queen of angst

There is no crowd waiting for you. No spectacle. No press. Just Dora Milaje lining the path ahead to the dark cave that awaited you, spears grounded, heads slightly bowed- not to you, but to the process you’re about to enter. Respect for what you’ve survived. Respect for what you might lose. Respect for everything you’ll gain. Natasha stands at the edge of the hatch. Sharon squeezes your shoulder once, grounding, and lets go. She doesn’t follow either. This part isn’t for them.

You walked alone.

The chamber is circular, carved into the earth itself and rising up. No harsh lights, only a warm purple glow emanating from the stone. The glow comes from bioluminescent veins running through the stone, pulsing slowly, like a heartbeat. In the center is the platform- raised, smooth, almost altar-like and cold.

Not a bed. That feels important, intentional.

You hesitate.

A woman steps forward, not a scientist or a doctor in the way you understand it. Her robes layered, ceremonial, threaded with vibranium that hums softly as she moves. “This is not a cure,” she says calmly. “And it is not erasure.” Her voice doesn’t echo. The cave absorbs it on impact so it travels to you and only you.

“What HYDRA did to you was layered. They used pain, sickness, chemistry, and language to fracture your mind. To create doors where there were none. Locks where there should have been none.”

You feel your heart rate spike.

“We can remove the locks,” she says. “We can open the doors to the truth. We can make the poison go away. But what you carry- what you remember- will remain. The trauma, the pain, the torture- we can’t take that from you. You will still be responsible for what you feel, for what you choose….for who you hurt.”

No promises. No absolution. No making you perfect.

Good.

You’re guided onto the platform. You lie back, not restrained, but held in place by something subtle. A gentle pressure, like hands that won’t let you fall. A gentle force.

Herbal smoke fills the chamber, sharp and grounding. You recognized some of it. Not by name. By instinct. Your body reacts before your mind does- heart rate slowing, breath evening out.

They place something cool against your temples. Not electrodes or Stark-esque technology. Smooth vibranium-infused stones, faintly warm now as they sync with you.

“Do not fight what comes,” the woman says quietly. “You have fought enough.”

The chant begins. It’s ancient and nonetheless beautiful.

It’s low and layered. Not words, but tones. Frequencies. They vibrate through your bones, through your teeth. You feel it in your ribs first, then your spine all the way up your neck. It fills your senses. Something inside you recoils.

This goes on for what feels like an hour, although you’re aware time might not be moving regularly during this ritual.

After- there’s quiet. Not deafening silence, but blanketed. Comfortable. Calm.

Then, out of nowhere, she speaks and the first trigger word hits.

Your body reacts automatically: muscles tightening, vision narrowing, consciousness feeling tighter, your body starts losing control- and you fight it because you want to be good. Oh how you want to be good.

And then it stops- but not because you fought it. God knows that never worked before anyway.

It stops because something cut the wire.

You gasp like coming up for air.

Another trigger follows. Then another. Each one like poison darts that slam into nothing. Like bullets fired into water.

Your mind doesn’t fracture. Your body doesn’t obey. You don’t go unconscious.

It unhooks.

Memories surface but not in order. HYDRA corridors. Samantha’s voice. Natasha's voice before she hung up the phone. Wanda drugging you. Being forced to use your body in ways no one should be able to fathom. The branding iron. The chemicals. The name they gave you.

Asset. Nightshade.

And even that name pulls nothing from you anymore but a single, choked gasp at your own surprise.

You scream.

The Wakandans don’t stop you, or sedate you, or punch you so you’ll quiet down.

They anchor you.

Hands press to your shoulders. To your sternum. You feel the stone beneath you pulse harder, brighter, like it’s syncing to your heartbeat instead of forcing it to change.

You feel the difference between control and consent and it breaks something open. You cry even though you’re trying so hard not to that your body shakes. Tears don’t come quiet, or neat.

And somewhere between the noise of chanting, your gasping, and the sound of your own crying, you feel it.

The absence. This dark space where the switch used to be.

When it’s over, the chamber is silent.

You are drenched in sweat and exhausted in a way that goes deeper than muscle or bone. You can‘t seem to catch your breath or catch up to the flood of emotions filling every vein in your body.

The woman removes the stones carefully.

“You will still feel echoes,” she says. “Nightmares. That is not failure of the ritual- those are the repercussions of what was done to you.”

You stare at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in tempo with your pulse.

“But when the words come,” she finishes, “they will have no power. You belong to yourself now.”

She kneels in front of you, takes your shaking hands, and gives them a tight squeeze so that you’re looking directly at her when she says the words you’ve been aching to hear,

“You are free.”

For the first time since HYDRA—

Your thoughts are yours.

When they help you sit up, your legs buckle immediately. Sharon is there before you can hit the ground. She catches you without thinking, arms firm, steady.

You don’t pull away. You just let her hold you while your body remembers how to exist without commands.

Her voice is barely there. “You’re here,” she says. Not a question.

A fact. You are here. You are back.

Not healed.

Not whole.

But free to choose what comes next. Free to chose what you eat, who you fight, why you fight. Free to cry- or not. Free to forgive- or not.

And that is terrifying.

And sacred.

And yours.

—————————

You don’t wake when they carry you from the chamber.

You don’t stir when they wrap you in soft woven fabric or lay you down in a quiet Wakandan recovery suite overlooking the trees.

You sleep.

