Cadelinha da Nat

“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.

“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”

Clint brightens immediately.

“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”

Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.

Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.

It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.

The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.

“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.

Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.

“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.

You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.

“Mmmhmm.”

Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.

“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”

Natasha snorts softly under her breath.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.

Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.

When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.

“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”

Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.

For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.

“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.

Your smile appears instantly, but then—

Flick.

Her finger taps your forehead.

“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.

Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.

You respond with an exaggerated pout.

Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”

A beat passes before she continues.

“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“Alright, guess I’m going now.”

You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.

“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”

Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.

“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.

You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.

Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.

When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“What’s with your face?”

Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.

“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”

Natasha’s expression immediately flattens. 

“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”

Clint waves his hand vaguely.

“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”

He points toward the door you just exited through.

“However…”

Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.

“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation. 

“It was a hug, Clint.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint nods thoughtfully.

“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”

Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.

“It’s just a hug,” she insists.

“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”

Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.

Because…no. Not really.

You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.

But that kind of hug?

Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.

That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.

Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.

You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.

Post-sex warmth. Nothing unusual. Nothing meaningful.

Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.

Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.

“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”

Clint raises both hands in surrender.

“If you say so.”

His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.

Instead, he nods toward the counter again.

“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”

Natasha smirks again.

“Doesn’t make you worthy.”

Clint sighs dramatically.

“Damn.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The room is quiet.

Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.

This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.

Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.

Sleep refuses to come.

It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.

Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin. 

You usually aren’t here this long.

Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.

And then you leave.

Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.

But tonight is different.

You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.

Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.

Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.

But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.

And Natasha had let you stay.

Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.

Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.

For a long moment, she simply watches you.

There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.

And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.

Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.

Did it mean anything?

“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.

Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.

Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.

“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.

“Barely,” you grumble.

You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.

Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.

“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.

You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.

“What hug?”

“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”

Your brows draw together slightly.

“What about it?”

Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”

She trails off, searching.

“…intimate.”

The word lingers between you.

You go still for a second, thinking.

“Oh.” 

It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.

Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.

The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.

Natasha hates how quickly she notices.

You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.

“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”

Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.

It was just—

Nothing.

For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.

You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.

Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.

The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.

Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.

The contrast is jarring.

Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.

When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.

Then your lips press softly against hers.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.

For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.

Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.

But before she can act on it, you pull away.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”

Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.

“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.

You smile, soft and small.

But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.

“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”

Your expression softens further.

“At least when we’re not hooking up.”

The words settle heavily in the quiet room.

“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.

Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.

The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision. 

The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.

And what that would mean.

In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.

They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.

Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.

So Natasha made it simple.

No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.

And it has worked so far. 

You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.

“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.

“Sweet dreams.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.

Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.

The misunderstanding is gone.

Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.

What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.

She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.

Again. And again. And again.

Eventually, sleep begins to take her.

But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.

The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.

Everything appears normal.

But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.

The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.

And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.

She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.

When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.

At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.

But she had been wrong.

It started small.

A movie night in the common room.

Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.

Then in the gym.

After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.

But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.

Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.

You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.

Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.

Still beside her but never close.

Always careful. Always just far enough away.

Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.

So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.

And she had agreed to it.  

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?

Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.

Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.

Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.

Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.

Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.

It should mean nothing. It is nothing.

Just like how it is for her.

But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.

Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.

A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.

Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.

Then she moves.

Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.

You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.

“Hey—”

Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.

Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.

“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”

Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.

The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.

You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.

There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.

She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.

For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.

The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.

Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.

Mine.

The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.

Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.

When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.

“Hey, what’s wr—”

She silences you with another forceful kiss.

Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.

Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.

“Natasha…” you murmur.

The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.

Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.

Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.

The contact draws a quiet breath from her.

Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.

Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.

But the sensation is complicated.

Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.

Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.

Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.

The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.

But the thought does not fade.

Only here. Only like this.

Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.

She shakes her head.

“I can’t do this.”

The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.

You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.

“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”

She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.

“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

The words settle heavily in the space between you.

Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.

For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.

“Oh.”

The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.

You look hurt, though you try not to show it.

Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.

But she remains still.

What right does she have?

She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.

Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.

She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.

She wants you.

Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.

The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.

Because the words still refuse to come.

You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.

Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.

You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.

Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.

Only now does she understand why.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.

She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.

The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.

It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.

Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.

However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.

Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.

A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.

She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.

Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.

You appear just as surprised to find her there.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.

Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.

But you do not step closer.

Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.

And Natasha notices it immediately. 

You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.

“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”

The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.

Everything surrounding them, however, is different.

There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.

Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

She understands what this moment means.

You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.

“Good luck,” she says quietly.

The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.

Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.

“Thanks, Natasha.”

Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.

That is what breaks her composure.

It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.

Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.

Her body moves before the thought fully settles.

“Wait.”

The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.

You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.

Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.

Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.

Then she kisses you.

There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.

A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.

Then instinct takes over.

Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.

In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.

Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.

Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.

When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.

The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.

Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.

This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.

Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”

“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”

You do not look away from Natasha.

There is a brief pause.

“…Understood.”

Silence settles again, softer now.

Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.

“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”

The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.

Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.

“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.

Your brow lifts slightly.

“And they are...?”

She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.

“Whatever lets me love you.”

The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.

For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.

Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.

The distance is gone.

Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.

“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”

You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.

“…Did it mean something?”

After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.

“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”

Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.

“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.

You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.

“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”

You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.

“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”

She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.

Your grin returns instantly.

“Oh?”

Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.

“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”

Amusement flashes in her eyes.

“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”

You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.

“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“You can do better than that,” She replied, standing up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She was enjoying herself. Enjoying every second of having you all to herself. Her finger trailed your collarbone to your shoulder and down your arm as she walked around you, making every muscle ache with tension.

You were no stranger to being tied up, although you much preferred being tied up by Natasha. The both of you knew it wouldn’t take much for you to free yourself, as much as she enjoyed them, she knew your muscles weren’t only for show. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she watched your arms flex, pulling your wrists apart.

The fabric started to give as Natasha rounded the corner, her finger roaming up the column of your neck and tilting your chin up. Her eyes roamed your face, snagging on your lips before following the bead of sweat sliding down the side of your face.

“Something wrong, baby?” Natasha placed her hands on either side of you, leaning down so her hair caged you in and your eyes landed on her cleavage. Her sweet perfume drove you mad, your arms tensing even further with the need to touch her. Your fingers twitched as the cloth binding your hands gave out a little more. You were still fully at her mercy.

“Please, Natasha,” Your eyes met hers, you’d do anything to touch her. She saw the raw desperation in your gaze, causing her own pupils to dilate. Every second that passed made her need for you grow stronger, she knew if she just said the words you’d be unleashed on her, but this was part of her game. “I need to touch you.”

“You need it?” She mocked, leaning closer to you, her mouth centimeters from yours. You felt her weight settle on your leg, her sheer lace camisole and thong doing nothing to conceal her arousal. “How much do you need me, baby?”

“Natasha,” You warned as she dipped her head to your neck. Her lips almost seared against your heated skin as she left a trail of wet kisses down your neck, her pebbled nipples rubbing against your own chest through the thin fabric of her lingerie. “Just–fuck–just feel for yourself.”

Natasha’s hand drifted from the back of your neck to the front of your body, featherlight fingers tracing over your nipple before drifting lower over your toned stomach to finally between your legs. Her fingers trailed down the length of the toy, then back up, pressing the base of the toy against you. Her teeth grazed the skin of your neck as her fingers traced your thigh, dragging out every second.

She felt your hips twitch forward, craving her touch. “So eager,” Her lips grazed the shell of your ear before her teeth tugged on your earlobe, making you shudder. The restraints were one moment of weakness away from completely ripping apart. The whine that left your lips was pitiful, your need winning over any need of self composure.

Natasha bit down on your pulse point as her fingers found the slick evidence of your desire, your body shuddering under hers. She hummed in approval, moving her fingers to gather as much of your arousal as possible with the limited access under your harness, making you buck your hips every time she changed direction. “Is this how much you need me, baby?”

“Fuck, Nat,” Somehow words still came to you through the pure lust coursing through your body and fogging up your brain. “I need you so much more than that.”

She pulled her fingers away and shifted over so she was properly straddling your lap. You looked down at her as she brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean. Your jaw dropped, doing your hardest to not explode off your chair.

“How much more?” Natasha had one second to show you her smug grin before you ripped the binds holding your wrists together. Her hands immediately found purchase in your hair and brought your mouths together in a hungry kiss. Your hands reached around to her ass and squeezed, bringing her body closer to you and her core to rub against your toned stomach.

The contact made her gasp against your mouth, giving you the opportunity to slide your tongue into her mouth, battling her for the dominance she so delicately held onto. Your hands slid down her thighs before easily standing up off the chair, not breaking the kiss. Natasha’s nails scraped against your scalp as you turned toward the bed, kicking the chair out of your way.

You set her on her feet right before the edge of the bed, hands sliding up her back as you pressed her closer to you. The fabric separating your bodies gave you the perfect reminder they were still there. A mistake you were more than ready to remedy.

Natasha moaned as your hands slid around to her front, cupping her breasts and squeezing, sending her eyes rolling to the back of her head in pleasure. You were ready to rip the fabric off her body, and Natasha knew that too. She also knew her control was quickly slipping, and while she was more than happy to let you take over, she also wanted to hold out a little bit longer. Just to see how far she could push you.

Her hands wrapped around your hair before she pulled you away from her, your hands freezing as she brought your gaze back to her.

“Knees,” Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were flushed. You smirked up at her as she attempted to catch her breath, leaning forward to place gentle kisses on her hips, slowly trailing down to where you knew she wanted, needed you the most. Her grip on your hair tightened, pulling your face away from her so your eyes locked on her face. “Show me how much you need me.”

The sound of ripping fabric filled the room before you pushed Natasha backward onto the bed, sliding the ripped underwear out of your way in the process. You gripped her hips and dragged them down to the edge, lips slowly trailing up her inner thigh while she propped herself up on her elbows to look down at you.

Natasha ran her fingers over your hair then slid her hand down the side of your face, making you lean against her touch. You twisted your face toward her palm, placing a tender kiss there before leaning down to her sex.

Her scent alone drove you crazy, and with the exception of her safeword there was little in the world that could stop you from devouring her whole. Your tongue met her center with long, slow swipes, making Natasha release a heavenly moan as she threw her head back in pleasure. The hand in your hair pulled you closer and the other gripped onto the sheets as you continued to work between her thighs, slowly bringing her to the edge.

Natasha’s hips bucked up into your face as she laid back on the bed, making you hold her hips down on the bed.

“Fuck, baby,” Her hand found your forearm, nails digging into your skin as she held back her orgasm, wanting the bliss your mouth was bringing her to last forever. “Right there.”

Her other hand slid up her chest, desperately pulling on the fabric before her fingers started toying with her nipples. She needed you everywhere. Natasha’s thighs tensed around your head, her taste clouded everything, your need for oxygen secondary to her pleasure. You held her closer to you, feeling her abdomen tense with every lap of your tongue against her, bringing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

Her nails drew blood against your arm as she held herself at bay, her chest arching towards the ceiling at the pleasure coursing through her body. She tugged on your forearm, breaking your trance just long enough to understand what she was asking for.

You pulled away from her, quickly pinning both her arms above her head before clashing your lips together. Natasha was more than willing to relinquish control, her brain so far gone she needed you to take over.

“Fuck,” She moaned as your lips trailed down to her neck, whimpering as she felt the strap rub against her pussy. She opened her eyes, finding your gaze while she lifted her legs and flexed them around your body. “I need you inside me.”

The grin you showed her was nothing short of devilish. “Look who’s so eager now.”

Her arms fought against your grip, fighting to wipe the smirk off your face and put your mouth to something useful. You moved up her body again, rutting your hips against hers and making her moan your name. The sound was music to your ears. Natasha looked down at you again.

“Baby, please,” She begged as you bit down on her neck, releasing one of her hands to line your strap up with her entrance. You released her other hand to brace your hands on either side of her, her slick more than enough to easily slide into her in one swift motion. Her nails raked down your back as she moaned out in pleasure.

Your lips found hers again, your moans mixing as the base of the strap pressed deliciously against you. Her ankles clamped behind you, angling herself so the strap reached even deeper. Natasha was close, oh so close. But there was still too much fabric on her body and not enough of you touching her skin.

“Baby, I need more,” she begged, breath ragged and body tingling. “I need you everywhere.”

You pulled out of her, eliciting a whimper from her at the loss of contact before you turned her around, angling her so you were both facing the mirror on the wall. Your fingers tugged on her camisole, afraid if it was up to you to take it off, you’d rip it like you did to her underwear, which still hung from her hips.

Now naked, Natasha’s body almost glowed with pleasure and anticipation, her release almost visibly pent up and waiting for you. You looked at her through the mirror, her eyes hazy and roaming over your body as you slotted yourself behind her. Your hands slid around her waist, lips finding her shoulder and kissing up the side of her neck.

“Baby, no more teasing,” She whined, pushing her ass back against you. You let your teeth graze her skin, looking up at the mirror to see her desperate against you. Her hands found your muscled thighs, reaching as far back as she could to pull you against her. You chuckled against her skin, happy to drag this out just like when she had you tied up.

“Look at you, Natasha,” You pressed your lips against the shell of her ear, making her shudder against you in anticipation as you slotted the strap between her thighs. “Look at how pretty you look when you’re so desperate for my cock.”

You accentuated your point by thrusting the strap forward, the tip pushing through her wetness and gliding under her, applying the smallest amount of pressure to her sensitive clit. Her head fell against your shoulder as she whined, opening her legs wider trying to sink down on the toy. You reached up and guided her chin to face you, bringing your lips together in a deep, messy kiss as you inched into her.

Natasha’s body threatened to give out, muscles straining to keep herself upright as you continued to thrust into her. Your arms helped keep her up, adding pressure to her lower abdomen and bringing her to the brink of her release. By the way your movements turned deep and stuttered, she could tell you were finding your release too.

You moaned against her mouth, her nails digging into your thighs as she broke the kiss, making you look at yourselves in the mirror. The sight of your cock thrusting in and out of her was enough to have your legs shaking and your core tightening. You wouldn’t last much longer.

“You look so good like this, baby,” You whispered in her ear, almost out of breath from holding your release. Natasha moaned your name in warning, words beyond her when she was so close to what she needed. “Cum for me, baby, I wanna hear you.”

Natasha cried out as she let go, body shuddering against you as your thrusts continued, reaching your climax soon after her. The room filled with your moans and whimpers as you rode out your highs. Natasha fell forward first, arching her back and pushing against you, not ready for it to be over. You held onto her hips, stuttering your movements with the angle change.

Neither of you could stop, your hips continued pounding into Natasha, her moans making her throat hoarse as you both chased another high. You nudged Natasha’s knees farther apart before bending over her, your hand reaching around her front to her clit.

