever imagined for herself, not in the kind of life she had, not with everything she carried.

but there you were, offering it to her so easily like it was already decided and across the table, there was bucky, the very picture of someone who had dragged himself through the same kind of darkness she still found herself tangled in. his presence alone was a reminder that things could get better.

yelena shifted slightly in her seat. maybe, after all, she could be someone's aunt.

—this was delicious. did she like it? —bucky moved his hand to your belly, rubbing it gently with his thumb. he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. you placed your hand over his.

you placed your hand over his, —i think she did. she's been kicking all night, so i'd say it was a success.

yelena looked at your belly with wide, curious eyes and you noticed the moment her gaze softened, —come here, —you said to her, offering her your hand. she stood up and moved toward you, her steps uncertain. when she reached your side, she knelt beside you. bucky removed his hand to give yelena the space she needed. you placed her hand in the middle of your belly. for a moment, she was even scared to breath in case she hurt you or the baby, but then, a quick shy smile appeared on her lips.

—i can feel her, —her eyes brightened as she looked up at you. you nodded.

she stayed there for a bit, her fingers pressed against your belly, feeling the kicks against the palm of her hand as bucky took care of everything from the table and moved it to the kitchen. when the room quieted, yelena seemed to come back to herself. she hesitated but then she stood up. it was late, you and the baby needed to sleep.

—you staying for the night?

bucky irrupted in her thoughts and you sighed in relief he did. you and him knew that if she went back to her apartment, she'd be swallowed by the darkness that always seemed to follow her. her lips parted but bucky didn't give her the chance to pull away. —if the couch is okay with you... we've changed the guest room to the baby's room, so that's all we've got but it's all yours for the night.

yelena hesitated again, her eyes moving to the door almost like she was ready to leave, but something held her in place. maybe it was the comfort of not being alone, or the warmth that you two, now three of you, radiated to her. her shoulders relaxed, she thought she could let herself breath for one night. she nodded.

—the couch is fine, thank you.

—great! —you said, relieved that you've managed to keep her with you for a little longer and that fell like a small victory. —do you wanna listen to buck read the baby some bedtime stories? she goes crazy with his voice.