Not the fractured, twitching kind of sleep HYDRA allowed you or the light, alert, soldier-sleep you learned at SHIELD.

This is different. It is deep.

Bone-deep.

The kind of sleep that comes when your body finally has permission to try and start healing.

Natasha stands at the foot of the bed.

She doesn’t touch you yet.

Your face is slack in rest. Younger somehow. Not healed though, bruises still ghost your skin, the scar on your bottom lip still visible, but peaceful in a way she hasn’t seen in months. She was wise enough to know you wouldn’t always sleep like this, even back at the compound.

“She will sleep for some time,” the healer says gently.

Sharon exhales slowly beside her and steps out for air, Fury waiting outside too.

Only Avengers left in the room now- Wanda, Steve, Natasha.

“The extraction is complete,” the healer continues.

Natasha looks up. “Extraction?”

“The stones were forced to hold the trauma in order to remove the control.”

The room stills.

“Memory, pain, neurological imprinting — they are entangled,” the healer explains. “HYDRA did not simply use language. They fused suffering to obedience. To remove one, we had to separate the other.”

Sharon’s throat tightens. “Separate how?”

The healer gestures to a circular table behind them.

The vibranium stones, once embedded at your temples, now sit dim and faintly glowing. Inside them, light moves like something alive.

“They absorbed what was used to bind her. Her memories are no longer tied to the trigger words. The pain exists without control now,” the healer says quietly.

Everyone is quiet as they stare at the vibrating stones holding so much ache.

“If you want to understand her pain, to know what she endured and what she will still live with,” the healer slides a stone forward, “you may.”

Steve steps forward before anyone can interject, “Show us.”

She nods once and whispers something to the stones as if they were alive.

The stones activate, the lights dim. It begins without warning.

The memory fills the room like fog.

A concrete corridor. Fluorescent lights.

Your body slamming against a metal table that still has blood on it from the last operation.

Wanda inhales sharply. Natasha doesn’t move. Steve can’t look away.

They watch you strapped down and watch the needle inject Compound A-07 while your back arches off the table as it burns through you.

They hear you scream. It isn’t dramatic or performative.

It’s ugly and animalistic and bloody.

The sound rips something open in Natasha’s chest.

The memory shifts.

Natasha’s fingers curl so tightly into her palms that her skin breaks.

You’re awake on the metal table, again.

Heaving from exhaustion and injuries that haven’t healed.

A doctor stands over you, unbuckling the straps that keep your limbs down and forcing you to stand on shaky legs.  He squeezes your jaw between his bloodied hands, cold blue eyes peering into yours, “Tell me your name again. Say it.”

You’ve got fight though, even if it doesn’t look like it. “My name is Y/N L/N. I have friends. I have a family. They need-,” 

The doctor punches you square in the stomach, so hard that you collapse onto your bruised knees, strangled gasps coming out every few seconds.

“Wrong name,” he spits in his thick accent, “you know what your name is. Say it for me,” he says, fingers tangled in the back of your hair and forcing you to look up at him. 

“Asset,” a strangled groan escapes before you can answer again, “Nightshade.” 

Natasha breaks. It’s silent — just a sharp inhale that trembles out of her like something collapsing. Wanda closes her eyes.

Samantha crouches in front of you, slapping the side of your sweaty face tauntingly.

“Look at you. They left you.”

Your cheeks are hollow. Exhausted. But your e/c remain defiant.“They’ll come,” you rasp. Samantha laughs- and just because she can- utters, “Mission complete.” Your body drops unconscious mid-sentence.

The stones flicker harder. The healer lowers her hand. “That is enough.”

But it isn’t- it won’t ever be.

One last memory pushes through anyway.

You’re barely conscious, curled on the floor, but still have a lot of hope left in you. This must’ve been the first month. The entire corridor is dark. A guard stops outside your cell. It’s too late for him to be taking you anywhere authorized for testing or training.

You know what he wants. He knows what he wants.

“What pretty little thing did the Avengers throw to us?,” he smirks as he opens your cell door. Your body is too weak to stand, let alone fight- otherwise you’d rip this guy's eyeballs out. You still try as you claw at his face, scratching a deep red lines into the side of his temple down to his cheek so hard he bleeds. He grabs you anyway as you try to get away.

All you can say is,

“Please don’t.”

The memory dissipates before it finishes when the healer quickly grabs the stone off the table, along with the other, and puts them somewhere safe.

No one speaks for a long time. Natasha looks like someone carved something out of her ribs. Steve turns away because right now he doesn’t trust himself to speak without his voice wavering. Wanda covers her mouth as if she might throw up.

Finally, the healer speaks softly.

“She survived.”

Wanda swallows the lump in her throat.

“And now?” she whispers.

“Now she is free,” the healer replies. “But freedom does not erase suffering. It only returns choice.”

Natasha turns sharply, and makes a bee line straight back to where you’re resting.

You are still sleeping, air leaving your rosy lips in little puffs. Peacefully unaware.

She kneels beside your bed and for the first time since the night you were taken, she lets herself touch you. Her thumb brushes your knuckles gently.

“I chose wrong,” she whispers.

Salty tears drop on your knuckles before she wipes them, “you still waited.”

Her forehead rests lightly against your hand.

“I won’t fail you again.”

You don’t wake, but your fingers twitch.

