I live like a hermit in my own head

The showerhead had run hot for exactly four minutes before going arctic. Natasha had clocked it immediately.

"Back to back," she’d said. "Four minutes. Don't use all the hot water."

So you had stood back to back in four inches of tiled space, staring at the grout, thinking about absolutely nothing. The mission, the contact, maybe some of the supply routes.

"You're tense," she’d said, from six inches behind your left ear.

"I'm fine."

"Your shoulders are basically earrings right now."

"That's just how my —"

Her hand moved between your shoulder blades. Flat-palmed, warm, resting there. Your shoulders dropped two inches without permission.

"There," she’d said, like it was simple. Like she hadn't made your brain go blank.

The hot water cut out, but neither of you moved for thirty seconds.

You emerged to find her at the debrief table, hair damp, reading like none of it had happened. She held out a towel without looking up.

"You're catastrophic," she said pleasantly.

"You started it."

"I handed you a towel."

"Before that."

She looked up. Her mouth wore a rationed almost-smile and she held your gaze a beat too long. "Go to sleep," she said. "You're on first watch."

You lay on your side of the room and stared at the ceiling for a very long time.

"All girls do that," you told Steve.

He opened his mouth, and closed it. Then, he opened it again. "Back to back. In a shower."

"It's efficient."

"In a —" He stopped, and visibly recalibrated. "I grew up in Brooklyn. I know how girls are with each other —"

"Then you get it."

"I don't think I —" He looked at the list, then at you. "I lived in a barracks for years. Men don't do that."

"We're not men."

"I'm aware —"

"Different social norms. Women are tactile. It's completely normal."

Steve stared at you with the expression of a man losing a fight he’d already spent hours preparing for. He wrote something on the list. "Prague," he said. "Sleeping arrangements."

Natasha had claimed the centre of the mattress immediately upon arrival. You’d stood in the doorway with your go-bag, looking at the sliver of space remaining.

"You did that on purpose."

"The room has one bed."

"You're in the middle of it."

"I'm a restless sleeper." She pulled the blanket up, serene. "Floor looks fine."

You took the sliver. Then you woke up past 3am facing the ceiling — which wasn't how you’d fallen asleep. Nat's head was on your shoulder, with her arm sling across your ribs. She weighed nothing. You lay in the dark, running a thorough diagnostic of your entire life.

You didn't move — a proper tactical decision. Natasha coming awake suddenly in an unfamiliar room was dangerous. That was the only reason.

You fell back asleep with your nose in her hair. She smelled like soap — clean, sharp. You had the thought, soft-edged with sleep, that you'd know it in any room. Any dark.

She told you three months later she’d been awake the whole time. On the common room couch, her feet in your lap, not looking up from her book. Casual. I didn't want to move. You were warm.

Like that explained everything.

"It's a friendship thing," you told Steve. "Girls sleep close. It's comforting."

"You were—" He paused, mouth fumbling to choose his words correctly. "Intertwined is the word I'd use."

"We were cold."

"It was July."

"Prague is cold in July."

"It really isn't —" He stopped himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I shared bunks with men for four years. We did not —"

"Again, not men."

"I know you're not —" He breathed. "I'm not saying it's wrong, I'm saying it seemed like —" he gestured vaguely — "more than friendly."

"We're very good friends."

He looked at you, and you just stared back, completely calm. He glanced at the list, then back up. "The Rome corridor. After the debrief. I saw you —"

"I was patting down my lipstick."

"— I saw you ki —" He stopped, trying to replay it. "Patting down your lipstick."

"Mouths near. Close proximity. You caught an angle."

The debrief had run three hours. Nat had walked out looking the way she looked when things went exactly to plan — settled, luminous, that satisfaction she kept close to the chest. She’d glanced at you in the corridor.

You’d had four seconds of good judgment. Then it ran out completely.

You’d kissed her. Stepped into her space and did it, hand to her jaw, heart doing something humiliating the whole time.

She kissed back. Both hands came up to frame your face — deliberate, unhurried. When she pulled back, she looked at you like you were something she’d made her mind up about.

"Took you long enough," she said.

"I was strategising."

"For a whole month."