Your lips found the back of Natasha’s neck as she turned her head into the mattress, crying out in pleasure and reaching down to your forearm. You could feel her thighs tremble against yours and her grip on your arm tighten. You groaned against her, teetering on the edge once again.

“Fuck, baby, you make me feel so good,” You mumbled between thrusts, Natasha turned her head, whining as her core clenched and her climax washed over her for the second time. You followed suit, groaning against her and you slowed down your movements.

Natasha’s thighs trembled, and a whine escaped past her lips as you slowly pulled out of her, her arousal leaking out between her legs. You dropped next to her, allowing her to cuddle into your side, her head finding comfort in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, baby,” She mumbled, idly tracing patterns on your toned abdomen, the muscles fluttering under her touch. “I didn’t know you had that in you”

You chuckled, looking down at her face and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. You brought your mouths together again. This time in a slow, tender kiss. She hummed against your lips, a wave of relaxation and exhaustion crashing over her.

“I should tie you up more often,” Her face was still inches away from yours and you connected your lips once more before laying back, allowing her to rest the full weight of her head on your chest.

It’s initially just black, darkness surrounding her, Natasha simply reveling in everything happening to her… until a sudden, sharp stinging is felt on the inside of her thigh, your hand coming down and making firm contact with the plushness there. Her eyes shoot open, a cry of surprise escaping her mouth that progresses into a high-pitched whine when the first thing she sees is herself reflected back at her in the mirror.

God, she looks absolutely pathetic right now—fucked out in a way she’s not used to seeing, never having been forced to watch herself before—and she closes her eyes again in an attempt to avoid the sight.

“Eyes open,” you tell her, “Eyes on you, unless… you want me to stop?” It’s teasing. You know very well what the answer to that question is, how much she currently needs you to keep going, for the pleasure you’re providing her with to keep sparking under her skin and firing up and down her spine until it settles back in her core.

But still, despite her desperation, she doesn’t reply to you.

“Use your words, Natasha,” you demand, punctuating your sentence by bucking your hips up to push into her a few times.

Your actions don’t make it any easier, and you smirk as she moans, loud and uncontrolled, echoing through the room and off the walls in the way that means she’s close. You’re lucky that Tony soundproofed your quarters after the first time your and Natasha’s romps were heard throughout the night, keeping the other Avengers awake with sounds that they never wanted to become familiar with in the first place.

“No, please, please don’t stop. I’m so close. Please,” Natasha then begs, her hips rolling with urgency, her body eager for you to keep relentlessly pounding into her, eager for the heat that being so completely filled by you brings about, for the ache from deep within her that only you can soothe to lessen.

“Already?” you ask even though you’re well aware of how near she is to tipping, how near the redhead is to falling into sweet oblivion. You know the signs of Natasha’s pleasure better than she does, able to recognize every expression that twists her face, able to decipher every jerk and jolt of her body, well acquainted with every potential reaction you could receive whenever you’re fucking her.

She just nods her head, struggling to find her voice. There’s too much input, too many sensations for her to process all at once.

“I said ‘words’,” you remind her, and you decide to let up, transitioning from harsh thrusts to languid ones in order to help her answer.

It doesn’t work.

“Can’t-” She almost doesn’t get the word out. “Fuck, can’t, can’t- so close, can’t, fuck-”

You hum, the noise more mocking than understanding. “Let me help then,” you murmur, reaching your hand toward the bedside table, grabbing at the vibrator you had left there beforehand. You switch it on, and the low buzzing that begins to fill the room makes a soft, helpless noise leave Natasha as she realizes just what’s coming.

You slowly skim the vibrator along her inner thigh, dragging it lightly across the sensitive skin there, a trail of goosebumps following the path it takes. It feels like it’s miles away from where she’s throbbing for it, so her back arches and her hips buck up in impatience, trying to make contact with the toy. She lets out an unfiltered whine as the strap shifts and reangles itself inside of her, falling forward, her hands landing on your knees.

She tries to catch her breath, but you don’t allow her to.

It’s at the lowest setting, but that doesn’t mean that the vibrator’s first touch against her clit doesn’t cause her eyes to roll back in her head, her hands quickly moving from your knees to scrabble at the sheets, grabbing hold of them and crushing them between her fingers. “Fuck!” she exclaims, startled by the suddenness. Her entire being is feverish, overheated, hypersensitive. There’s both satisfaction as the vibrations finally rack through her frame but also a burning need for more.

“Keep moving,” you demand when you notice her motions falter, when she starts to let the vibrator do all the work for her.

With difficulty, she begins pushing herself up before dropping herself down, resuming burying your strap deeply within her sopping hole. Her breasts jump with every movement as she continues to impale herself on the silicone, riding you like you requested, her fingers clutching at the sheets as she rocks weakly, overcome by the feelings that make her body twitch and writhe on top of you.

“That’s a girl,” you praise, “Bouncing so sweetly on my cock. Do you see yourself? Taking me so well?”

Natasha nods, her ability to speak having been stripped away by the almost unbearable sensation of you—the one hand holding her hip feeling like a brand, your strap stretching her cunt out deliciously, the vibrator pressed firmly to her clit to the point where she doesn’t know if it’s making everything better or worse at this point.

Her eyes are half-lidded, her mouth parted with irregular breaths as she takes in the sight of herself in the mirror again. She can see every piece of her—or perhaps pieces, as it feels like you’ve torn her apart bit by bit and left her scattered around the room—laid bare before her. Her skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat, her chest flushed a bright pink as she clearly becomes fatigued from all the exertion, but she stays determined, nonetheless. She can easily make out the sticky mess between her legs in the reflection; she watches how the silicone shaft glistens with her juices every time she raises her hips up and comes off its length slightly before sinking back down.

And she begins working faster, harder, grinding in needy, clumsy circles, as if seeing herself only furthers the fire she has building inside. Her dignity was abandoned somewhere along the way, and she can’t bring herself to care when you’re stuffing her full like only you ever can.

You notice her gaze drop to where you’re both connected, staring fixatedly at how the strap rhythmically plunges in and out of her hole, slick noises mixing with her moans.

“Just look at you,” you say, “You’re dripping, soaked. This pretty pussy was just begging to be fucked like this, wasn’t it?”

Natasha warms at the vulgar way you’re talking about her, blushing at your tone, at your words, but her body betrays her, and she clenches down on the silicone unconsciously.

A coy smile appears on your face at her bashfulness, at how she tries to hide just how much she’s enjoying everything. You can’t help but tease her further. “Say it,” you request.

When she doesn’t answer, shaking her head, too embarrassed to do so, you repeat yourself.

It’s a command this time—you’re no longer asking—and she knows that, so she takes a breath in preparation to echo the crude words back at you, but you don’t give her enough time, turning the vibrator up to the highest setting, the touch causing her entire being to thrum.

Natasha jumps as the sudden increase, the switch from the soft and steady vibrations to the severe ones jarring, you giving her no warning or chance to adjust. “My pussy was begging for it!” she cries out, “Fuck! It was begging! I’m begging!”

You hum again in satisfaction when she finally gets the words out. “That’s right,” you agree, “And begging girls don’t get to come.” You turn the vibrator back down, a chuckle leaving you when you see how her eyes widen in desperation. She’s trembling with the need to finally make it over the edge you’re keeping her on; you’ve been tormenting her by dangling her release just out of reach.

“No,” she pleads, “No, please, I’m good. I’m good. I’m not begging, I’m good.”

You just shake your head, tutting. “You just said you were begging,” you remind her.

Natasha whines. It’s true. She is begging, but she’s willing to say whatever it takes right now for you to let her to come.

“I’m good,” she tries to convince you again.

You then shush her, taking pity on the redhead that’s currently been reduced to a simple, babbling mess on your lap.

“I know you are,” you reassure softly, “My good girl, always my good girl.” And then you turn the toy back up, letting the vibrations resume their assault on her sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that you know will send her careening in just moments.

When she feels the intensity spike, Natasha stops remembering how to hold herself together; she doesn’t want to hold herself together. She’s falling with no desire to catch herself as everything overloads her system and takes her apart. Her release crashes through her and makes her forget how to breathe altogether, both her inhales and exhales stuttering to a stop in her chest before she remembers that she actually does need oxygen.

It’s the best form of torture when you continue to hold the vibrator directly against her clit, not giving her any respite, and her body shakes and shudders as the onslaught remains rushing through her.

“Wait, no more,” she chokes out, “Can’t- no more.”

“Someone just told me she wanted this. Now you’re saying that your greedy little cunt can’t take it?”

“No- no,” Natasha keeps protesting as you don’t let up, “S’too much-”

“You can do it,” you encourage, knowing her limits, knowing when to push and when to pull away, and right now, despite her objections, there’s no way Natasha truly wants you to ease up. She craves another climax; her body craves another climax. It’s blatantly telling you so as her hips still rock back and forth on your strap, as her walls clamp down tightly on the silicone as if trying to milk every drop of pleasure from you that she possibly can.

You start moving with her, hard and forceful snaps of your hips into her squelching cunt as the vibrator still buzzes against her causing her to gasp at the dual sensations.

A moan catches in her throat, her breath hitching, overstimulation warring with the euphoria that always follows an orgasm given to her by you. She goes to protest again but is abruptly stopped when you shove two fingers into her open mouth, effectively cutting the redhead off, preventing her from voicing anything further.

“Hush,” you murmur, your voice just a soft whisper against the shell of her ear, the brush of your lips along her skin making her shiver. Her tongue instinctively swirls around your digits before sucking on them gently, soaking them with her saliva, a trail of it beginning to dribble out the side of her mouth.

“There you go,” you praise, “Just stay quiet and let me play with you.”

This time, Natasha complies, focusing now on you in her mouth, on the weight of your fingers on her tongue, trying to distract herself from the unrelenting pressure of the vibrator and the wet slide of the strap inside her.

She can tell she’s quickly approaching another peak, and she wants to tell you, to warn you, but with your fingers pushed to the back of her throat, all she can do is whimper around them.

Fortunately for her, she doesn’t need to say anything. You can see it clear as day on her face in the mirror, see it in the way her head is lolling from side to side against your shoulder as her back leans heavily against your front. The vibrator is still at the highest setting, persistent and ruthless in its stimulation, and Natasha, even though she was just overwhelmed with ecstasy, is back to feeling starving for more, hips still working.

“One more,” you tell her before asking a question even though you know she can’t respond with your fingers caressing her tongue: “You can give me one more, can’t you? Just one more?”

She groans, eyes fluttering shut, trying to nod as she continues to suck and lick at your skin.

“Then come for me again,” you command, “I want you to come again all over my cock.”

Those words are all it takes, Natasha never able to disobey you, and she’s thrown into yet another climax after only just having recovered from the first, a loud, keening sound getting ripped from deep within her chest. She’s engulfed by it, drowning in it, the entire room feeling as though it’s spinning as she becomes dizzy with pleasure, unable to find her equilibrium through the vibrations that you still haven’t yet turned down. The only thing holding her together right now, the only thing grounding her, is the feeling of you, stable behind her.

After a few seconds of tension, of her muscles pulled taut, she drops limply against you, hips finally going still, too exhausted to keep moving. You gently pull the vibrator away from the apex of her thighs, switching it off, the sensations still there but now dulled to residual, phantom tingles that spread from her core outward to the rest of her body in waves.

You let her settle, Natasha very obviously spent, unable to take any more for the time being, and she curls into you, the strap still buried between her legs as she shifts to press her face into the crook of your neck.

You brush a light kiss to the crown of her head. “Is it safe to assume you can’t handle another?” you ask playfully.

It was a hard mission for Natasha.

No, it wasn’t just a hard mission; it’s been multiple. Over and over. Back to back.

She’s exhausted, and despite having just returned from one, she’s sure that tomorrow, she’ll be summoned for another. It seems like there’s just crisis after crisis these days. Infiltrate this organization, retrieve that intelligence data, handle and escort yet another asset across country lines… and do so through whatever means necessary.

She collapses onto the common room sofa, leaning back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.

It’s late. No one else is up. She just needs one moment to…

Natasha’s disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Her eyes reopen tiredly to find you gazing at her, confused and concerned. Well, no one else was supposed to be up.

“Rough mission?” you ask her.

She sighs. She doesn’t want to get into it.

You understand her exhale; you don’t push. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just coming to grab a glass of water. I’ll be out of the space shortly.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, and she’s not sure she wants to—she’s had quite the past 72 hours—but it’s you, and she’ll always be soft for you. “Anything in particular keeping you up?” she questions.

You hum. “Not sure,” you reply, “Anxiety, probably. Stress, maybe.”

Natasha gets that. “Wanna sit?”

“Sure.” You’re surprised at the offer—Natasha really looks like she’d prefer to be alone—but you accept anyway, unwilling to turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with some water before walking into the common room and settling on the couch beside the redhead, a comfortable amount of space between you two, perhaps a larger amount of space than usual for two friends.

Natasha’s not one for closeness, for intimacy, and she’s made that abundantly clear time and time again. It’s not uncomfortable, being this far from her, but you wonder what it would be like if she ever let you close the space.

Her eyes fall closed once more, and silence blankets the both of you.

She looks so small right now. You want to offer something—anything—to comfort her, to soothe and alleviate whatever shadows from her mission may still be clinging to her.

But you don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk, and she’s always rejected physical contact before: Steve’s friendly pats on the back, Wanda’s hugs, your casual linking of arms as you walk side by side.

But tonight, she looks so small, so worn out. You can’t help but try, and you’re willing to admit that you could use some closeness as well.

“Do you maybe… want to come here?” you ask hesitantly, certain that she’s going to reject your offer, but your arms open to welcome her on the off chance case she chooses to accept.

And although she doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even answer with certainty, to your shock, the redhead nods.

Maybe she senses that you need this, maybe it’s just for you, but she’s giving you it anyway.

It doesn’t take long.

Natasha’s head is pressed against your chest as she lets herself just be amazed by the steady sound of your heartbeat beneath her ear. Your arm is draped over her waist, keeping her flush against you, as you gently swipe your thumb back and forth across her hip. Your legs are tangled with hers as you two lounge together on the sofa, something on the TV playing quietly in the background, barely paid attention to by her in favor of reveling in your presence instead.

She’s trembling, everything within her at war. She’s never truly let herself get this near to someone else, and her instincts are both screaming at her to push you away and begging her to tug you even closer. Her nerves are on fire, every part of her body humming at the feeling of being in touch with another, and although lingering unease still swirls in her stomach, there’s also a sense of comfort that comes from being against you.

Everything is new, unfamiliar, and addicting.

She begins melting with each passing moment, relaxing into your hold, her tension unfurling as she surrenders to the sensation of just being held. Her own hands rise to settle around you, to grip at your shirt, the fabric clutched between her fingertips, and a soft sound escapes her, unbidden, as she nestles as if burrowing into your chest.

But it’s not enough. She needs to be closer.