——————————

Steve carried your sleeping body from the recovery room to the Quinjet, through the compound, and back to your old room. You slept 7 hours straight after the ritual, and still going. He gingerly placed you on your bed, watching the way your brows twitched in sleep. Watching you like this, finally in a state of rest, but knowing the pain you’d still endure when you woke up sent a pang of guilt through his chest.

Captain America- betraying one of his own, he thought. So much for a soldier's loyalty.

He placed the gray blanket that was lazily strewn on your armchair over your sleeping form, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

You woke with a start, chest heaving and drenched in sweat. You could tell it was early in the morning, maybe 3 am and too early for any sun to be out. Everything about the ritual came rushing back at once, culminitating in a rush to your head that made you feel faint.

You repeated those words to yourself over and over again.

You’re free.

You’re not a soldier anymore.

You’re free.

The room felt too quiet, too safe with no fluorescent hum or the sound of boots outside an echoey cell. No voice waiting to slip between your thoughts and pull the strings while you’re unconscious. You lay there, staring at the ceiling. Waiting. Waiting for the word. For the switch. For your body to lock up or go still or disappear from yourself.

It doesn’t. Your chest keeps rising. Your fingers twitched when you told them to. Your jaw unclenched on its own. You swallowed, then carefully, experimentally, whispered into the darkness:

“Orphaned at dawn.”

Nothing happened.

The silence that followed was so complete it almost hurt. No static. No narrowing tunnel vision. No absence.

Just you.

You sat up slowly, legs swinging over the side of the bed. The mattress dipped the way it used to. The blanket slid from your shoulders. Your room, books, jacket. Your scent lingering faintly in the air like a ghost who didn’t know she’d died. You pressed your hands to your temples, half-expecting the stones to be there, but there was nothing. Your heart kept racing anyway like you’d just run a marathon.

Because now that the lock was gone…everything else was louder. The memories weren’t tied to commands anymore. They were just memories.

You remembered the metal table. The branding. The begging. And you remembered something worse- waiting for them. Waiting for the team you called family to realize their mistake and save you.

That’s when the anger came. Sharp and cold.

They watched it. They watched a piece of what happened to me.

They needed to see it- but that didn’t absolve them. It just meant they finally understood.

Your gaze drifted to the mirror across the room. You stood slowly and walked toward it, bare feet silent against the floor. The girl staring back at you looked somehow older than the one in the photos, although they were only taken a year apart. Thinner. Scarred. Sure, still beautiful to people that didn’t know that all that pain made someone ugly inside. The faint brand beneath your collarbone catches your eye. It’s barely visible in the dim light, but to you? It practically glows.

But that girl staring back at you in the mirror- her eyes are clear in a way they haven’t been in months.

You leaned closer. “No more asset,” you murmured. The word Nightshade surfaced automatically. It didn’t sting or pull. It was just a name someone else gave you.

You inhaled. Then you did something you hadn’t done in a long time.

You made a choice. You opened your bedroom door.

The hallway was dark, emergency lighting casting everything in muted blue. Everyone was fast asleep by now, or trying to be.

And at the end of the dark hallway, sitting against the wall like she hadn’t moved all night—

Natasha with a gray cardigan wrapped around her body. She looked up the moment your door creaked. For a split second, something vulnerable crossed her face before it smoothed into practiced control.

“You’re awake. You should still be sleeping,” she says softly.

You studied her this time- really studied her. No static in your head or distorted memory. No chemical interference. Just her. And the truth of it all. And the ache you didn’t know what to do with that felt like it could stay with you forever.

“I was. Couldn’t anymore,” you replied.

She looks like she’s been there a while against the wall. Hands clasped loosely between her knees. Guard down, but only just.

You lean against the opposite wall, mirroring her without meaning to. After a moment, you tilt your head toward your room, walking inside wordlessly and sitting on the edge of your bed. She follows, standing in front of you.

You think about what to say- if you should even say anything. It’s quiet for just a moment before she decides to speak.

“I never stopped looking for you.”

That’s what does it.

One second you’re sitting across from her, heart pounding, chest tight with everything you can’t sort through.

The next you’re on your feet. And this is all your choice.

Natasha barely has time to register it before your hand fists in the collar of her cardigan and you slam her back into the mirror on the left wall next to your door.

The glass cracks in a sharp spiderweb behind her head. You hear a huff of breath leave her chest at the force.

She doesn’t block. Doesn’t counter. Doesn’t flip you to the floor like she absolutely could.

Your forearm presses across her collarbone, pinning her in place. Your other hand grips her jaw hard enough to bruise.

“You let them take me,” you breathe, and it’s not a yell. It’s worse. It’s steady. It’s a fact.

Her head knocks lightly against the broken glass.

“I know.”

“You watched.”

“I know.”

Your grip tightens.

“I was begging for you.” You can feel a lump form in your throat.

That one lands.

Her throat works. She doesn’t look away.

“I know.”

You hate that she’s not fighting back or defending herself. You hate that she looks relieved you’re finally saying it.

Your knee presses between her thighs, crowding her space. Your breath is hot against her ear.

“They made you into something monstrous in my head,” you whisper. “Cold. Cruel. Laughing while I rotted.”

Her hands stay at her sides, face turned to the side and pressed against the glass. “They didn’t have to work that hard,” she says quietly.

Something inside you snaps.

Your hand jerks her forward by the collar and her lip catches against the edge of broken glass behind her. A thin line of red blooms instantly.