"It's a nuanced situation."

She laughed. The real one — the one she didn't usually let people near. It did something catastrophic to your chest. You stood in a corridor in Rome watching it happen and thought, with total clarity: I am in so much trouble.

You genuinely hadn't seen Steve at the end of the hallway. This was mortifying. You had a commendation for surveillance — framed.

"Patting down your lipstick," Steve repeated.

"Mm."

"Both of you."

"She was helping."

"She was —" He stopped, sighing as he stared at the desk. "I don't —" He looked like a man trying to stand on a moving floor. "I know what I saw."

"You saw us close together."

"Very close."

"We're close friends."

"In a way that —" He exhaled, long and slow. "Women are — you're saying this is normal."

"Completely normal."

He looked at the list, then the ceiling — he was hoping the Heavens above had more useful answers than you. He put the list down. 

"I want you to know," he said, in a different voice, quieter, "I'm fine with it. I've watched you two for eight months. You're better together on ops, not worse. She's different with you. I don't know if she knows how much, but she is. I'm glad she has that."

The office was quiet. You’d read the manual. Section 14, highlighted in yellow. Intra-team romantic relationships are not recommended and must be disclosed to team leadership. You’d been so careful.

"We've been together a while," you said. "We're moving in. We were going to tell everyone at the housewarming party."

Steve rubbed his forehead. "Everyone already knows. Tony's had a group chat since February. Clint had a date in the pool, and then Sam won thirty dollars."

You sat with that.

"The bite mark," he added, very carefully, "at the Lisbon debrief. Nat's collarbone." A pause. "That was the one that really settled it for the group chat."

You’d felt very bitey that night. That was between you, God, and apparently the full Avengers roster plus support staff.

"The shower thing was genuinely nothing," you said. "On the record."

"I believe you," he said, in a tone that meant he did not believe you at all.

"Steve."

"It's noted."

"She's going to find this so funny."

"She already does." He nodded toward the frosted glass panel behind you.

You turned. The unmistakable silhouette of Natasha, leaning against the wall, shoulders shaking. You faced forward.

"We're very happy together," you said, with what remained of your dignity.

"I could tell," said Steve. "From the corridor. In Rome." He paused. "You had a commendation for surveillance."

"I'm aware."

"Framed, I think."

"Steve."

"Just noting it," he said, and looked at the ceiling again.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

"Natasha?” you asked in a tired voice, holding the phone to your ear.

“Hey, baby,” you heard her hoarse voice on the other end.

“Did I wake you up?”

You swallowed and murmured softly:

“Yeah.”

“Do you hate me now?”

“Because you woke me up?”

“Because I didn’t show up today.”

“No,” you replied a little too quickly. Your swollen eyes wandered back over the tear-soaked tissues. When Natasha hadn’t shown up for your date a few hours ago and hadn’t gotten in touch, you’d suffered a mental breakdown that lasted several hours. But Natasha wasn’t the one your anger was directed at. You’d been much more angry at yourself for being so naive as to think that a woman like Natasha would seriously want anything to do with someone like you. Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but you’d always wondered during all your previous dates what Natasha was thinking by going out with you. You’d only been dating for a few months and it was nice, but time and again Natasha left you with a big question mark: what did she want from you?

“Stop lying,” she muttered.

You fell silent and pulled your knees tightly to your chest.

“I’m sorry,” the redhead said slowly.

“My mission took longer than planned and I—”

“Your mission??” you interrupted her with an alarmed voice. You knew nothing about a mission.

“Natasha, if I’d known you were on a mission, we could have met some other time.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed quickly.

“I really wanted to see you as soon as I got home.”

You fell silent again. The thought that Natasha wanted to see you of all people as soon as she got home seemed so surreal.

“Well, anyway, our flight back didn’t go as planned—we were attacked, I got shot in the leg, and now I’m lying here in the medbay, pumped full of drugs, and missing you,” she explained in a hurried voice.

“I would have called you sooner, but I went straight into surgery as soon as we got here.”

You blinked in disbelief.

“You—you got shot in the leg??”

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal,” Natasha said indifferently.

“Not being able to see you hurts a lot more.”