So, Natasha situates herself more firmly against you, curling into you further, trying to gain even more physical contact. Her body moves without her thinking, acting on its own, shifting until she’s then fully on top of you, straddling you, her face soon back to being buried deeply into the crook of your neck, her nose nuzzling the curve of it, brushing the delicate skin there.

You suck in a surprised breath at the sudden change in positions, not having expected Natasha to make such a move. She’s been letting you take the lead, letting you guide her through all these new and hopefully gratifying feelings, but now, here she is, zero space between your hips and hers, her face tucked into you so close that you can feel every warm breath of hers on your throat.

Your hands instinctively grab onto her hips, trying to steady her, to settle her—you can feel the tremors in her body—and Natasha whimpers as the heat from your palms practically sears through her leggings.

You can sense the change when it happens, but you don’t understand it.

She grinds down lightly, testing without knowing it, and whimpers again at the ever so slight friction she receives. Her eyes flutter shut.

Your brows furrow at her neediness, but it’s not just neediness; it’s longing. Something is stirring within her, unlocking, making itself known, and you wonder…

You’re not sure you have a right to ask, not sure you have a right to know, but the way she’s acting right now—desperate, wanting, like she’s never felt the touch of someone who was touching her to simply worship her—makes you think. “Have you ever…” you trail off.

“What?” Natasha asks breathily, eyes opening to look at you, trying to focus on your face and your words despite her hips still lightly grinding into your own. She can’t stop them.

“Have you ever…” you try again before rephasing, “Has anyone ever made you come before?”

She stiffens in your arms, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve made so much progress with her tonight, gotten her to open up to you, to trust you, to let you touch her. You don’t want that to go away, but she does try to pull away, to sit up and move out of your arms, to remove herself from the vulnerable position she’s put herself in.

Your grip on her tightens minutely, attempting to keep her close, fingers resuming trailing soothing patterns along her as if that will get her to stay despite your misstep.

Neither of you two speak. You’re too worried about ruining what was already a fragile moment, and Natasha, she’s embarrassed, ashamed, not sure what she’s supposed to say in the face of the question that she is taking as an accusation.

She’s Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, known for using her body to get what she needs, known for seduction and sex and lust from others, and yet here she is, about to admit that she’s never been touched in a way that’s fulfilled her before.

“No,” she finally murmurs, quietly, almost inaudible, “It’s always just been a job. It’s always just been about the other person. I’ve never-”

You’re still silent, letting the new knowledge of how Natasha’s only ever been used sink in. You remember how her body moved against your own of its own accord, remember the whimper she made in response to her grinding. She needs this. You make a decision.

“Let me do this for you,” you murmur, pulling her upwards onto your stomach instead of your hips, beginning to mouth gently at the curve of her neck. You can feel her body still rigid in your arms, and although you don’t know if you should, you decide to press your luck, your tongue slipping out to hotly slide along her jawline. “Let me show you what real pleasure is. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.” Your words are said against her skin, and it makes her shiver with want.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut again, and for a moment, just like earlier when you offered her your touch, you think that she’s going to decline, that she’s going to roughly shove herself off of you and tell you to “fuck off” and never talk to her again, but then she breathes out a small “please”, and it’s all the permission you need.

You can already feel her pulsing along the muscles of your abdomen, so you waste no time. Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of her pants and underwear, dipping themselves into her folds, just feeling her wetness, taking in her heat, and Natasha shudders. It’s not the first time she’s been touched there, but it’s the first time it hasn’t felt like it was for somebody else.

You watch her expression soften as she surrenders to the sensations, and you soften as well.

“I’m going to show you just how good it can feel, just how good you deserve to feel,” you whisper to her, and Natasha’s body yields further, falling limp against you as she prepares herself to simply let herself feel and enjoy it this time.

It’s not a mission, not an assignment, not something that has to be done. This is a choice that she gets to make for herself.

“Tell me what you want. Anything you want, it’s yours,” you tell her as you start to circle her clit, just light circles before pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves more firmly, drawing a long whine from the redhead.

You continue teasing her, moving down to her entrance to gather more of her slick before returning to her clit, tapping lightly, swiping across it, using your two fingers to brush and skim and stroke with varying pressures.

For a while, Natasha is speechless, driven into an overwhelmed quiet by your ministrations, but her body aches, her pussy aches, and she needs you to fill her.

“Inside,” she finally gasps out, hips starting to rock up to try and get your fingers to slip into her hole, to delve into her and explore.

You immediately comply, your fingers swiftly entering her. You want to give her whatever it is that she needs. Tonight’s about her.

Natasha’s eyes roll back. She’s felt something similar to this before, felt the fullness and the stretch, but her pussy has never wanted to hold someone within, her pussy has never been desperate for more, her pussy has never throbbed for another person.

You drag your fingers out only to shove them back in, curling them to try and find the spot that the redhead needs, and a whine escapes her again.

Your eyes snap up to look at her face when she makes the noise.

“Right there?” you ask softly, and she nods, her head bobbing up and down multiple times.

“Right there,” she affirms, tone hoarse, voice shaky. Her hips are rolling to meet your every thrust, her body lighting up under your touch. Her hands grip at your shoulders as if that will stabilize herself as you continue pumping into her, and despite her thoughts scattering as the world blurs around the edges, she can’t help but think about one thing: she wants to kiss you.

One of her hands moves to tangle in your hair, to try and draw you closer, to try and pull your head toward hers so she can at first graze her lips against yours. It’s not that she hasn’t kissed anyone—she has many times before—but tonight feels different, this feels different, you feel different.

You acquiesce for a moment, dipping yourself forward until you realize what her goal is, and then you’re pulling away. Although there’s a smile on your face, it’s resigned.

You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Natasha whines for a third time, but this time, it’s out of petulance at being rejected, and she tries to tug your face back to hers again.

You speed up your motions to distract her from her current fixation on your lips, and Natasha’s body arches off the sofa as you succeed. Despite your movements being restricted by her leggings, you’re quickly taking her up to the edge that she’s always heard contains nothing but pleasure, the pressure building fast and hot inside of her.

And then… it releases. It’s nothing like she’s ever experienced before. She wasn’t aware it could feel like this.

Natasha’s reveling, savoring, basking in the feeling that follows an orgasm—a real orgasm—but… it wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an orgasm given to her by you.

She’s almost recovered after a minute or so, her chest still rising and falling unsteadily, her heartbeat still thumping rapidly in her chest, and she falls back onto her side on the sofa to look at you, her eyes soft. You look so beautiful in front of her. Her hand comes up to frame your face, and you lean into the touch, smiling at the affectionate gesture.

Now’s the moment, right? You didn’t kiss her during the act, but that didn’t mean anything. You were busy; you were preoccupied.

“Can I kiss you now?” Natasha asks hopefully, gaze not leaving your face.

Everything about this moment is tender, the haze of all that has transpired still hanging over the two of you and throughout the room… or maybe just over her.

You pull away from her hand, and your eyes turn… not guarded, but acceptant of the belief you already have.

When you respond, your tone is still gentle, so gentle, but it makes the redhead flinch anyway. “Natasha,” you murmur, and she knows you’re going to reject her again before you even continue. “You’ve never had this before, never felt like this before. I know you needed this, and I’m happy to have given it to you, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you want me.”

Natasha’s heart breaks. After all this, you think she doesn’t want you?

When she doesn’t respond, you take her silence for confusion. “Don’t confuse your body’s need with what you want,” you explain more.

“No, no, that’s not-” Natasha breaks off, “I do want you. I do.”

You look at her with a mix of disbelief and sympathy, and it kills her. She doesn’t want your pity; she wants your trust.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone touch me?”

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone fuck me?”

“You’ve never-”

“It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been with someone like this before, I want you.”

“You’re just touch starved-” you protest.

“I’m able to tell the difference between touch starvation and feelings. You believe me. You have to believe me.”

She can tell by the look in your eyes that you don’t.

“Every other time, it’s always been for a job, with a goal in mind, but this time, it was a choice. I got to choose. Please don’t demean that; please don’t take that away from me.”

“Natasha,” you try one more time.

“After all that, don’t you… don’t you choose me too?”

It was a hard mission for Natasha.

No, it wasn’t just a hard mission; it’s been multiple. Over and over. Back to back.

She’s exhausted, and despite having just returned from one, she’s sure that tomorrow, she’ll be summoned for another. It seems like there’s just crisis after crisis these days. Infiltrate this organization, retrieve that intelligence data, handle and escort yet another asset across country lines… and do so through whatever means necessary.

She collapses onto the common room sofa, leaning back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.

It’s late. No one else is up. She just needs one moment to…

Natasha’s disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Her eyes reopen tiredly to find you gazing at her, confused and concerned. Well, no one else was supposed to be up.

“Rough mission?” you ask her.

She sighs. She doesn’t want to get into it.

You understand her exhale; you don’t push. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just coming to grab a glass of water. I’ll be out of the space shortly.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, and she’s not sure she wants to—she’s had quite the past 72 hours—but it’s you, and she’ll always be soft for you. “Anything in particular keeping you up?” she questions.

You hum. “Not sure,” you reply, “Anxiety, probably. Stress, maybe.”

Natasha gets that. “Wanna sit?”

“Sure.” You’re surprised at the offer—Natasha really looks like she’d prefer to be alone—but you accept anyway, unwilling to turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with some water before walking into the common room and settling on the couch beside the redhead, a comfortable amount of space between you two, perhaps a larger amount of space than usual for two friends.

Natasha’s not one for closeness, for intimacy, and she’s made that abundantly clear time and time again. It’s not uncomfortable, being this far from her, but you wonder what it would be like if she ever let you close the space.

Her eyes fall closed once more, and silence blankets the both of you.

She looks so small right now. You want to offer something—anything—to comfort her, to soothe and alleviate whatever shadows from her mission may still be clinging to her.

But you don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk, and she’s always rejected physical contact before: Steve’s friendly pats on the back, Wanda’s hugs, your casual linking of arms as you walk side by side.

But tonight, she looks so small, so worn out. You can’t help but try, and you’re willing to admit that you could use some closeness as well.

“Do you maybe… want to come here?” you ask hesitantly, certain that she’s going to reject your offer, but your arms open to welcome her on the off chance case she chooses to accept.

And although she doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even answer with certainty, to your shock, the redhead nods.

Maybe she senses that you need this, maybe it’s just for you, but she’s giving you it anyway.

It doesn’t take long.

Natasha’s head is pressed against your chest as she lets herself just be amazed by the steady sound of your heartbeat beneath her ear. Your arm is draped over her waist, keeping her flush against you, as you gently swipe your thumb back and forth across her hip. Your legs are tangled with hers as you two lounge together on the sofa, something on the TV playing quietly in the background, barely paid attention to by her in favor of reveling in your presence instead.

She’s trembling, everything within her at war. She’s never truly let herself get this near to someone else, and her instincts are both screaming at her to push you away and begging her to tug you even closer. Her nerves are on fire, every part of her body humming at the feeling of being in touch with another, and although lingering unease still swirls in her stomach, there’s also a sense of comfort that comes from being against you.

Everything is new, unfamiliar, and addicting.

She begins melting with each passing moment, relaxing into your hold, her tension unfurling as she surrenders to the sensation of just being held. Her own hands rise to settle around you, to grip at your shirt, the fabric clutched between her fingertips, and a soft sound escapes her, unbidden, as she nestles as if burrowing into your chest.

But it’s not enough. She needs to be closer.

So, Natasha situates herself more firmly against you, curling into you further, trying to gain even more physical contact. Her body moves without her thinking, acting on its own, shifting until she’s then fully on top of you, straddling you, her face soon back to being buried deeply into the crook of your neck, her nose nuzzling the curve of it, brushing the delicate skin there.

You suck in a surprised breath at the sudden change in positions, not having expected Natasha to make such a move. She’s been letting you take the lead, letting you guide her through all these new and hopefully gratifying feelings, but now, here she is, zero space between your hips and hers, her face tucked into you so close that you can feel every warm breath of hers on your throat.

Your hands instinctively grab onto her hips, trying to steady her, to settle her—you can feel the tremors in her body—and Natasha whimpers as the heat from your palms practically sears through her leggings.

You can sense the change when it happens, but you don’t understand it.

She grinds down lightly, testing without knowing it, and whimpers again at the ever so slight friction she receives. Her eyes flutter shut.

Your brows furrow at her neediness, but it’s not just neediness; it’s longing. Something is stirring within her, unlocking, making itself known, and you wonder…

You’re not sure you have a right to ask, not sure you have a right to know, but the way she’s acting right now—desperate, wanting, like she’s never felt the touch of someone who was touching her to simply worship her—makes you think. “Have you ever…” you trail off.

“What?” Natasha asks breathily, eyes opening to look at you, trying to focus on your face and your words despite her hips still lightly grinding into your own. She can’t stop them.

“Have you ever…” you try again before rephasing, “Has anyone ever made you come before?”

She stiffens in your arms, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve made so much progress with her tonight, gotten her to open up to you, to trust you, to let you touch her. You don’t want that to go away, but she does try to pull away, to sit up and move out of your arms, to remove herself from the vulnerable position she’s put herself in.

Your grip on her tightens minutely, attempting to keep her close, fingers resuming trailing soothing patterns along her as if that will get her to stay despite your misstep.

Neither of you two speak. You’re too worried about ruining what was already a fragile moment, and Natasha, she’s embarrassed, ashamed, not sure what she’s supposed to say in the face of the question that she is taking as an accusation.

She’s Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, known for using her body to get what she needs, known for seduction and sex and lust from others, and yet here she is, about to admit that she’s never been touched in a way that’s fulfilled her before.

“No,” she finally murmurs, quietly, almost inaudible, “It’s always just been a job. It’s always just been about the other person. I’ve never-”

You’re still silent, letting the new knowledge of how Natasha’s only ever been used sink in. You remember how her body moved against your own of its own accord, remember the whimper she made in response to her grinding. She needs this. You make a decision.

“Let me do this for you,” you murmur, pulling her upwards onto your stomach instead of your hips, beginning to mouth gently at the curve of her neck. You can feel her body still rigid in your arms, and although you don’t know if you should, you decide to press your luck, your tongue slipping out to hotly slide along her jawline. “Let me show you what real pleasure is. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.” Your words are said against her skin, and it makes her shiver with want.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut again, and for a moment, just like earlier when you offered her your touch, you think that she’s going to decline, that she’s going to roughly shove herself off of you and tell you to “fuck off” and never talk to her again, but then she breathes out a small “please”, and it’s all the permission you need.

You can already feel her pulsing along the muscles of your abdomen, so you waste no time. Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of her pants and underwear, dipping themselves into her folds, just feeling her wetness, taking in her heat, and Natasha shudders. It’s not the first time she’s been touched there, but it’s the first time it hasn’t felt like it was for somebody else.

You watch her expression soften as she surrenders to the sensations, and you soften as well.