She doesn’t flinch.

“You can hurt me,” Natasha says, voice low. Honest. “It’s okay.”

The words hit you harder than anything else tonight.

Your grip falters. You’re inches from her now.

You can see the gold in her green eyes. The exhaustion. The guilt. The way her breathing has gone shallow but steady — not from fear. From wanting you closer.

“I won’t fight you,” she adds in a desperate rasp. Barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you need.”

Your pulse roars in your ears.

You lean in so close that your noses almost brush. You want to hurt her, choke her, but you also remember her.

Not warped. Not poisoned.

Her laugh against your neck. The way she used to kiss the top of your head. The way she’d curl into your side when she couldn’t sleep. The sting of alcohol as you sat on her lap and drank something too strong. The way she’d shudder against you when you cleaned her injuries too gently.

You hate that you remember. Her hands twitch like she wants to touch you.

She doesn’t. Natasha knows better- and a he knows she doesn’t get to.

“You don’t get to make this easy,” you whisper.

“I’m not.” Her voice breaks for the first time as her green eyes search yours desperately.

“This,” you tap the side of your temple, fighting back the urge to let tears slip out, “this is your fault.”

I’m sick in the heart, it’s all cause of you

You’re living inside it, and all I wanna do

Is cry till I’m empty, cry till I’m empty

Empty of you

For a split second, it’s just breath and heat and broken glass and the echo of everything you used to be. Then you shove her back into the mirror again hard enough to hurt and just enough to create space.

“You don’t get to bleed and call that penance for what you did. You can add me to the red in your ledger,” you say coldly.

And you make another choice: to walk away.

Natasha stays against the wall, chest rising and falling, lip split, hands finally curling into fists now that you’re out of reach.

You don’t look back.

The door closes behind you as Natasha goes back to her room.

————————————

Morning comes quiet. You finally returned to your room around 4 am. A few hours later at the kitchen table, no one says anything about all the noise last night.

But they all see it.

The small cut on Natasha’s lip and the faint bruise blooming along her collarbone.

The cracked glass in the kitchen trash can that you don’t bother to hide.

Clint and Tony notice first. Steve notices second. Wanda notices immediately. No one asks.

Natasha sips her coffee like nothing happened. But for the first time since she lost you there’s something alive in her eyes.

Natasha’s hands move to grip your waist, gently keeping you in place so she can pass you in the kitchen without bumping into you as she makes her way toward the coffee maker.

You don’t startle or stiffen. You know who the hands belong to. You’re familiar with their hold, with the feeling of their fingertips on you.

“Just me,” she murmurs anyway, voice soft in the early morning, giving you an affectionate squeeze before she lets go.

You turn, offering her a smile in greeting, one of your own hands raising to lightly brush along her back as she walks by.

This is the norm: Natasha’s touch on you, your touch on her. Her knee always manages to bump yours underneath the table during meals, your hand for some reason always reaches up to push a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.

You’ve been best friends for years, the comfort you two feel with each other something that doesn’t come to many. It’s always felt different with Natasha than with anyone else. Easy, natural, innate.

Natasha is a constant, steadfast and dependable, loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, you know you’ll always have her.

“Are they…?” Steve asks one day, watching how Natasha’s arm is draped over your shoulders as you both sit much too close to one another for it to be platonic on the sofa, some forgotten show, you both prioritizing chatting, playing on the screen.

“Nope,” Wanda replies, the witch only ever getting more and more exasperated at the affectionate behavior that neither of you capitalize on with each day that passes.

“But-”

“I know,” she cuts him off.

That’s the end of it.

The party is well underway, and Natasha is pressed up against you constantly. She keeps telling herself that it’s just due to the crowd.

But regardless of her reason, you’re relishing in it, soaking up her hand against the small of your back leading you as you make your way through the ballroom, basking in the feeling of her shoulder grazing your own whenever you two stand side by side. Natasha’s eyes are on you tonight, her focus never straying, never distracted, never diverting, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that she likes you as more than a friend too.

“May I have this dance?” Natasha asks a few hours into the party, smirk on her face, her hand extended toward you as an offer.

With the playful tone, you know that you can’t take the question seriously, can’t presume that she means it in any other way than just two friends dancing, but as usual, hope makes a home of your chest anyway.

You bite your lip shyly and nod, accepting her hand, fingers interlocking as Natasha gently tugs you toward the dance floor.

The song is slow, and when the hand not tangled with yours comes to settle on your waist, its warmth bleeding through the material of your dress, you curse the universe yet another time for making you have a crush on your best friend.

You’ve been cursing the universe a lot lately. Every time you notice your gaze lingering a second too long as Natasha peacefully reads in the armchair by the window, every time you find your voice softening when you shift from talking to someone else to talking to her, every time you realize that the reason you touched her was simply an aimless excuse.

Despite it all, despite you knowing you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t long for more, you shouldn’t pretend, you shouldn’t fantasize that this is real—you tuck your head into the crook of Natasha’s neck, resting your cheek against her collarbone as you sway to the music. Natasha suppresses a shiver at your warm breaths puffing along her skin.

You spend the rest of the night glued to her, one dance leading to another and then another. And still, once you finish dancing, your closeness isn’t severed. You both walk over to the couches, Natasha pulling you onto her lap, her arms wrapping around you as she holds you in a way that no one without further intent ever should.