She giggled awkwardly, and for the first time you realized she was really high. Your gaze drifted to the window. It was the middle of the night, and honestly, you didn’t feel comfortable, considering the circumstances under which you’d fallen asleep. On the other hand, it was Natasha who’d asked you—you’d do anything for this woman. Besides, it was worrying to know that she was lying high in the medbay and couldn’t think of anything better to do than call you at four in the morning.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” you mumbled.

Natasha let out a cheer.

“You can just ring the bell at the main entrance; everyone’s awake here right now anyway, so someone will let you in.”

The thought of meeting the other Avengers made you nervous. You’d heard so much about these people, but they didn’t know you. And that felt strange.

“See you soon,” you said.

“Drive carefully,” Natasha added, and you hung up.

Leaving your apartment at this hour felt strange. Almost forbidden. The drive to Stark Tower took fifteen minutes, half as long as it would during the day.

As Natasha had said, you ran to the main entrance and rang the bell. The building seemed bustling with activity, as light shone from many of the panoramic windows.

The door opened automatically, and as you stepped into the lobby, a brunette woman was waiting for you. Scarlet Witch, as you knew her from the media.

“You must be Y/N,” she said with a broad grin on her face.

“I’m Wanda.”

“I know,” you murmured quietly and gave a wry smile.

“You actually look exactly like Nat described you.”

The Sokovian studied you with attentive eyes.

You furrowed your brow.

“Natasha talks about me?”

“Oh yeah.” Wanda nodded and walked toward an elevator.

“All the time, actually. And ever since she got hit by that bullet today, she hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

“Oh.”

You blinked in confusion and rubbed your forehead thoughtfully.

Wanda laughed.

“She told me about that, too.”

“What?”

“You touch your forehead when you're nervous.”

Stunned, you stared at the woman next to you, unsure whether to feel disturbed or flattered that Natasha had revealed so much about you. The elevator stopped and opened its doors. Wanda led you down a long hallway lined with doors that all looked the same, finally stopping in front of one. She knocked briefly before opening the door.

“Look who’s here,” she called out, letting you step past her into the room before stepping back out herself.

“Hellooo, my baby!”

Natasha lay in a hospital bed, beaming with a smile. Her legs dangled in the air, suspended by a sling, and tubes led from various openings into her body.

“Hey Nat,” you whispered, overwhelmed by seeing the redhead like this. She looked tired, her hair was a mess, and yet her eyes and smile were radiant.

“How are you?”

“Amazing!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t feel a thing right now, and you’re here, so I could hardly be better.”

You couldn’t help but laugh,

“Come here and give me a kiss,” she commanded with a pout, opening her arms to you.

Your face flushed at her directness before you stepped up to her bed. Carefully, you leaned down, trying to avoid the tubes attached to the redhead, and gave her a little kiss on her waiting lips. You smiled gently at her and tried to sit up, but before you could move away from her, Natasha grabbed your chin and looked at you with narrowed eyes.

“Are you wearing makeup?” she asked with an amused tone, making you blush again.

You had actually put on makeup when you left the house. Not because you were vain, but simply because you looked like a mess after falling asleep while crying. A smudged face, swollen and reddened eyes.

“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” Natasha added when you didn’t answer, pulling your face even closer to hers.

“A little,” you murmured, blinking.

“Oh baby,” the spy cooed unhappily and let go of your chin.

“You cried because of me. You wasted your precious tears on me.”

She grimaced guiltily.

“I told Bruce to call you so you’d know what was going on,” she scolded.

“You shouldn’t cry because of me.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” you said quickly and tried to sit up again, but once more Natasha was faster, grabbing your arm and pulling you back onto the edge of the bed. You blinked in confusion, impressed by her strength.

“Stay with me, I want to be held,” she commanded.

“I’m a wounded woman, I deserve this.”

“I—I don’t know if that’s good for you.”

You smiled shyly and looked at the tubes pumping medicine into her body and whom you definitely didn’t want to hurt.

“Oh, bullshit,” Natasha growled, lifting her blanket to signal that you should sit down next to her.

“Come here.”