“I’m going to show you just how good it can feel, just how good you deserve to feel,” you whisper to her, and Natasha’s body yields further, falling limp against you as she prepares herself to simply let herself feel and enjoy it this time.

It’s not a mission, not an assignment, not something that has to be done. This is a choice that she gets to make for herself.

“Tell me what you want. Anything you want, it’s yours,” you tell her as you start to circle her clit, just light circles before pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves more firmly, drawing a long whine from the redhead.

You continue teasing her, moving down to her entrance to gather more of her slick before returning to her clit, tapping lightly, swiping across it, using your two fingers to brush and skim and stroke with varying pressures.

For a while, Natasha is speechless, driven into an overwhelmed quiet by your ministrations, but her body aches, her pussy aches, and she needs you to fill her.

“Inside,” she finally gasps out, hips starting to rock up to try and get your fingers to slip into her hole, to delve into her and explore.

You immediately comply, your fingers swiftly entering her. You want to give her whatever it is that she needs. Tonight’s about her.

Natasha’s eyes roll back. She’s felt something similar to this before, felt the fullness and the stretch, but her pussy has never wanted to hold someone within, her pussy has never been desperate for more, her pussy has never throbbed for another person.

You drag your fingers out only to shove them back in, curling them to try and find the spot that the redhead needs, and a whine escapes her again.

Your eyes snap up to look at her face when she makes the noise.

“Right there?” you ask softly, and she nods, her head bobbing up and down multiple times.

“Right there,” she affirms, tone hoarse, voice shaky. Her hips are rolling to meet your every thrust, her body lighting up under your touch. Her hands grip at your shoulders as if that will stabilize herself as you continue pumping into her, and despite her thoughts scattering as the world blurs around the edges, she can’t help but think about one thing: she wants to kiss you.

One of her hands moves to tangle in your hair, to try and draw you closer, to try and pull your head toward hers so she can at first graze her lips against yours. It’s not that she hasn’t kissed anyone—she has many times before—but tonight feels different, this feels different, you feel different.

You acquiesce for a moment, dipping yourself forward until you realize what her goal is, and then you’re pulling away. Although there’s a smile on your face, it’s resigned.

You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Natasha whines for a third time, but this time, it’s out of petulance at being rejected, and she tries to tug your face back to hers again.

You speed up your motions to distract her from her current fixation on your lips, and Natasha’s body arches off the sofa as you succeed. Despite your movements being restricted by her leggings, you’re quickly taking her up to the edge that she’s always heard contains nothing but pleasure, the pressure building fast and hot inside of her.

And then… it releases. It’s nothing like she’s ever experienced before. She wasn’t aware it could feel like this.

Natasha’s reveling, savoring, basking in the feeling that follows an orgasm—a real orgasm—but… it wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an orgasm given to her by you.

She’s almost recovered after a minute or so, her chest still rising and falling unsteadily, her heartbeat still thumping rapidly in her chest, and she falls back onto her side on the sofa to look at you, her eyes soft. You look so beautiful in front of her. Her hand comes up to frame your face, and you lean into the touch, smiling at the affectionate gesture.

Now’s the moment, right? You didn’t kiss her during the act, but that didn’t mean anything. You were busy; you were preoccupied.

“Can I kiss you now?” Natasha asks hopefully, gaze not leaving your face.

Everything about this moment is tender, the haze of all that has transpired still hanging over the two of you and throughout the room… or maybe just over her.

You pull away from her hand, and your eyes turn… not guarded, but acceptant of the belief you already have.

When you respond, your tone is still gentle, so gentle, but it makes the redhead flinch anyway. “Natasha,” you murmur, and she knows you’re going to reject her again before you even continue. “You’ve never had this before, never felt like this before. I know you needed this, and I’m happy to have given it to you, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you want me.”

Natasha’s heart breaks. After all this, you think she doesn’t want you?

When she doesn’t respond, you take her silence for confusion. “Don’t confuse your body’s need with what you want,” you explain more.

“No, no, that’s not-” Natasha breaks off, “I do want you. I do.”

You look at her with a mix of disbelief and sympathy, and it kills her. She doesn’t want your pity; she wants your trust.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone touch me?”

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone fuck me?”

“You’ve never-”

“It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been with someone like this before, I want you.”

“You’re just touch starved-” you protest.

“I’m able to tell the difference between touch starvation and feelings. You believe me. You have to believe me.”

She can tell by the look in your eyes that you don’t.

“Every other time, it’s always been for a job, with a goal in mind, but this time, it was a choice. I got to choose. Please don’t demean that; please don’t take that away from me.”

“Natasha,” you try one more time.

“After all that, don’t you… don’t you choose me too?”

Natasha had never intended to date at college – she’d always been something of a player and she’d loved the idea of going to college and being able to flirt to her heart’s content. Natasha had been looking forward to the amount of one night stands she intended to have. At first that’s exactly what she’d done – many girls had left Natasha’s dorm broken-hearted when she’d told them it was just a one night thing. Despite her attitude there were still girls queuing up round the block to get close to her – everyone loved Natasha. That was just the way she liked it.

Until she’d met you.

You were on a different course to Natasha but she’d seen you around campus. Your nose was always in a book. There was a particular tree that you loved to sit beneath in the shade as you read. Natasha would watch as you ate lunch, your eyes never leaving the page as you lifted your sandwich to your mouth to take a bite. At first she’d scoffed and made a bitchy comment to her friends about what a nerd you were but deep down she was a little intrigued by you.

There was something about you that drew Natasha to you. Despite thinking you were quite nerdy it was clear to see that you were pretty. Pretty in a quiet way – you clearly didn’t put much importance on looks, that was obvious from the clothes that you wore. They were more about practicality than style. Natasha found herself spotting you everywhere on campus. You always seemed to be alone.

One day Natasha found you sitting in your usual favourite spot and she approached you, folding her arms as she stood over you “Do you not have any friends or something?” When you didn’t reply she scoffed and said louder “Hello! I’m talking to you.”

You still didn’t even look up and Natasha felt a stab of irritation “Are you fucking deaf?” She snapped before bending down and waving her hand in front of your face “HELLOOOOOOOO!”

You jumped once you saw her hand and made eye contact with her, pulling your headphones out of your ears “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Natasha had stared at you for a moment before sitting down next to you “Seriously. Why are you always by yourself?”

You’d been surprised by Natasha’s sudden intrusion but you shrugged, your attention still mostly on your book “I just study a lot. I do have friends.”

“Oh yeah? What do you do with your friends?”

“We have a book club. And we play games.”

“So how come I never see them with you?”

“Oh they’re not here, they’re mostly at home. We do everything virtually.” You’d been surprised at how open you’d been with Natasha. She just had that effect on people “Everyone here… Well, I guess I just haven’t found my people yet.”

Natasha’s expression had softened at that, suddenly feeling a stab of sympathy for you. It seemed you had plenty to say – no one was willing to just sit and listen though. And you weren’t the type of person to approach other people. She could imagine you struggling to make friends “I never see you at any of the parties or anything. That’s a good place to make friends.”

You’d given a small, self-deprecating smile “Not really my scene. Besides, no one would want me there.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I just… I’m looking for people like me I guess, the other quiet weirdo’s who aren’t interested in the parties and-”

“Okay, no offence, but you are literally never going to find those people because they’re holed up in their own room like you.” Natasha said “Come to my sorority’s party tomorrow night. It’ll be fun. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

She’d handed you a flyer and then left, not staying around to convince you because she was pretty sure that you’d turn up. People usually did as she asked and she was delighted when you turned up the following day. However her friend had laughed then leaned over and whispered in her ear “Seriously, what is she wearing? It’s supposed to be a party.”

Natasha looked at your outfit, taking in your casual jeans and band t-shirt. It was the same outfit you’d been wearing all day and she felt a stab of weird affection at the sight. Of course you hadn’t thought to change for the party. That wouldn’t have crossed your mind.

Despite the affectionate feeling spreading through her chest Natasha also felt a stab of embarrassment. Maybe she should’ve told you but… Come on. Everyone knows you get dressed up for a party. And it wouldn’t have hurt for you to do something with your hair; it was pulled back in your usual ponytail. All her friends began openly giggling at you “Seriously, who the hell even invited her?” One laughed “She’s such a fucking loser.”

“Yeah, she’s the one always reading, right?” Another had snorted “Seriously, she’s so boring.”

For the next hour or so Natasha had avoided you, pretending she hadn’t realised you’d arrived until she’d stumbled into her bedroom to change her shoes – the heels were finally starting to hurt her feet – when she found you sitting at the end of her bed.

“Hey!” Natasha quickly closed the door behind her and beamed at you “You made it! It’s so good to see you.”

You’d given her a small, shy smile “Yep. Honestly… Can’t see what all the fuss is about so far.”

“How did you know this was my room?”

“Your name and photo are on the door.”

Natasha grinned “Ah yeah, bit of a giveaway.” She came over and sat next to you on the bed “Have you had anything to drink?”

You’d shook your head “I don’t really do that.”

“Ah you’re a good girl, huh? In bed by 9PM reading a book?”

“I’m a bit of a night owl actually; I get my best work done at night.”

Natasha had laughed, reaching over and putting her hand on your shoulder “You’re so funny. And cute.”

Your face had flushed and you’d given a nervous smile “Nat-”

“Seriously, you’re the cutest girl on campus. Why aren’t the boys lining up outside your dorm?”

“I wouldn’t be particularly interested anyway, I like girls.”

Natasha had beamed “Perfect, me too! So you can be my girlfriend.”

Your eyes had widened “Girlfriend? Nat, we don’t know each other, we-”

“But we’ll get to know each other. Go on a date with me. Tomorrow.”

“Nat-”

“I’ll pick you up around seven. It’ll be fun, I promise!”

And thus your relationship with Natasha Romanoff had begun. She’d taken you off campus for your date and you’d gotten to know each other better. You’d told her about your single Dad who’d raised you when your Mom had passed away when you were younger, about your younger brother and sister, about the pressure you’d always felt to do well. Natasha had told you how she’d been adopted as a kid, about her own little sister, about her strained relationship with her own Dad but how she loved her mother.

After a couple of dates you’d made it official but you’d quickly realised Natasha didn’t want to be seen with you in front of her friends. She never wanted to meet up with you on campus and if you tried to talk to her while she was with anyone else she’d blank you.

“I just want to keep it secret.” Natasha had told you, one night when she’d snuck into your dorm because she knew your roommate was away for the weekend “What’s wrong with that?”

“Why do you want it to be a secret though?” You’d asked “Are you ashamed of me?”

“No!” Natasha lied “No, of course not-”

“Then why can’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“I… I just think it’s more fun this way, y’know?” Natasha had tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear “I’ll introduce you eventually, obviously. Just not yet. This is way more fun.”

Natasha had thought she could keep you a secret from her friends. The one thing she hadn’t counted on was that you were surprisingly quite clingy. And very affectionate. Natasha had assumed you would be reserved in public but you weren’t, you were always wanting to hold her hand, to kiss her, to wrap your arms around her waist. Whilst Natasha secretly loved it part of her also cringed, worrying that someone would see the two of you together and realise you were dating.

Natasha’s friends were still making bitchy comments about you – Natasha had assumed that with time they would stop but they continued and it was now bordering on bullying. Although they never said anything too mean to your face they’d gotten into the habit of walking past your favourite spot under the tree, holding their noses and giggling. They were saying that you smelt bad which Natasha didn’t understand – you were very hygienic and smelt great as far as she was concerned.

You weren’t an idiot. You’d noticed what they were doing and your eyes had swivelled to Natasha the first time, praying she’d say something in your defence but she’d simply looked away. She hadn’t joined in with the laughing but that wasn’t much of a comfort.

“Can’t you say something to them?” You ask “They’re your friends, they’ll listen to you.”

“They’ll stop eventually. They’ll get bored. Just… Ignore them.” Natasha replies.

Your shoulders slump at her response and Natasha feels a stab of guilt which she quickly pushes away. She’ll say something if they carry on… But they won’t. They’ll get bored eventually.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear “Okay… Well, Halloween’s coming up. I know you’ll probably be having a party at some point but they’re doing an outdoor screening of ‘Scream’ on the lawn, I thought that might be fun-”

Natasha immediately shakes her head as she always does when you suggest you do something together on campus “Horror movies aren’t really my thing.” She lies “You should definitely come to the Halloween party though, it’ll be fun.”

You sigh “Are you sure you want me there?”

“Yes, of course! I just… Don’t make it obvious we’re dating though, okay? You’ll have fun though, I know you love Halloween.”

You purse your lips together “What if your friends keep saying stuff to me?”

“They won’t, they’ll be too busy partying to even notice you’re there.” Natasha nudges you “Come on, you know you wanna come.”

Actually, you don’t want to go. You hadn’t been to a party since the first one Natasha had invited you to and that alone had been torturous for most of it. Now that Natasha’s friends are being nasty you relish going to the party even less. But Natasha’s giving you that wide-eyed look so you nod reluctantly “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”

The moment you walk through the door of the party Natasha feels a wave of affection and embarrassment all rolled into one. Since it’s a Halloween party you’d known to dress up but you immediately stuck out like a sore thumb. Natasha was dressed as a black cat and her best friends were wearing similarly cute outfits. You’re dressed as a skeleton – which would be cute but you’d clearly put your outfit together yourself, painting the bones onto an old black t-shirt and jeans. Natasha had assumed you’d have a Halloween outfit at your disposal but apparently not.

You spot her and go over with a big grin “Hey! Do you like my outfit? It took me forever to paint-”

Natasha’s friend snorts with laughter as she sees you approach “Oh My God… What do you look like?”

Another pinches her nose “God, have you ever heard of a shower?”

You glance at Natasha who immediately looks away. The other girls continue with their bitchy comments “Who invited you anyway?”

One girl touches your head and you flinch away as she roars with laughter “You could make fries with how greasy her hair is.”

Your hair isn’t greasy and you don’t smell. You look to Natasha again but she’s turned away and is pouring herself another drink. The other girls are still laughing so you quickly push past them and go out into the back garden. One of the girls laughs “She’s so pathetic.”

You sit on the steps outside and wait for Natasha to come out – you end up waiting a long time. Just as you’re about to give up and call it a night Natasha comes clattering outside and grins “Hey! What are you doing out here? The party’s in there y’know-”

“Why didn’t you say something?” You ask.

“About what?”

“Are you serious? About your friends being absolutely horrible to me.”

“They’re just kidding, you know what they’re like-”

“They’re bullying me Nat. I’m your girlfriend, you’re supposed to say something-”

“Shh, keep your voice down!” Natasha says urgently, looking around.

Your eyes water “Why are you so embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“I’m not-”

“Yes you are! You never wanna be seen with me. We never do anything on campus together. You let your friends say horrible things about me. What’s the problem Nat?”