You lean back into her without thinking about it, the movement second nature as touching Natasha has come to be, and you spend the rest of the party there. You’re curled into her body, snuggled into her chest, legs stretched out over her lap. At a certain point, you somehow manage to push yourself even closer, shifting until your head once again finds a way to be nuzzled under her chin.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” you tell the redhead after another couple of hours, words mumbled against her before pulling your head away to look up at her face. You don’t want to end the night, to remove yourself from her arms, but you’re growing tired, yawning constantly, and you have an early start to tomorrow. The party is slowly coming to an end anyway, the sea of people diminishing as many attendees are also electing to go home.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” Natasha asks, slackening her hold just a fraction, “Just so you don’t get lost.”

“I think I can manage to find my way to my bedroom,” you tease.

“For protection purposes then,” she playfully changes course… anything to prolong her time with you.

You roll your eyes at her new reason, but it’s a cover for the way warmth blooms within you at her seemingly wanting to you to stay. “I’ve got it,” you reassure, and for a moment—brief but unignorable—you consider pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek in goodbye, you imagine what her skin would be like under your lips. The gesture feels right right now, the action feels like it’d be natural, but you force yourself to hold back, not wanting to cross any lines even though they’ve perhaps already been crossed too many times before.

“Alright,” Natasha replies, giving you the adoring smile that causes your traitorous heart to flip flop with the belief that maybe she feels the same, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early for training,” you answer her, nodding.

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. Damn her hands for always wanting to touch you. “Rest well,” Natasha murmurs.

You give her one last sweet smile of your own before walking away, dress trailing behind you with each step, Natasha watching your form as you go. She forcefully pushes down the longing for something more that always seems to come about with every look at you, refusing to acknowledge it as usual.

Only moments after you head down the hallway, rounding the corner toward the elevator, Wanda is at Natasha’s side.

She doesn’t ease into the topic. “You have to know how she feels about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Natash feigns ignorance, not glancing over at the witch, gaze still locked onto where you just disappeared.

“Natasha,” Wanda admonishes, well aware that she doesn’t need to elaborate.

Natasha closes her eyes as she sighs, mentally preparing for the conversation she’s always avoided, even with herself. “We’re friends, Wanda. Just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at each other the way she looks at you,” Wanda pauses for a moment before adding tentatively, “Or the way you look at her.”

Natasha stiffens at the implication.

“We’re friends,” she repeats more firmly, shutting down any potential of more from this exchange.

Wanda purses her lips, growing tired of Natasha’s stubbornness and of you doubting your significance to her. “If you aren’t going to let yourself have this, then you need to stop and let her move on.”

When Natasha doesn’t answer that, Wanda sighs as well and turns on her heel to return to what’s left of the party. There’s not much more to say to the obstinate redhead.

You’ve already made it back to your room, your dress half unzipped, when you realize that you forgot your phone at the party, having given it to Steve for safekeeping when you danced with Natasha.

You let out a tired exhale and rezip your dress, smoothing out the material before striding to your door. Your stare drifts to your heels that you hastily discarded upon your return, your feet aching at just the sight of them, and you elect to throw on a comfier pair of sneakers. The elevator ride to the ballroom is short, your fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on your thigh as the number goes down. You get to see Natasha again.

But what you see, you never expected.

Your stomach drops, your entire being faltering when you enter the ballroom and witness Natasha speaking to another woman. They’re close—too close—and Natasha has that look in her eye. You know that look; you’re well-acquainted with it. But it’s always been pointed at you every time you’ve seen it previously. It’s what made you feel like there was something between you two, and even though you’ve told yourself not to, you’ve always taken it as hopeful evidence that she returns your affections.

The woman’s hand comes up to brush against Natasha’s arm, the action blatantly suggestive, and Natasha doesn’t stop her. If anything, the redhead’s smile widens.

You turn around and quickly flee the ballroom, phone forgotten.

Natasha’s smile does widen at the woman’s advances, flattered, but what you fail to see after taking off is Natasha gently removing her hand from her bicep, Natasha politely turning her down, Natasha unable to bring herself to view anyone the way she views you.

You don’t make it to training the next morning, and you can’t find it in yourself to give Natasha a heads up. You can’t look at the text chain, can’t bear to see her name on your phone followed by the heart emoji that Natasha insisted you add. You can’t stomach the contact photo of her smiling.

Everything feels different now, your friendship—because that’s what this has always been despite you hoping that it was more, right?—feels tainted by the fact that you saw her with another woman. Everything’s changed. Has she always been talking to others, and you just never knew? Were you never special? Never significant? Never notable in her eyes?

What hurts the most is that, in spite of it all, you can’t villainize her. It’s not her fault you fell, it’s not her fault she doesn’t reciprocate, and it’s not her fault she was flirting with someone else. She doesn’t owe you anything. It only makes sense that others would want her like you do. There’s simply no way someone could see the redhead and not be in awe of her. The marvel that is Natasha Romanoff is unmissable.

But they don’t want her like you do, not really. Because they don’t know her like you do. You want her… every bit of her that you’ve already been given and more.

But that doesn’t matter now. It’s been months of pushing it off, but you’re finally telling yourself that you need to move on. It’s finally time. Your affections toward her are no longer able to be sheltered; your body is no longer a safe place for them now that your mind swirls with the newfound knowledge that Natasha doesn’t feel the same. Having confirmation that your feelings are unrequited—no longer in limbo like before when you were able to foolishly play make-believe that you two might’ve had a future—you can no longer remain just friends. You know you aren’t strong enough to handle the indirect rejections and constant heartbreak.

Natasha waits for you in the gym, warming up for longer than necessary, stalling until your arrival. But you never show, and her confusion and worry only grow with each passing minute. You’ve never stood her up before.

Eventually she abandons the pretense of working out, grabbing her towel and water bottle and leaving the gym, ending the session early when, after over an hour, there’s still no sign of you. With a puzzled expression on her face, she heads to your room.

She knocks. You know it’s her. You don’t respond.

She calls your name through the door. You pretend you don’t hear.

“You didn’t show up for training,” Natasha says, tone hesitant in a way it’s never been with you, “I just wanted to check up on you…” She trails off. “I don’t know if maybe you’ve just slept in, or…” There’s another pause. “Just, if you can hear me, come find me later?”

It’s phrased as a question. Your lack of response, your lack of acknowledgement, is throwing her for a loop. You’ve never ignored her before. Maybe you really are just still asleep, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

And the feeling only furthers as time goes on.

You don’t find her later that day, or the next day, or the next.

You’re avoiding her. Breakfasts are cut short, and you take a seat on the opposite side of the table. You no longer attend movie nights, always giving the excuse that you’re too tired to make it through a film. During training with the team, you two used to immediately make eye contact and silently communicate that you’d be sparring partners—as if anyone was going to try and come between the two of you anyway—but now you’ve been voluntarily pairing yourself up with Wanda. And worst of all, you won’t let her touch you anymore.

There are no more late-night talks, no more sleepovers, no more lunches at the nearby cafe together, and Natasha feels as though a part of her is lost. She’s never been unsure of where she stood with you; you’ve never rebuffed her like this. The void you’ve left with her is not one she could’ve prepared for, not one she ever thought she’d have to fill.

Natasha doesn’t know how it could get any worse, but it does.

She arrives back from a mission, her body aching, everything in her begging for her to lay down. All she wants to do is to curl up on your bed, to have you run your hands through her hair just like you used to, her head in your lap. But for some still unknown reason, she’s lost her right to do that now.

As she trudges through the halls, practically dragging her feet in exhaustion, she passes by the common room on her way to her quarters and freezes at what she hears.

You’re laughing—giggling—at something some man sitting next to you said, and you’re leaning against him.

It’s the first time Natasha’s seen you in days, and you’re cuddled up next to some man? She can’t hold her tongue. “Who’s this?” she asks bluntly, announcing her presence.

You glance over the back of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise as you notice the redhead standing in the entryway. “Natasha,” you exhale her name, your voice softening involuntarily. You mentally berate yourself for that even though you know it was an inevitability.

You almost feel sheepish, almost feel guilty, like you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to, like you’re betraying her, but then the memory of the night of the party flits through your head, and your resolve strengthens along with the despair that has been a constant ever since seeing her with another. “I didn’t know you had gotten back already.”

She wants to say that that’s because you no longer wait for her in the landing bay like you used to, that you’re no longer there to greet her when she returns, your hands tracing over her body carefully, thoroughly checking her for injuries, worry radiating off of you until you’re certain that she’s come home unharmed, before you pull her into you for a hug.

But she doesn’t.

Her gaze flicks toward the man, a silent question.

“Oh,” you start awkwardly before introducing him. He’s still too close to you; his arm is still around you. If anything, he tightens his grip as if he can sense the unspoken feelings and tension in the air.

“He’s my-” You can’t finish. The word ‘partner’ feels wrong in your mouth. It feels like it’s getting stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t taste sweet the way thought it would, the way you know it would if you were talking about Natasha instead of him. You try to push that thought away.

“I’m her partner.” the man supplies next to you, finishing your sentence. If he picks up on your hesitation, your reluctance, he doesn’t voice it, and you nod in uncomfortable confirmation.

“My partner,” you agree quietly, and Natasha’s feels something in her break.

Natasha doesn’t like him. She doesn’t know him, but she doesn’t like him.

She doesn’t like the way he compliments you and the way you smile bashfully back. She doesn’t like the kisses he peppers across your face and how you ask for more. And fuck, she doesn’t like that he is always at the Compound, always near you, always touching you, always in the room.

She can never get a second alone with you anymore… not that you’d let her get close these days anyway.

Still, she tries. Her hand still reaches out for you habitually when you walk by, intending on skimming across your shoulder; her body still craves yours. She just wants to know where she went wrong.

She misses you.

She doesn’t realize that you miss her too—more than anything—that everything with the man is an act, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep yourself away from the redhead who you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t love you the way you love her. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not a crush. It’s love.

Natasha brightens one afternoon when she sees you walking alone. For once, he’s not here.

“Hey, wait up a sec!” she calls out from down the hall, long steps quickly letting her catch up to you, her expression a hopeful smile that won out even over her nerves. This is it. This is when she finally gets to talk to you, to tell you how much she misses you, to tell you how she thinks brunch is way overdue and that you need to catch up, to tell you how watching you with him has been killing her.

Her hand raises to touch your arm as it would on any other day like before, but, to her dismay, you sidestep the gesture… because this isn’t any other day like before. Things have shifted between the two of you as much as she wishes they didn’t. She wonders if, by now, the distance is irreversible. She wonders if, at this point, telling you how she feels would even make a difference.