Natasha looks away for a moment with a small groan before looking back at you; her lips pursed together “Y/N, I really like you. In fact, I might even be falling in love with you. But… I mean, look at you.”

You feel your stomach churn with anxiety at that statement and you take a step back “What do you mean?”

“Look at the way every other girl at that party was dressed and then look at you. Why didn’t you go out and buy something?”

“I can’t afford to buy a Halloween costume that I’ll only wear once Nat-”

“Then you should’ve told me and I could’ve lent you something. Okay, look, maybe this is my fault, after the way you came dressed to the last party I probably should’ve offered to help you get ready-”

You feel another stab of anxiety “What do you mean the way I came dressed last time?”

“You’re not an idiot Y/N, you must see the way the other girls were dressed. You… Well you’re not ugly but why do you dress like an old lady?”

“I thought you liked the way I dress.”

“I do! But…”

“But I embarrass you.”

“No! I- Look- I don’t know, okay? I think you’re cute; I like you the way you are… But my friends-”

“Mean more to you than I do I guess.” You nod slowly and look away “That’s awesome.”

“Y/N-”

“No, you know what; you think I wanted to come to this stupid party? I hate it. I fucking hate it. How come I’m always doing things you want but you can’t ever do anything I want? And why even invite me here if you’re just going to ignore me all night? You’re pathetic Nat and I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

You shove past her and go into the house. She doesn’t come after you and you’re not surprised – she’s not going to make a big scene in front of everyone. You make it to the front door and push it open only to run smack bang into someone.

“Wow, I’m so sorry! Not watching where I was going as usual- Wow, your outfit is so cute. Homemade, right?”

Your eye-brows furrow as you try to figure out if this girl is being sincere or making fun of you like the other sorority girls. You’ve not seen her before but she’s really pretty and wearing a really cute outfit “I uh… Yeah, I made it. You look cute, what are you?”

“I’m a Sokovian fortune teller, a little nod to my home country.” The girl says proudly, giving you a big smile “I’m Wanda.”

She holds her hand out and you take it hesitantly, still not sure if she’s making fun of you “Y/N.”

“Are you leaving? I’m getting a bit bored to be honest; all these weird men keep coming and talking to me. I’m trying to make friends with all the other girls; I joined late this semester so I have a lot of catching up to do. Visa problems, I’m an international student.” Wanda laughs “Sorry, I’m yapping! What I meant to ask was - do you want to do something?”

You hesitate, glancing over your shoulder into the house then you look back at Wanda “I uh… I don’t know. I think I just… I think I’ve broken up with my girlfriend just now, I don’t-”

“Oh no! Look, feel free to tell me to go away but I don’t think you should be alone right now. Why don’t we go somewhere a bit quieter? There’s this campus café, its open twenty four hours and they do the best brownies. Like literally I’ve only been here a week and they already know my name in there, I’m always there.”

You think about it for a moment before nodding. It would be nice to have some company. Despite being here a few months now you haven’t made any friends, only Natasha “Yeah. Alright then.”

Natasha doesn’t get in touch with you after the argument. She figures you’ll punish her for a few days and then you’ll forgive her. You won’t stay mad at her forever. She feels a little bad for being embarrassed of you but come on. It wouldn’t have killed you to read the room. After all, you could've asked Natasha about outfits if you weren't sure.

When Natasha first sees you with Wanda she doesn’t think much of it. Wanda’s new and seems to be the latest ‘it girl’, becoming just as popular as Natasha in a short space of time. She’s bubbly and warm and everyone loves hearing about life in her home country Sokovia. It made sense that Wanda was spending time with you; she was getting to know everyone. She’d leave you alone soon enough, when she realised how the others felt about you.

That didn’t happen though. Natasha was in the courtyard one day when she saw you beneath your usual tree and Wanda was sat next to you, scrolling through her phone whilst you read your book. A couple of Natasha’s friends walked past and held their noses as they giggled, causing Wanda to look up “Why are you doing that?” She snaps “That’s really rude.”

Both girls falter at that and one of them mumbles something about how you smell. Wanda rolls her eyes “No she doesn’t. She smells just fine. Come sit with us and find out.”

You look up at that, a bit alarmed but both girls sit down and Wanda chats easily, not letting any awkward silences fill the air. Natasha watches the four of you, feeling a sudden hot stab of jealousy. The girls slowly seem to warm to you and when they apologise you accept it with good grace.

Natasha has to watch over the next few weeks as everyone’s attitude towards you shifts – all thanks to Wanda. Every time you do something that the others find a little strange Wanda just smiles and puts a positive spin on it “I really loved her Halloween costume, it was original.” Wanda tells the others “And homemade! She’s so fun.”

Natasha starts to see Wanda walking around with her arm your waist and she can’t take it anymore. The moment she sees you alone she approaches you “What the hell is going on?”

You look at her, your eyes widening a little in surprise “Oh, hey Nat…”

“Are you cheating on me with Wanda?”

“What? Nat, I broke up with you. Wanda asked me out and I said yes.”

“But we were together. We-”

“Nat, you don’t get to do this.” You fold your arms “You were embarrassed to be seen with me. Wanda isn’t. You don’t get to back pedal now.”

“I-”

“I want someone who I can be openly affectionate with. Someone who isn’t afraid to say that they love me in front of everyone. You weren’t that person Nat.”

“But I do love you.” Natasha says “And I don’t care who knows, I-”

“You only don’t care because everyone’s changed their opinion of me.” You say “And that’s not thanks to you Nat, that’s thanks to Wanda. I finally feel happy and secure, something I never felt with you.” You shrug “You had every opportunity to be brave. All you had to do was admit we were dating. But you were too scared.”

“Y/N-”

“I wish you the best Nat but I’m not interested. I’m happy with Wanda.” You give a small smile as you see Wanda approaching, a huge grin on her face as she spots you “I’ve gotta go.”

“Y/N, please-”

Author's Notes: Hey guys! Just wanted to say a huge thank you for all the love and support you’ve been giving this story—it honestly means so much to me. I’m sorry it took a little longer to post this one, but I promise it was worth the wait (yes, it got long, I know, but I couldn’t help myself). As always, feel free to drop a comment or send me a message—I absolutely love talking with you all about the story!Hope you enjoy the chapter… especially now that they’re finally, finally official!

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Natasha had always believed that solitude was safety. That the quiet after a mission, the dim silence of her apartment, the untouched corner of a bed meant she was doing it right. Keeping the world at bay. But lately—no, ever since you—solitude didn’t taste like peace anymore. It tasted like absence. It tasted like something she wasn’t supposed to swallow down anymore. Because now she knew what it felt like to be held. And God, she craved it. Every cell in her body missed you when you weren’t there. It was like her skin had developed a memory, a longing—your fingers stroking through her hair, the solid weight of your arms around her, the way your voice softened when you said her name. She wasn’t built for needing people, but somehow, she needed you.

It was worse on nights like this, when the plan had been simple. Just bed. Just cuddles. You, her, and Ana—wrapped up like a secret in soft sheets and warm limbs, safe from the world. That was all she wanted. No espionage, no world-threatening disasters, no coded briefings. Just domestic silence broken by the gentle hiccup of Ana’s giggle or your breath whispering across her neck. And when it didn’t happen, when the world pried you away again with one more emergency or one more delay, something inside her clenched with a quiet, aching frustration.

She never expected this. She never expected to become this… touch-starved. Not her. Not the Black Widow, trained to endure, to resist, to suppress. But every time you left, she felt like her skin was betraying her, screaming for your touch. Her body missed you like a second heartbeat gone quiet. She found herself counting the hours, the minutes, the weight of time unbearable until she could feel your warmth pressed against her again. You didn’t just touch her skin—you calmed the war beneath it. The war that had never really stopped since she was a child.

She sleeps better now. That’s something she can’t even say aloud without her voice cracking. Before you, sleep was something she survived. A minefield of memories, of missions, of screams that were never hers but still lived in her head. The Red Room was always there—just under her eyelids. But with you… it’s different. When she lies beside you, her body folds into yours with such aching relief it almost breaks her. And on the nights when the dreams still come—because they do, not as often, but still—you never even hesitate. You just reach for her. Sometimes you wake up to the sound of her breath hitching, and you’re already there, pulling her into your arms before she can even open her eyes. Her face tucked against your chest, breathing in the scent of your perfume like it’s a tether. It makes her feel safe. Not just safe from danger—but safe from herself.

You never ask her to explain. You never demand the shape of her fear or the color of her scars. You just hold her. Stroke her hair. Whisper to her. And it’s not even always words—sometimes it’s the quiet rhythm of a song you love, hummed against her temple, the vibrations sinking into her bones. Sometimes it’s a story, one of your myths or legends you adore, soft and slow like a lullaby. You talk about Persephone’s garden, or Selene’s moonlight, or the stars that guide lost souls home. And slowly, slowly, the war in her chest dies down. She breathes. She lets go.

And sometimes—her favorite times—you say nothing at all. You just stay. Stay with her. Stay present. Stay real. Your fingers weaving through her hair, your heart steady against her back. That’s how she heals. Not in grand gestures or loud declarations—but in these quiet nights where you remind her, without ever needing to say it, that the Red Room can’t reach her anymore. That Ana is safe. That she is loved. Fully. Completely. Unconditionally.

She never thought she’d have this. Never thought she’d be someone’s comfort, someone’s world. Never thought anyone would be hers. But you are. And she’s yours. And tonight, even if you’re not here, she holds onto that. Holds onto you. Because she knows that when the door finally opens, when your shoes are kicked off at the entrance, when you finally come to her again, you’ll climb into bed and fold yourself around her like you always do. And she’ll sleep. Truly sleep. Because you exist. Because you love her. And because somehow, impossibly, she’s allowed to love you back.

The text had barely finished delivering when Natasha’s heart leapt. “Coming home soon, love. Ana picked out a little bunny she refused to let go of. We miss you.” It was nothing extraordinary, just a simple message. But for Natasha, it lit her from within. She stared at the words until the letters blurred slightly, her chest warming with something fierce and tender and almost too much to hold. She could already picture it—the jingle of keys at the door, the sound of Ana’s babbling, your voice calling softly through the apartment, and then, finally, your arms around her. Your warmth at her back, your scent in her lungs, your presence like a balm to the always-too-tight coil in her chest. And Ana, her sweet little girl, pressed between you both like a heartbeat.

That had been the plan. The only plan Natasha cared about today.

She had tidied the room three times, not because it needed it, but because she needed to stay busy. She had fluffed the pillows, pulled out the softest blankets, even changed into your favorite hoodie—the one that still faintly smelled like you. The one she never admitted she slept in whenever you were gone too long. Her whole body was ready to melt into yours. Her mind was already there, halfway between your laugh and Ana’s cheek squished against her chest. That was her safe place now. That was everything.

But then her phone rang.

And everything—everything—shifted.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her. Clint. The only person she might’ve answered for tonight. The only one who knew her long enough to still pull her back into the life she thought she was beginning to leave behind. She pressed answer, already sighing.

“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” she muttered before he could even speak.

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice,” Clint’s voice replied, casual but carrying that slight edge she recognized instantly—he was serious. “I need backup at the compound. New recruits are crashing hard. They’re not listening, not responding. They need someone who scares them straight.”

“They’re not my problem,” she said flatly, her jaw already tightening. “Not tonight.”

There was a pause.

“You said you were easing back in. This is easing. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need you.”

And there it was—that tug, that guilt-laced thread woven into years of loyalty and battles and blood. He knew it. He used it. And she hated that it still worked. But even as the pressure behind her eyes built, her voice snapped back, sharper this time. “Clint, I haven’t seen them all day. She’s been gone since morning. I just—” her voice cracked, barely, “—I just want to hold my family. I was going to hold them and breathe, and not think about combat posture or tactical breakdowns or angry kids trying to prove they’re bulletproof.”

“I get it,” he said gently. “But this is one of those nights I can’t handle it alone.”

She wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Anything. But instead, she clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Her free hand twisted into the hem of your hoodie, holding on like she was bracing for impact. Her silence dragged long enough that Clint said her name.

“I’ll go,” she said, bitterly. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“I know.”

And with that, she ended the call and stood there, motionless, the echo of her own frustration boiling beneath her skin. Her body physically hurt from how much it had wanted to be touched. Held. She could almost feel the phantom of your arms around her already, like her body had preemptively exhaled—and now that touch wouldn’t come. Not yet.

She peeled the hoodie off like it burned her, tossing it onto the bed with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and not quite a growl. She hadn’t felt this moody in years. This let down. It wasn’t just the cuddle. It was the hope she’d let herself build. The sacredness of such a quiet plan. The simplicity of love, denied.

She didn’t bother looking in the mirror as she tied her boots and clipped her hair back. The woman staring back would be one she barely recognized tonight. All sharp edges again. All steel and cold breath and detachment. She hated it. Hated how easily the armor still fit.

Before she left, she glanced at the phone again, almost against her will. No new texts yet. You were probably driving, Ana babbling in the backseat. The image made her eyes sting.

She typed quickly, furiously, deleting twice before finally sending:

|Me: Clint called. Going to the compound. I’m sorry. I wanted tonight so badly.

She didn’t wait for the reply. She couldn’t. If you told her it was okay, she’d hate herself more. If you told her you missed her too, she’d fall apart.

She stepped out into the night with her fists clenched in her coat pockets and a weight in her chest that made her feel like she’d left her soul back in that bed, still waiting for your aren't .

The elevator hummed with sterile efficiency, bright lights buzzing above her head as Natasha stood with her arms crossed, back pressed into the cool metal wall. Her jaw was tight, ticking faintly as she stared blankly at the floor numbers ticking upward. The ride felt slower than usual, and she hated how her foot kept bouncing with impatience. She was still thinking about the bed, about you. About Ana’s little hand probably gripping that bunny you mentioned. About the warmth she was supposed to be folded into by now. Instead, she was in a steel box, dressed for war, on her way to babysit rookies who probably couldn’t tell the difference between real fear and adrenaline.

Damn Clint.

The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, releasing her into the training sector’s lower level—a new wing Stark had greenlit, full of sleek equipment, minimalist black panels, and eerily quiet lighting. The second she stepped out, the air changed. It was cooler here, laced with the faint scent of sterilized tech and recently dried sweat. Ahead of her, through the glass wall, she could see them—six newbies strapped into individual chairs, motionless, eyes twitching beneath closed lids. Each one connected to the simulation grid via a thin neural band wrapped at the base of the skull. A glowing interface pulsed beside each chair, tracking vital signs and neurological responses.

Great. They’re using the Divergent crap tonight.

.Natasha muttered it under her breath as she stepped into the observation deck, her tone soaked in irritation, though the flicker of reluctant admiration lingered beneath. Her eyes swept over the simulation chairs lined in two perfect rows, each rookie hooked up to the neural bands you had personally helped design. A sleek web of bio-responsive tech wound from scalp to spine, and beneath the blinking lights and soft whirring of the monitors, she could practically hear your voice in her head explaining it all—every circuit, every serum compound, every neural feedback loop.