You give her a returning smile, but it comes off more like a grimace. She falters. You don’t want to see her. “Hey, I really have to go,” you answer her weakly, “I have a date. He’s- he’s probably already waiting for me.”

And then you’re rushing off without letting her respond, not looking back behind you.

Natasha just stands there, her hand still raised midair, and Wanda sees the whole thing.

Despite being happy for you, despite knowing that you deserve to move on, Wanda can’t help but feel sympathetic toward the woman who is standing there in front of her looking beyond heartbroken at your retreating figure.

“Natasha,” she says gently, walking over, her hand coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulder, “You chose to turn a blind eye. It’s only fair that she moves on. You have to let her.”

Days pass; weeks pass. Your relationship with Natasha continues to dwindle. She becomes an observer of your life, an outsider, no longer welcome to the day to day. You don’t come to her with your highs and lows. She has to assume that means you’re going to him.

It’s agony, being without you, not having you as a pivotal piece of her life anymore. She thinks about you with him at night when you’d usually be with her in her room, the two of you watching your favorite show before you eventually fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder. She checks her phone periodically to see if you’ve maybe texted her, the two of you usually constantly sending messages back and forth, jokes or banter or updates throughout the day. She waits and waits for any sign that you may be coming back to her, may remember that she’s still there, still present, still cares for you, but she never receives one, and the loneliness is ever growing, ever pervading.

Until there’s a knock on her door one night.

Natasha, annoyed with whoever is knocking at this late hour, interrupting her wallowing, yanks open her door, ready to reprimand whoever is on the other side, but her demeanor changes when she sees it’s you, her face shifting from irritation to concern.

You’re crying. Tears are trailing down your cheeks.

She says your name, soft in the way that’s still only reserved for you even if you no longer know it.

Your bottom lip wobbles at the familiar sound of her voice, and it takes you a second to find your own, but when you do… “He broke up with me,” you whisper, and you suck in an uneven breath when you voice it out loud.

Natasha’s world screeches to a halt at your statement. You just said that he broke up with you?

“What?” she asks, needing you to say it again… because it can’t be true. It can’t.

You just nod sadly, another tear dropping. They’re not even because the breakup happened. Sure, it was out of nowhere, jarring, but for some reason, you’re not particularly torn up about it, and that’s the worst part. Your feelings regarding it—or lack thereof—only further cement the fact that you’re not actually over the redhead standing in front of you. You’ve been desperately trying to move on, but this only proves that you haven’t even come close to succeeding despite your best efforts.

“Are you okay?” Natasha questions gently, prompting, trying to tell you that you can talk to her if you need to… or that you can simply take comfort in her presence like you used to. She hopes that you still do even though it’s been a while.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, words interrupted by shaky breaths, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine. I think that’s the hard part.”

Natasha frowns at that. “What do you mean?”

“I guess- I guess I just never really liked him anyway.”

“What?” Hope flares within her even though maybe it shouldn’t.

You can’t answer.

Natasha says your name another time, imploring, almost begging, longing for one answer in particular.

“Natasha, I-” you break off, “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend. Hide. Dance around it.”

The hope flares brighter.

“I like you. I love you. I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore it, to move on, to-” You shake your head, frustrated at your words, at the situation, at yourself. “Look, I just- I just need you to tell me that you don’t feel the same. Maybe then I can-”

Natasha’s hand makes its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek, the action halting you in the middle of your sentence.

You look up at her questioningly, nervously.

“Can I kiss you?” she breathes out.

Your mind goes blank. You’re positive you didn’t hear her right. You don’t respond.

“Can I kiss you?” Natasha repeats again, and she can’t help the desperation that’s seeping into her tone.

Then you nod, slowly, dumbly, as if you can’t believe that what’s about to happen is about to happen.

And Natasha’s lips are on yours.

It isn’t short; it isn’t a gentle brush of the lips. It’s charged, all of the longing and desire and pain that’s been coursing through her these past weeks, all of the longing and desire and need that’s been festering these past years, coming out in the kiss.

When you break apart for air, both of your eyes still closed, Natasha leans her forehead against yours for a few seconds. She tilts her head to affectionately nudge your nose with hers before pressing one more kiss, much softer this time, to the corner of your mouth.

“You look like you need to catch your breath,” Natasha says when she finally opens her eyes to gaze at you again.

“I think I do,” you say, because you’re definitely breathless after that.

“Me too,” Natasha murmurs, but she doesn’t give either of you another moment to do so, her hands grabbing at your shirt, your body, and pulling you into her room, the door slamming closed behind you when you’re pushed up against it.

Your back hits the wood, and her lips reattach to yours. You shudder not only at the feeling of her tongue tracing your bottom lip but also her touch back on you after being so long without it.

Natasha’s hands are teasingly trailing up and down your side before moving under your shirt. Her fingers skim along your bare skin, and you can’t help but moan, the redhead taking advantage of your parted lips, her tongue now meeting yours.

But then you’re abruptly pulling back for some reason. “Wait, wait, Natasha, that woman-”

She pauses in her ministrations, her brain taking a moment to catch up to your words, her mind hazy from getting lost in you. “What woman?” she asks hoarsely.

“That woman from the party-” you try again.