She hated how good the tech was. Hated how brilliant you were. Because tonight, that brilliance had stolen you from her arms.

This wasn’t some off-the-shelf copy of what the Divergent factions once used. No, this was yours—your creation. A modified, perfected version of the concept. Inspired by the movie, sure, but completely reimagined under your touch. Instead of fearscapes, you built a neural simulation that generated complex, high-risk, hyperrealistic fake missions. Rescue ops. Espionage trials. Ambush recoveries. Each one designed to push recruits to their limits—not by terrifying them, but by testing them. Every scenario was tailored based on psychological profiling, combat scores, and instinctive behaviors. And unlike the fear tests, the recruits were fully aware they were inside a sim.

That was the genius of it—it wasn’t about whether they could survive. It was whether they would choose to keep going even when it felt hopeless. They knew it was fake. Their minds still reacted like it was real.

Natasha folded her arms and exhaled sharply as one of the screens flickered to show a recruit crawling through smoke and glass, her simulated arm “injured,” her path blocked by simulated debris. Natasha recognized the scenario. A building collapse, with two civilian hostages on opposite ends of the structure. One had to be sacrificed. Classic moral tension. A test of choice, not strength.

She clenched her jaw.

It was brilliant. Brutal. Effective.

And right now?

It was a colossal pain in the ass.

She should be home. Curled into your chest with Ana asleep between you, your heartbeat beneath her ear and your perfume weaving through her senses like safety incarnate. She should be buried in warmth and peace and the sacred comfort she only ever found in your touch. But instead, she was standing here, cold and tense, watching over recruits struggle inside a world you built, your fingerprints in every line of code.

A quiet pang stirred in her chest. Not jealousy. Just longing. The ache of missing you while being surrounded by pieces of you.

She glanced at the chair nearest her. The young man strapped in was shaking, sweat beading along his temple. His simulation feed showed him breaching a hostile compound, wounded and alone, with a timer ticking down until the bomb exploded. Natasha watched his eyes twitch beneath their lids, watched his hands grip the armrests like they were the last lifeline he had.

It was working. Too well.

Clint appeared beside her, arms crossed like he’d been watching her rather than the recruits.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the screen, on the chaos within the simulation.

“She built this,” she said finally. “Twisted it from some dystopian crap into a full-on psychological battlefield. It’s smarter than most field ops I’ve seen.”

Clint nodded. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”

“She’s brilliant when she wants to be.”

And then softer, bitter under her breath: “And I was supposed to be holding her right now.”

Clint winced.

“And then you called.” she added, sharp.

He raised his hands defensively. “And I said I was sorry.”

She turned away from the screens, tired of watching ghosts. “Let’s just finish this. I want to go home.”

Back to you. To warmth. To your arms and the scent of that bunny Ana refused to let go of. Back to what was real. Because no matter how convincing these simulations were—no matter how much of your brilliance hummed inside every byte—nothing in this cold, tech-lit room could compare to the life you’d built with her. Nothing could replace the soft gravity of your touch.

And when this was over, she’d crawl into bed no matter the hour, pull you against her, and breathe you in like a woman resurfacing from the deep.

The minutes dragged by like hours.

Natasha leaned against the edge of the control console, arms folded, posture tense but practiced. Beside her, Clint clicked between feeds on the main monitor, pulling up different simulation views. The room was quiet aside from the soft hum of processors and the occasional groan or muttered curse from one of the strapped-in recruits. The feeds flickered and changed—different scenarios, different reactions—and most of them, Natasha had to admit, were either absurd or just plain painful to watch.

“Did he seriously just run at the sniper with a knife?” she muttered, eyes narrowing at one of the panels.

“Yup,” Clint said with a grin, leaning in. “Didn’t even try cover. Full-blown hero charge.”

“He has a grenade on his belt.”

“I think he forgot.”

Natasha dragged a hand down her face. “That’s not forgetting. That’s suicidal optimism.”

Another screen showed a recruit trying to sneak through a corridor with absolutely no spatial awareness. He knocked over a chair, then tripped on it, then somehow managed to drop his weapon in the most exaggerated, dramatic tumble Clint had ever seen. Natasha didn’t say anything—just blinked slowly, her expression blank.

Clint laughed, loud and unfiltered. “That kid’s not even fighting the mission. He’s fighting gravity.”

On the far right panel, another recruit surprised them both. She rewired a security terminal in under thirty seconds using a snapped wire and part of her earpiece mic. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“That one’s sharp,” she admitted.

Clint whistled. “That’s your girl’s tech, too. Interface adapted mid-sim. Pretty sure the sim actually improved her hacking instincts.”

“Good. Maybe someone here will make it past next month without getting themself killed.”

The next screen showed a recruit tossing his weapon to a simulated hostage and yelling, “Cover me!”

Natasha stared.

Clint choked on his laughter. “Oh my God.”

“He armed the hostage.”

“Strategic empowerment?”

Natasha shot him a dry look. “Strategic idiocy.”

They both laughed—hers short and bitter, his open and entertained. For a moment, the weight on her chest eased.

But only for a moment.

Clint glanced sideways at her when her smile faded. Her shoulders sank back into that familiar coil of silence, her expression hardening again as the recruits continued their digital trials. He studied her for a beat, then turned slightly toward her with that familiar smirk—the one he always wore when he was about to start poking the bear.

“You’re unusually grumpy tonight.”

She didn’t look at him. “Am I.”

He leaned on the console next to her, nudging her with an elbow. “C’mon. Even you usually enjoy mocking the next generation of idiots. What gives?”

Natasha sighed through her nose, eyes glued to the screen. “I had plans.”

“Oh no.” Clint gasped with mock horror. “Plans. Were they dangerous? Illegal? Food-related?”

“They were quiet,” she snapped. “They were warm. And soft. And involved zero morons giving weapons to fake hostages.”

Clint grinned. “So, cuddles?”

Her glare was pure ice. “Yes. Cuddles. That’s the mission you dragged me away from. The real one.”

Clint pressed a hand to his heart. “Heartbreaking.”

She didn’t respond, just clenched her jaw tighter.

Clint waited a second, then added with a mischievous glint, “You’re mad because you didn’t get to spoon your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

Natasha shot him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut through armor. “Say that again and I’ll throw you into the sim.”

Clint chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You’d need a whole custom scenario. ‘The Training of Barton: How to Shut Up and Let Natasha Cuddle in Peace.’”

She turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. The irritation was real, yes, but even now, she could feel the edges of it softening around Clint’s usual nonsense. Still, it didn’t fix the ache—didn’t dull the image of what she could be doing. The gentle weight of Ana in her arms. Your body wrapped around her back. Your voice, soft and teasing against her neck. Her bed. Her home. You.

And here she was instead. Watching twenty-year-olds try not to shoot themselves in the foot.

Clint nudged her again. “Seriously though. You okay?”

For a while, she didn’t say anything. The screen in front of them flickered, throwing a cold blue glow across her face. A recruit stumbled through a simulated blizzard, searching for a beacon he’d never find, and Natasha’s expression was unreadable, carved from quiet tension. Her fingers tapped idly against her arm, then stilled.

“I’m trying to enjoy it,” she finally said, voice low. “Her. Us. Every second we get.”

Clint’s brow furrowed. He didn’t interrupt.

Natasha’s eyes softened a fraction, but her shoulders stayed drawn tight. “It’s been… good. Too good. So good it makes my skin crawl some nights. Not because I don’t want it—because I do. God, I do. But something in me keeps whispering that it’s not going to last.”

Her throat worked, like the words were digging themselves out against her will. “I keep getting this… this feeling. Like I’m losing her. Like she’s slipping through my fingers and I don’t even know why. Like this—whatever this is—has an expiration date and I just haven’t been told when yet.”

Clint’s voice came quieter. “She give you any reason to think that?”

Natasha shook her head. “No. That’s the worst part. She doesn’t lie to me. She holds me like she means it. Like she’s never letting go. But I can’t shake it. I wake up sometimes and I look at her and I think, this can’t be real. Life doesn’t give me this. Not for long. Not without taking it back.”

Clint exhaled slowly. “You’ve been through hell, Nat. Of course your brain doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

She looked away. Her jaw clenched hard. “It’s not just that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She hasn’t asked,” Natasha said finally, quieter this time. “We’re not… anything. Not officially. Not girlfriends. Not friends-with-benefits. We’re just… something.”

She let the word hang, fragile and heavy.

“I think about it more than I want to admit,” she continued. “I keep wondering why she hasn’t asked. If it’s because she’s not sure. Or if it’s because she’s already decided and just doesn’t want to say it. What if she didn’t ask because she’s planning to leave? What if she’s just waiting for the right moment to end it clean?”

Clint frowned. “Do you really think she’d do that to you?”

“No.” Natasha’s answer was instant. She blinked hard, jaw still tight. “No. She wouldn’t. That’s the part that messes with my head. I know she wouldn’t. But it’s like my body doesn’t believe it. Like every scar in me is screaming that love is a trick, and safety’s just a lie waiting to collapse.”

Her voice cracked, barely.

“I hold her and I’m happy. She kisses my forehead and I want to cry because it feels so damn real. And then the voice comes in. The one that says, you don’t get forever. You don’t even get ‘official.’ You just get this borrowed time until she figures out she deserves someone better. Someone whole.”

Clint was quiet for a long moment. The sim monitors flickered in silence behind them, each recruit caught in their own temporary hell.

He shifted beside her, then leaned forward on the console with a sigh. “You wanna know what I think?”

Natasha didn’t look at him, but she didn’t tell him to shut up either. So he took that as permission.

“I think you’re scared out of your mind,” Clint said, not unkindly. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve never had anything like this before. Not really. Not where you could breathe in it. Where you could stay. Where no one was going to be dragged away or shot in the dark or pulled out of your arms while you watched helpless.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a second. That soft tremble in her lashes said enough.

“But Nat,” he continued, gently now, “you’re not in the Red Room anymore. You’re not in a cage. You’re not some shadow they trained to be disposable. You’re home. You built something. With her. With your kid. You think that’s an accident? You think someone like you—someone who’s lived through fire and came out human—doesn’t deserve this?”

She clenched her jaw again. “It’s not about what I deserve.”

“No. It’s about what you’re terrified to hope for.”

Natasha looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for a moment, there was nothing but years between them—wars survived, trust earned, quiet confessions passed like thread between wounds.

“I’m not good at soft,” she said finally. “I never was.”

“No one’s asking you to be good at it,” he replied. “Just don’t run from it.”

She went quiet again, but the air between them had shifted—thick with the weight of things unspoken and the quiet, aching truth she’d been too afraid to say out loud.

“I just…” Her voice faltered, then steadied again, low and raw. “I want her to want me forever. Not just now. Not just while it’s new, or easy, or exciting. I want her to choose me. Name me. Claim me. Because this… something… it feels like everything, but I keep waiting for her to say it out loud.”

“And until she does, you’re stuck in limbo.”

She nodded, once. Slow. Painfully slow.

Clint tilted his head. “Then ask her.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Ask her. Be brave, Romanoff. You’ve taken down gods and dictators. You think you can’t survive asking the girl you love where you stand?”

“It’s not about surviving,” she said quietly. “It’s about what it’ll feel like if I’m right.”

Clint studied her for a beat, his expression softening. “And what if you’re wrong? What if she’s just scared, too? Or waiting for you to ask because she doesn’t want to pressure you? What if she’s lying awake at night, wondering why you haven’t said anything?”

Natasha looked down at her hands. The scar across her knuckles. The place where you kissed when you thought she was asleep.

“She holds me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish,” Natasha whispered. “But I hold her like I’m already losing her.”

Clint didn’t have an answer for that. Not one he could speak, anyway.

So he reached out and gently bumped her shoulder. A wordless reassurance. A tether.

“You’re not losing her, Nat. You’re just scared.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “A spy afraid of love. That’s original.”

“Hey,” he smirked. “Even assassins get hearts. Yours just took a while to remember how to beat.”

She didn’t reply, but her eyes flicked to one of the monitors without really seeing it. And Clint watched her, watched the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way her fingers dug slightly into her arms like she was holding herself together by will alone. He knew that posture. Knew it from rooftops and bunkers and long silences between missions. It was the way Natasha braced when something inside her was louder than anything outside.

“Nat,” he said, voice quieter now, less teasing, more solid, “she’s not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you do. You do, and that’s what’s killing you. You know she loves you. You know she’s not lying, not playing, not keeping you around out of convenience. And that scares the hell out of you because the only thing more terrifying than losing her… is believing she might stay.”

She exhaled, sharp and shaky, and suddenly the room felt too small. Like the walls were pressing in with all the things she never let herself feel. All the quiet dreams she’d folded into the corners of her mind. All the hope she never gave herself permission to want.

“I’ve lost so much,” she murmured, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the monitors. “More than I ever let myself count. And now I have her. And Ana. And I keep thinking… what if this is just the calm before the storm? What if the universe is just fattening me up before it rips it all away again?”

Clint didn’t scoff. Didn’t try to joke it off. He just let her say it, let the words crack open between them like raw nerve.

“I think,” he said softly, “that maybe this time… the storm already passed. And this isn’t the before. Maybe it’s the after. Maybe you’re already standing in what’s left, and instead of ash, it gave you something to live for.”

That made her look at him. Her throat bobbed, her eyes glassy but refusing to spill. She wasn’t a crier. Not even when she wanted to be.

“I’m scared,” she said again, like it was a confession.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Just… tell her. Tell her you want more. Tell her this in-between isn’t enough. That you want to be hers. For real. She’ll listen. She’s not like the others.”

Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.

She exhaled slowly, almost as if the weight on her ribs had grown too heavy to carry in silence. Her voice came softer this time, stripped down, the edge dulled by something more fragile. “I never really noticed how hard it is… being a single mom. Not until I wasn’t doing it alone.”

Clint turned toward her, careful not to speak, just letting her unravel.

“I mean, I knew it’d be hard. Of course I did. Late nights, the crying, the routines, the guilt. But I thought I had it under control. I thought I was doing okay.” She paused, eyes fixed somewhere vague, like she was watching a reel of half-remembered mornings and chaotic afternoons. “And then she came in.”

Her voice thickened—not with regret, but awe.

“She didn’t just help me. She showed up. She saw me. She saw Ana. And it was like…” Her lips curved, barely, aching. “Like she’d always been meant to be there. Like Ana was waiting for her too.”

Natasha swallowed hard. “Damn it, Clint. It’s like she was made for us. Like some piece I didn’t know I was missing finally clicked into place. She’s a breeze of fresh air in a house that forgot how to breathe.”

She looked down at her lap, fingers clenching and unclenching like she was trying to hold on to something intangible. “Ana adores her. She laughs differently when she’s around. Softer. Freer. Like she feels we are safe, it's like she can see that I am better. like she already knows who her home is.”

Clint watched her, eyes warm, but said nothing. Letting her get to it.

Natasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dipping low again. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because she’s ten years younger than me. Ten years of freedom. Ten years of unburned skin. She could have anything. Anyone. And I’m just… me.”

Her jaw clenched. The words tasted bitter coming out. “What if one day she realizes she wants someone her own age? Someone without baggage? Without trauma layered under every smile?”

Clint’s lips pressed together, but he still said nothing. He knew too much now. Knew more than he was allowed to say. And even if the box was burning a hole in his pocket, even if he could already hear your nervous voice rehearsing the proposal over and over again… this moment wasn’t his to interrupt.

Natasha sat there, voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t want Ana to lose her. I don’t want to lose her either. But I can’t stop thinking… why would she stay with me? Why not someone easier? Someone who didn’t come with a whole damn history of blood and ghosts?”

Her hands moved to cover her face for a second, as if she could scrub the vulnerability out of her pores.

Clint finally leaned back with a small sigh. “You’re asking all the wrong questions.”

Natasha peeked at him through her fingers.

“You’re thinking about why she shouldn’t love you. But have you looked at how she does? She’s not with you because of what you’re not, Nat. She’s with you because of everything you are. The fact you care this much? That’s not weakness. That’s proof.”

Natasha blinked, slowly.

“You and Ana aren’t just a chapter in her life,” Clint added, softer now. “You are her life. She made you part of her story. And she’s not walking away.”

He paused, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just trust me on that, okay?”

And Natasha… didn’t argue. She didn’t fight it. Not this time.

Instead, she looked down at her hands again, and let herself feel the full weight of what she’d built. What she stood to lose. And maybe—what she’d never have to.

They kept watching the simulations as the room buzzed with artificial chaos—guns fired, teammates failed, a building in one of the fake missions collapsed because someone forgot to check structural integrity. Idiots. Clint muttered something under his breath, scribbled a note about better obstacle training, and sighed heavily as a recruit ran into his own reflection thinking it was a teammate.

Natasha didn’t even blink.

Her eyes were on the screens, but she wasn’t watching. Not really. She was somewhere far away—somewhere quiet, warm, and filled with the faint scent of your perfume. Somewhere Ana was babbling in the background, dragging books across the living room carpet, while your fingers brushed Natasha’s hair back from her temple and your lips pressed to her shoulder without needing a reason. She could almost feel the weight of you behind her, arm snug around her waist, breathing synced with hers.

Her brow was furrowed, though her body was still. She was thinking too much again. Drowning in it. All those sharp edges of self-doubt scraping against everything she wanted. Everything she had no idea how to ask for.

Clint watched her out of the corner of his eye, occasionally glancing between her and the recruits as another poor kid accidentally set off a chain reaction that ended with simulated civilian casualties. They’d laugh about it later, probably. But he couldn’t even get a smile out of her now.

Then his phone buzzed.

He checked it, and when he read the message, his face changed. Something settled behind his eyes—a flicker of amused satisfaction—and he slowly tucked the phone away like it wasn’t burning in his hand.

He leaned in, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, I’ve seen enough bad decisions to last me the rest of the week. And you—” he pointed at Natasha without looking at her. “You’re done here.”

She didn’t look away from the monitors. “What?”

“I’m kicking you out.”

She raised a brow, just a little. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Yep. You’re useless like this,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head. “You’re not paying attention, you’ve been staring through the screen for the last fifteen minutes, and if I have to watch you sit there and stew in existential dread one second longer, I’m gonna throw myself into the next sim.”

She gave him a look—flat, unamused.

Clint grinned. “Go home, Nat.”

“Clint—”

He put a hand up. “Nope. No arguments. I’m the boss tonight. Go.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even like being in charge.”

“Well, tonight I do. Because it means I get to tell you to get out of here, go home, and stop being a haunted, brooding mess.”

She stared at him. He stared right back.

Then, slowly, her body shifted. Like a tired weight was finally giving up resistance.

“…Fine,” she muttered, dragging herself up from the chair.

Clint tossed her a mock salute. “Tell her hi for me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but he caught the way her fingers twitched slightly at the mention of you. The way her spine straightened Natasha stepped into the elevator, her body moving on autopilot, but her senses already alert—trained, sharp, impossible to fool. Something was in the air. Not the kind of tension that came before a fight, not the weight of danger—this was quieter. Warmer. Thicker, almost. Like anticipation had taken shape in the oxygen itself.

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

She passed her keycard across the scanner. Beep. The familiar green light lit up, and the doors slid closed behind her. As the elevator began its descent, her fingers flexed against her thigh. Something was going on. Not a threat. No—she would’ve smelled that. But something… intentional. Delicate. And no one had said a word.

When the doors opened, her brows furrowed instinctively.

Her living room.

Soft amber light bathed the space in a gentle hush, like the entire apartment was holding its breath. No mission debris. No toys scattered from a wild Ana afternoon. Just… peace. Her eyes scanned quickly—then landed on the dining table.

Two plates. Steam rising. The scent of tomato and garlic filled the air like a memory.

Italian takeout.

Her lips parted just slightly. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor without thought. She took a slow step in, like she was afraid the quiet might shatter if she moved too fast.

And then she felt it—before you touched her.

Your warmth behind her. That familiar hum that her body recognized before her mind could catch up. It wasn’t noise. It was presence. You.

Your arms slipped around her waist like they belonged there—like they’d always belonged there—and pulled her against you with a gentleness that made her breath catch. Her back met your chest, her hands instinctively finding yours. Her eyes closed.

You rocked her softly, slowly, swaying the way she might soothe Ana when she couldn’t sleep. “Good night,” you whispered, your lips brushing her hairline. “I missed you.”

The sound of your voice in that low, loving hush hit something deep. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, grounding herself in the reality of it—of you. Your arms. Your smell. Your heartbeat against her spine.

She wanted to ask what all this was for. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

She just stood there in the quiet, still as a statue, letting herself be held.

Letting herself believe—for this moment—that maybe this wasn’t too good to last.

Your arms tightened around her just a little, pulling her closer, your presence now not just behind her—but wrapped into her. Natasha didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply let herself be held, her body still tense with that faint echo of disbelief, like she didn’t quite trust that something this warm could be hers.

You leaned in, soft and slow, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. It was small, nothing grand, but it made her shiver—made her heart stutter in her chest. You stayed there for a moment, your lips resting against her like they belonged there, then moved higher, burying your nose gently against the crook of her neck.

You nuzzled her, slow and affectionate, like you were breathing her in—like the scent of her skin, her warmth, the quiet strength she carried, was enough to steady your soul. Natasha let out the softest exhale, something closer to a sigh, her hand instinctively rising to rest over yours where it lay across her stomach.

Her walls didn’t fall all at once.

But they shifted.

Bit by bit, you were undoing her—not with force, but with love. Quiet, patient, steady love

.As you nuzzled into the soft curve of her neck, Natasha let out a slow breath, one hand rising to lightly curl around your wrist. Her voice came quiet—barely more than a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

“Where’s Ana…?”

You smiled against her skin, lips brushing her gently before you answered, your voice warm and full of affection.

“She was out like a light,” you murmured. “Didn’t even make it through the car ride. I tucked her into the crib—she’s sleeping like a little log, all bundled up in her blanket.”

Natasha exhaled a soft chuckle, the sound barely there but rich with relief.

You pulled back just enough to catch her eyes, brushing your knuckles along her cheek. “So tonight?” you added with a teasing smile, “You have my full, undivided attention. Every second of it.”

That earned you a look. Soft. Unreadable. But the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, the tiredness in her eyes replaced with something gentler.

You slid your hand into hers and guided her toward the couch. The moment she sat, you were already pouring her a glass of wine—her favorite kind, the one you always remembered.

She took it with a small nod of approval, swirling the liquid lazily in the glass before taking a sip. Her head leaned back with a quiet sound of satisfaction, the day melting off her shoulders.

Then she tugged at your wrist again, wordless and sure. You didn’t need an invitation—you curled into her side easily, letting her arm drape around you as you snuggled against her, your cheek pressing to her shoulder.

“This,” she murmured, almost like she was admitting a secret to herself. “This is what I was waiting for.”

You nestled deeper into her side, the wine glass balanced in her hand while her other arm stayed wrapped around you. The low light flickered across her face, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones, but her expression had softened into something that felt… private. Vulnerable. At ease.

Your hand slipped under her shirt—slowly, reverently—finding the warm skin just above her hip. You didn’t rush, didn’t push. You just stroked her in slow, affectionate circles with your fingertips, letting her body adjust to the intimacy not of passion, but of peace. Of being wanted like this. Of being held.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. She simply breathed out, deeper this time, the kind of breath that meant home.

You shifted slightly, brushing your lips along her jawline, feather-light kisses tracing their way upward until you found the hollow just beneath her ear. You kissed her there too, the rhythm unhurried, almost reverent.

Natasha tilted her head ever so slightly, giving you access without a word. That small surrender said more than she ever could out loud.

She took another sip of wine, her fingers tightening slightly in your hair as she leaned her temple against yours.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered finally, voice husky and low, not from seduction but from truth. “You make this feel so easy.”

You smiled into her skin, your hand continuing its slow, grounding motion against her waist. “It is easy,” you murmured, lips brushing her jaw again. “With you, it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Natasha didn’t answer, but her thumb began tracing small circles on your shoulder, mirroring the way you touched her—as if learning your rhythm in return. And in that quiet, in that warmth, the silence said everything.

You pulled back just a fraction, your fingers still lingering on her skin, and raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in your eyes. “So, we’re not eating yet?” you asked, your voice laced with playful curiosity. “I mean, the Italian’s just sitting there, getting cold… but I guess I can let it slide if you’re not in the mood.”

She shifted just slightly, turning her head to catch your eyes, her gaze soft yet filled with a playful challenge. “Right now, I’m more in the mood for cuddles than anything else,” she said, her voice low and tired in the way that only came when she’d been running on fumes all day, but somehow it sounded like the most honest confession. “We can eat later.”

You couldn’t help but smile, that familiar warmth curling in your chest as you leaned in a little closer. “Oh, is that so?” you teased, your lips brushing the edge of her ear as you whispered. “And here I thought I was going to have to convince you to eat. But… if it’s cuddles you want…” You let the sentence trail off, your fingers making their slow journey back up her side, brushing the fabric of her shirt.

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips, but her face was still soft, relaxed. “Yeah, that’s right,” she murmured. “Cuddles. No distractions. Just us.”

You pretended to consider it for a second before leaning in just a little more, your lips now a breath away from her ear. “Hmm… So, you’re telling me you want me to just sit here, and you don’t want me to make sure you’re properly taken care of?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful fire lighting in her gaze. “What are you implying?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

A smirk spread across your lips as you held her gaze, knowing full well where you were going with this. “Oh, I don’t know,” you began slowly, your hand now slipping just a bit lower, tracing the curve of her waist. “You’ve seen how I feed Ana. I could be your personal chef too, you know. Maybe you’d like that? I could feed you, just like I do with her. Spoon you some pasta, maybe?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking her head at you as she tried to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, but her eyes softened, clearly entertained by the thought.

“Oh, I could make it happen,” you said, completely unphased by her teasing. “I’d even cut your food into little pieces and feed it to you bite by bite. Keep your hands free for… cuddling,” you added with a wink, your finger tapping her chin gently.

She rolled her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t able to keep the grin from breaking through. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You grinned back, leaning in to brush your lips over hers, just a light kiss, but one that lingered for a moment longer than usual. “I’m just saying, if you want me to treat you like I treat Ana, I’m happy to spoil you, too.”

Natasha let out a long, drawn-out sigh of mock exasperation, but her arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as she rested her head against your chest. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, her voice softened by the exhaustion that had been following her all day. “But, fine. Maybe you can feed me later. For now… just stay here with me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against her hair. “Anything you want, babe,” you said softly, letting your hands find their place on her body again, just holding her as the moment wrapped around the two of you like a blanket.

The two of you stayed nestled together, your fingers tracing slow, invisible patterns over her skin—soft lines, gentle spirals that spoke volumes more than words ever could. Each touch was an unspoken expression of care, of reassurance, as if you were reminding her that, even in the stillness, you were there. The warmth between you both created a safe little world that wrapped itself around your hearts like a blanket, and for a moment, it felt as though nothing else existed.

Natasha finished her glass of wine, placing it on the coffee table with a soft clink that broke the silence, but only slightly. She sighed softly, her head still resting against your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath her. Her body relaxed into yours, the tension of the day dissipating slowly, but there was something new in the air now—a shift that neither of you could quite pinpoint.

You paused your gentle movements, fingers hovering above her skin for a heartbeat longer than usual. The atmosphere in the room felt thicker now, a quiet anticipation hanging between you, pulling your thoughts into focus. It was time.

“Natasha…” Your voice was soft, hesitant, and she could feel the change, the weight of it pressing against her chest.

She tilted her head just slightly, her hand curling against yours as she looked up at you, eyes warm but attentive. “What is it?” Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her gaze.

You took a deep breath, the words feeling heavier than you thought they would. “I… I need to say something important. Something that will change everything for us.”

Her heartbeat shifted slightly beneath her ribs, her hand instinctively squeezing yours as she waited, her attention sharp, her usual warrior’s demeanor softened in the quiet of the moment.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice low, laced with a vulnerability you rarely let show. “I’m afraid of doing this… afraid of what it might do to us.” You paused, looking down into her eyes as if searching for some sign, any sign, that she was ready for this, that she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m scared because I don’t know what I’ll do if you… if you run away. I don’t know how to handle it if you decide I’m pushing you too hard, or if I make you feel trapped in some way.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, a small flicker of surprise crossing her face, but she said nothing, simply letting you continue.

“I never want to pressure you, Natasha. I never want you to feel like you’re being forced into something you’re not ready for. But this… what we have—it’s more than just something to me. It’s everything.” Your voice broke for a moment, that rawness creeping through, the emotion you’d tried to keep at bay spilling over in the quietest of ways. “I just… I’m afraid. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. But I need to know that we’re on the same page. I need to know that you want this, that you’re not just here because it’s easy or because I’ve been too blind to see your hesitation.”

You paused, biting your lip slightly as your hand found her cheek, cupping it gently. “Please, just… don’t walk away from me, not when I’m starting to believe this could be everything I’ve always wanted.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with those unyielding eyes, but the weight of her gaze seemed to wrap itself around your heart in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

Then, with a deep exhale, she spoke, her voice gentle but filled with that quiet understanding. “You think I’m going to run?” she asked, her tone soft but sharp with sincerity.