It clicks in her head. She doesn’t know how, but you saw. “That woman from the party meant nothing,” she reassures you quickly, willing to give you more, to give you as much as you need, but hoping that that’s enough, because, fuck, she wants her lips back on yours as soon as possible.

You search her face, trying to gauge her sincerity, and you only find her gaze steady and unwavering, filled with earnestness and dedication. Your mouth reconnects with hers, tongue immediately requesting entrance again as you resume the kiss where it was at.

You’re too preoccupied with kissing her that you don’t realize her hand is traveling down to your thigh until she’s tugging it up and hooking it around her waist. Natasha swears her own core is overheating when you become flush against her in this way. She can feel you pulsing with need against her leg.

“Is this okay?” she asks, needing your permission despite your seemingly blatant desire, needing you to confirm that you’re just as desperate for her as she is for you.

“Yes, yes. Natasha, please.” It comes out a whimper, a beg.

Natasha then hurriedly shoves up your shirt at your consent, impatiently dragging down your bra, your breasts spilling out of it, and she whines when she gets her first look at you. Your nipples are achingly hard from both the chill in the air and her kisses, and her body thrums with something hot and sharp and dangerous as she takes you in. Your hair is a mess, your body is trembling, your clothes are rumpled from her rough handling. You’re beautiful.

She wastes no more time, unzipping your jeans and shoving her hand into them. She needs to touch you. Now.

And you’re absolutely soaked.

Your hips jerk like you can’t control them, and you can’t, your body moving completely on its own, following instinct, needing any and all stimulation that Natasha is currently willing to provide, and she doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of her middle finger to your clit, beginning to leisurely circle it. Your eyes slip shut.

“Tell me,” Natasha demands, voice low, “Did you think of me when he touched you?”

“He-” you stop, gasping, both pleasure and embarrassment stealing your words, “He never-”

“He never, what?” Natasha asks, her finger slowing further.

“He never touched me,” you finally choke out, voice breathy from a mix of need and shame. You’re grateful that your eyes are closed because you don’t want to see the look of pity on her face.

Natasha only just manages to catch and prevent herself from reacting when you admit that he never touched you, never brought you pleasure, never fulfilled you the way deserve. It’s not pity. It’s surprise; it’s anger.

“Well, then he’s a fool,” she answers quietly, “Leaving you untouched like that, letting his hands go to waste when they could’ve been on you, letting his fingers go to waste when they could’ve been in you.”

You shudder at the tone of her voice, and your hips buck off the door another time, your body restless, aching. You can feel yourself dripping, stickiness coating your thighs, and you know the woman is front and center to every response and reaction she receives from your body. You know she can feel just how much you want her. “Please, Natasha. Please touch me.”

“I’m going to make you feel so good, detka,” Natasha promises. It’s a vow. She’s determined to make up for every moment that the man neglected you, to replace them with love, with adoration, with her. Her touch was always made for you, after all.

Her finger abandons your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you whine, but your whine quickly transitions into a loud cry of her name when she suddenly shoves two fingers into your hole, your pussy immediately clenching around her digits.

Natasha’s breath stutters as she hears you. She wants to memorize every sound that escapes; she wants to press her mouth to your throat and feel them directly from the source. But she can’t. She needs to watch you, needs to see the way your brows scrunch up in focus, needs to witness the expression on your face when your entire body vibrates with desperation.

“Your body is mine. Your sounds are all for me,” she growls, but it’s not just possessive, and that’s what gets you. It’s worshipful in a way you’ve never experienced from anyone before. You’ve always wished for Natasha to be the one to show you what devotion truly is, and now that it’s happening, it feels like a dream.

Because her touch isn’t just dominating. It’s reverential. And you feel another gush of wetness leak from your pussy in response to the delicate way she’s holding you juxtaposed with the insistent way she’s fucking you.

You nod in agreement, irregular inhales and exhales leaving you nonstop, unable to do anything but plead for more, because… she’s right. You’re hers; you’ve always been hers.

“Say it,” she commands softly.

Her fingers speed up as well as if to prove her point, pistoning in and out of you, her pace quick and relentless as she waits for you to respond.

She fucks the words right out of you.

“I’m yours,” you moan, voicing the sentiment you’ve always felt but kept inside, “I’m yours. I’m yours, Natasha. I’m yours.”

Your vision is blurring with pleasure, your body is shaking, your pussy throbbing, and when you come, your back against Natasha’s door, your pants hastily pulled down, her fingers still plunging into you, caressing your walls with each stroke, her free hand everywhere, she doesn’t stop.

She makes you come again and again, until your body simply cannot handle another climax, until you fall limp against her chest, too tired to keep your eyes open, your knees giving out and you being held up only by her arms.

You wake the next morning in Natasha’s bed, curled into her sheets comfortably just like you’ve been hundreds of times before. Her mattress feels familiar, her pillow under your head feels familiar, but her arm around your waist feels different this time around, protective and securing. She’s holding you as if you’re still hers even in the light of day.

You roll over until you’re facing Natasha, your eyes fixated on her face, calm, relaxed from sleep.

You’re silent as you study her.

And her eyes flutter open slowly to find you staring. You don’t say anything, just gazing up at the woman who has stolen your breath away, but Natasha doesn’t take it as a good sign.

Her hold on you loosens. She begins to pull her arm away. “Are you regretting it now that morning has arrived?” she asks quietly, regarding you closely, watching your face as if it will give her an answer.