You nodded slowly, unable to mask the nervousness that lingered in your chest. “I don’t know what else to think. I… I don’t know how to balance this, the fear of losing you, with the need to tell you how I feel.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips, and she leaned forward just enough to press her forehead against yours, soft and slow, as if grounding you both in the moment. “You’re not going to lose me,” she said simply, her voice a steady anchor. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you. Her hands reached up to touch your face, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, and it was like the whole world stopped in that one soft connection.

“But I can’t promise things won’t change,” Natasha continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, honest gaze. “I can’t tell you I won’t be scared too. But I’m here. And that’s what matters.”

You swallowed, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little. “I just needed to hear that.”

She smiled again, a little brighter now, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “You have me. Just don’t worry so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words were quiet, but they held an unspoken promise. And for the first time in a long while, you felt the weight of your own fears begin to lift, even if just a little

The quiet that followed was heavy, but not in a burdensome way—it was the kind of silence that wrapped around the room like velvet, soft and full of meaning. You could hear the hum of the city outside, but it felt a thousand miles away. Natasha was still curled against you, her fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm, but your thoughts were no longer calm. They were storming in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You sat up slowly, careful not to startle her, and then stood. Natasha blinked, looking up in confusion as her body instinctively followed your movement. But then you moved—slow, intentional—and lowered yourself to one knee in front of her. Her breath caught. Her lips parted. And she froze, just like that, staring down at you as if the world had slipped off its axis.

You held the ring box in your hand, but it stayed closed for now. Your eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Natasha,” you began, your voice trembling with everything you’d been holding in for too long, “I love you.”

Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came. Her eyes were locked onto yours, wide, stunned, as you continued.

“I love all of you. The parts the world has seen. The ones they’ve judged. The ones they’ll never understand.” You took a breath, slow and shaking. “I love the fire in you, the way you stand unshaken when everything’s falling apart. I love the way you fight, not just in battle, but for people—for Ana, for me, for everyone who’s ever had the chance to be loved by you.”

Her chest rose slowly, her lips tightening as emotion began to blur her vision, but you weren’t done. Not yet.

“You’re brilliant. The smartest woman I’ve ever known. Strategic, sharp, deadly. You walk into a room and shift the balance of it without even trying. But when Ana cries, you drop everything, and you hold her like she’s your whole world. And she is, isn’t she?”

A tear slipped down Natasha’s cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it.

“I see the way she looks at you, Tasha. Like you hung the stars. But you know something else?” You swallowed, emotion clawing up your throat. “She looks at me that way too. Because you let me be part of her world. Because you let me in. And God, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.”

Her hand came up to her mouth now, covering her lips as the weight of your words hit her. Her shoulders trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” you whispered. “Not just because of what you do. But who you are. When you stroke Ana’s hair while she’s falling asleep. When you cry in your sleep and bury your face in my chest and let yourself be small with me. When you don’t speak, but hum those lullabies under your breath just so your brain stays quiet. I see you, Natasha. All of you. And I still fall.”

Your hands opened the ring box slowly, revealing the simple, elegant band inside. Her eyes flicked down to it—and she audibly gasped.

“I don’t want you to be just my girlfriend,” you said, your voice now thick and raw. “That word—it doesn’t come close to what you mean to me. I want you to be my fiancée. I want to skip that middle step because it feels too small for us. I want to wake up every day knowing I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you how deeply I love you.”

The silence that followed was devastating and breathtaking all at once. Natasha’s face had completely crumbled, her lips trembling, her breath shallow, her eyes spilling quiet tears. She looked at you like you were breaking her open—in the most healing, impossible way.

You held the ring toward her with a trembling hand. “Will you marry me, Natasha Romanoff?”

She didn’t speak. She just stared at you for a long moment, then slowly brought her hand to her chest, as if trying to physically hold herself together. And then she nodded. Slowly at first. Then fiercely, with a choked laugh through her tears.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word so soft you could’ve missed it.

But you didn’t.

You rose slowly, carefully, your fingers still trembling as you slipped the ring onto her finger. She looked down at it in disbelief, her hands shaking, then reached for you with sudden urgency, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you down into her, kissing you through laughter, through tears, through every wall that had ever tried to stand between you.

The kiss lingered—not rushed, not fiery, but slow and trembling, the kind that reached down into bone and stayed there. Natasha clung to you like her life depended on it, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed against your lower back as if anchoring herself in the moment. You could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, her breath stuttering between kisses, her body shaking not from fear, but from sheer, unfiltered emotion. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, unraveling, but safe.

When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead rested against yours. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes still damp, and she gave a tiny, broken laugh that made your heart clench.

“I was not ready for that,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You ambushed me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “You’re a master spy, Romanoff. If I can ambush you, then I’ve earned the right to keep you.”

She let out a shaky breath, that little upward pull of her lips returning—but softer, quieter, the kind of smile she gave only when she felt completely, painfully vulnerable. “God,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I never thought someone would want this… not for a lifetime.”

“I want you,” you said, firm and low, your hand coming to rest over her heart. “Not the legend. Not the assassin. Not the perfect mom. Just you. The woman who watches documentaries about space at three in the morning. The woman who cries when she thinks no one can hear. The one who hums lullabies she doesn’t remember learning. That’s who I want to grow old with.”

Her eyes opened again, blinking through tears. “I’m so scared,” she admitted, barely above a breath. “You’re so young. You could have anyone. You could still change your mind.”

You cupped her face with both hands now, firm and warm. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine waking up next to anyone else. I choose you. Every single day. Even when you’re grumpy. Even when you push me away. Even when the world tries to pull you back into old ghosts. I will choose you.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she closed her eyes again, the weight of your words washing over her like a wave she didn’t even try to fight. She leaned into your hands, into your love, as if some part of her still couldn’t believe it was real.

You kissed her again—soft, reverent—then guided her gently to sit with you on the couch. She nestled into your side, her legs tangled with yours, her hand clutching yours tightly as if afraid you might vanish if she let go.

“I don’t know how to be a fiancée,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, more contemplative than unsure.

“That’s okay,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t know either. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against your shoulder. “I’m going to mess up.”

“So will I.”

“You’ll get tired of me.”

“I won’t.”

She looked up at you, her expression so open it nearly broke you. “Promise?”

You kissed her gently, pressing your lips to the corner of her mouth like a vow. “I promise. Every day. Every night. Every breath. You and Ana… you’re my home, Natasha. There’s no version of my future without you in it.”

Her chest rose and fell in a deep, shaking breath, and finally… finally… she relaxed. Completely. The last pieces of armor she had left seemed to fall quietly to the floor, leaving behind only Natasha—raw, trembling, loved.

She leaned her head back against your shoulder, lifting her hand to admire the ring through glistening eyes. A soft, wistful smile tugged at her lips.

“Damn it,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d get this.”

You held her tighter. “You deserve more than this. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Outside, the city went on—unaware, uncaring—but inside this tiny apartment, two broken souls had found each other in the rubble, and built something beautiful from it.

The silence between you stretched again, not heavy this time, but shimmering—thick with meaning, with emotion neither of you had words for yet. Natasha’s head rested on your shoulder, her hand still delicately gripping yours, her thumb tracing lazy lines over your knuckles. The ring on her finger caught the light—a soft gleam of diamond and sapphire—and her breath hitched when she looked at it again, as if it reminded her that this was real. That she hadn’t just dreamed it.

She pulled away just enough to look at you fully.

And then, with her voice trembling, she whispered, “I love you.”

You blinked, stunned for a second—not because you didn’t know, not because you hadn’t felt it in every gesture, every stolen glance, every sigh against your chest at night—but because hearing it out loud from her, this woman carved from shadow and survival, was something else entirely.

“I love you,” she said again, firmer now, like she needed you to believe it. Her eyes shimmered, green glass pooling over with tears. “Not in some fragile, half-hearted way. I love you with every part of me I never thought could still feel. With every part that forgot how to be soft.”

Your lips parted, the lump rising in your throat cutting off your breath, your thoughts, everything.

She reached for your face, her palm brushing against your cheek, her thumb catching the tear that had just started to fall. “You broke through walls I forgot I even had up,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You made me feel safe without asking me to be small. You loved Ana without asking anything in return. You let me be me—not Black Widow, not some haunted mess of a woman… just Natasha. And I never thought anyone would love her.”

Tears ran freely down your cheeks now, your vision blurring, your body shaking. She kept wiping them away with trembling fingers, but it didn’t matter—you were crying, both of you were, in this fragile, raw, unguarded moment that neither of you could’ve prepared for, but both of you desperately needed.

“I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Terrified. That this wouldn’t last. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m too heavy, too broken. That someone younger, softer, less… haunted would come along and you’d go.”

“I would never,” you managed to say, voice cracking.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against yours, noses brushing. “I know. But it still scares me. Because you matter that much.”

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing each other in, tears mingling quietly between kisses that weren’t about passion, but presence. Kisses that said I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.

You reached for the small velvet box that had been resting on the couch and opened it again, your own ring sitting there—simple, elegant, with delicate green peridots set into the band like stardust. Natasha gently took it from the box with shaking hands and slid it onto your finger, her own breath faltering as she did.

You smiled through tears, and then it was your turn. You picked up hers—the one you’d chosen so carefully—the central diamond catching the warm glow of the apartment lights, flanked by the two deep sapphires. A past. A future. And a present that gleamed like a promise.

Your fingers trembled as you slid it onto hers, and she watched every motion with eyes full of awe, reverence, disbelief.

“It’s really happening,” she murmured, as if saying it would anchor it into reality.

You looked at her through watery eyes, heart bursting at the seams. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and kissed you—deep and slow and forever. The world had fallen away. The only thing that existed now was the soft hush of your apartment, the glow of warm lamplight casting gentle shadows on the walls, and the steady rhythm of Natasha’s breath against your chest. Her weight on you was grounding, like gravity had chosen to settle in the shape of her body. Her legs tangled lazily with yours, her cheek resting just above your heart, and her fingers—those calloused, deadly, impossibly gentle fingers—were laced with yours.

She lifted your joined hands slowly, letting them hover just above her face as she looked at them. The rings caught the low light and shimmered, side by side, like matching vows made metal. Her eyes softened as she stared at them—your delicate band of peridots nestled in gold, and her ring, bold and graceful with its diamond and twin sapphires.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice thick with wonder. “They look… real. Like this actually happened.”

You smiled and kissed the top of her head, your fingers squeezing hers. “It did.”

She studied your ring a moment longer, brows drawing together in curiosity. “Why peridots?” she asked, tilting her head just enough to look up at you. “I mean… it’s beautiful. But I wanna know what you were thinking.”

You hesitated, just a second, brushing your thumb across her knuckles before answering. “Because they remind me of your eyes. Not just the color… the way they glow when you’re calm. When you’re watching Ana sleep. When you’re at peace. There’s this light in you, Nat… something soft and green and alive, even after everything. I wanted it close to me.”

She went quiet, lips parting just slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when they opened again they were glistening.

“And Ana’s eyes too,” you added gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. “When I see the ring, I see both of you.”

Natasha didn’t speak for a moment, and you felt her body press closer, her hand gripping yours like it hurt to let go. Her throat bobbed with emotion as she stared at your ring again. “You’re a sap,” she murmured, her voice cracking just a little.

You smiled. “Yeah. But only for you.”

She laughed softly, and then turned her gaze toward her own ring, letting her thumb trace the edge of the diamond, then the sapphires flanking it. “Okay, in mine. Why sapphires?”

You shifted just enough to look down at her, your voice quieter now. “Because sapphires are about truth. Loyalty. Protection. They’re ancient—some of the oldest stones on Earth. They’re strong. Fierce. Just like you.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. “So I’m carrying a gemstone legacy on my hand now?”

You leaned in, your nose brushing her hair as you chuckled. “Exactly.”

She looked back at the ring, still stunned, still somehow disbelieving. Then, with a crooked smile and a shake of her head, she muttered, “Why am I so sure I’m carrying a fortune on my finger?”

“Because you are,” you said without hesitation, your voice suddenly quieter, more reverent. “But not just in gems.”

Her smile faltered, lips trembling, and she buried her face against your chest again.

And in that moment—wrapped up together, rings gleaming, bodies intertwined and hearts unguarded—there was no past. No mission. No Red Room. No fear.

Eventually, the pull to move became too gentle to ignore. Not rushed, not urgent—just the quiet desire to be even closer. You both rose from the couch hand in hand, still wrapped in the softest silence, and made your way to the bedroom, the food already forgotten on the table. There were no words exchanged, no need. Just the unspoken rhythm between two hearts that had finally said what they’d been holding in for so long.

The shower was slow and warm, steam curling around your bodies like a cocoon. Fingers traced over skin not with hunger, but with reverence—soapy touches turning to quiet caresses, washing away the weight of everything that had come before. Water dripped from her hair as she leaned her forehead to yours, smiling in that quiet, content way she only ever did with you. You ran your hands down her back, held her close, and she just let herself be held.

When you emerged, you were both damp and glowing, wrapped in soft towels and softer smiles. Natasha pulled you into bed without hesitation, her arms instinctively curling around your waist, your legs tangled up beneath the sheets as if they’d always belonged that way.

She rested her head on your shoulder, one hand on your stomach, and you traced slow, loving circles on her spine. The only sound was the soft whirr of the fan above, and your breaths syncing into a shared lullaby. Her fingers found yours again under the blanket, twisting together, rings catching the moonlight that spilled faintly through the window.

There were no more confessions needed. No more questions. Just the weight of her against you, the smell of her damp hair, the solid truth of the rings on your fingers and the unspoken vow between your hearts.

And in that quiet, sacred stillness—wrapped in warmth, love, and the life you were building together—you both finally rested.

Not as a spy and her secret.

Not as a single mother and a girl who wandered in.

But as fiancées.

!! UPCOMING WORKS !!

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ NIGHTCLUB WIDOW ft. bartender!reader ༄.° ➸ natasha owns a hidden, exclusive nightclub where secrets are currency. you’re a bartender who knows how to read people, and your playful banter turns into a slow-burn romance beneath neon lights, music, and danger.

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ WIDOW'S WEB ft. rival!reader ༄.° ➸ enemies-to-lovers: you are constantly at odds on missions, but forced proximity and unspoken attraction blur the lines between competition and intimacy. the thrill of danger makes confessions easier than they should be, and every touch leaves sparks.

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ RED IN HER LEDGER ft. assassin!reader ༄.° ➸ a slow-burn series following two killers whose paths keep colliding. your pasts are messy, your secrets dangerous, and natasha is the only one who understands the weight of every choice. tension, trust, and stolen moments build as you navigate missions, blood debts, and unexpected closeness.

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ STAGE LEFT ft. actress!natasha ༄.° ➸ you’re a makeup artist on set, tasked with keeping her camera-ready. she’s aloof at first, but under the heat of studio lights, she begins to let you in — in dressing rooms, in whispered secrets, in stolen moments off-script.