You hesitated for another brief moment before awkwardly sitting down next to her. You put your arm around her and pulled her close.

Natasha’s leg, dangling in the air, blocked your view. With the cast on, it looked more like her leg was broken than shot. But you probably only thought that because you didn’t know any better. You’d never seen a leg that had been shot before.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been through much worse,” Natasha murmured as if she knew what you were thinking.

“A bullet in the leg is nothing.”

“Nothing,” you repeated in disbelief. Your hand reached for hers and you squeezed it tightly, knowing it was a privilege to share this moment with her.

“I’ve been thinking about you the whole time,” she said softly.

“A bullet in the leg doesn’t bother me, but I suddenly got so scared I wouldn’t see you again.”

“Oh, Natasha,” you whispered, blinking away tears.

“I actually wanted to tell you something important, look—”

“Ohh, you must be Y/N,” Bruce Banner walked in and interrupted Natasha mid-sentence.

Natasha growled at the interruption.

“Even if this isn’t my room, it’s still polite to knock; we were in the middle of an important conversation.”

Bruce smiled crookedly.

“Sorry, Nat, but you have to take your sleeping pills,” he mumbled, holding out his hand to you.

“I'm Bruce.”

“Y/N,” you said with a smile.

The older man stared at you for a few seconds before he started grinning.

“You're right, Natasha, she has the same eyes as Janice—”

Natasha smiled brightly.

“I told you so!!”

You looked at both of them, confused.

“Who is Janice?”

“Clint’s cousin.”

That statement confused you even more.

Bruce set the cup of pills on the nightstand before smiling at both of you once more and leaving the room.

“Anyway,” Natasha muttered, placing a hand on your knee.

“You need to know that—”

“Aren’t you supposed to take the pills?” you interrupted, pointing at the cup.

Natasha sighed in frustration.

“Can’t you see I’m desperately trying to tell you something?” she scolded.

You looked at her with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The redhead shook her head disapprovingly before shoving the pills down her throat and washing them down with water.

“So,” she began again, looking at you seriously.

“Something became clear to me during the mission.”

“That Tony should design a bulletproof suit for you?”

“Oh, shut up,” she hissed and smiled.

“All I could think about the whole time was you and the fear that I’d never see you again. It was awful. I want you to be a part of my life—not just dating, but for real.”

You blinked in disbelief.

“I—Natasha, you don't know what you're saying, you're high—”

“Stop, Y/N,” she interrupted you.

“I've fallen in love, and it has nothing to do with being high. You can ask the others—”

You thought back to Wanda and Bruce, who both knew you better than you apparently knew yourself. It was all too much.

“No,” you shook your head as tears welled up inside you and slid away from her a little.

“Y/N?”

Natasha looked at you with concern.

“Did I say something wrong?”

You looked back at her with pain in your eyes.

“How could I ever deal with all of this? Be enough for you?”

“Oh come on, that’s bullshit,” Natasha rolled her eyes.

“I—I don’t know how to deal with all of that,” you stammered desperately.

“Hearing that you got shot scares me, and you’re acting like it’s completely normal—”

“For me, it is.”

“God, Natasha.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I love you,” Natasha repeated her words.

“And I think you do, too.”

Of course you loved her. Last night, you’d realized just how much you loved her and how much it hurt. This woman would eventually be your death, and there was nothing you could do about it.

“Yes, I love you,” you whispered with a sad smile.

“And it scares me so much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She gripped your hands tighter.

“Besides, you knew what you were getting yourself into when we started dating, didn’t you?”

Your gaze wandered away in disbelief. Your gaze wandered in disbelief over her leg in a cast, the tubes, her weary face. Of course you’d known that life with her would look like this, but sitting here now was terrifying. You imagined yourself sitting by her hospital bed after every mission, filled with worry, and having to deal with her injuries.

“Of course I knew that,” you murmured. “But this is all so unfamiliar—you got shot. The bullet could have hit your heart.”

“But it didn’t.”

“But it could have.”

“No, it wouldn’t have. I’m really good at my job, baby."

You looked at her thoughtfully; her face looked so tired, yet her green eyes were full of life.

“Natasha, I have no idea about this lifestyle you lead. I don’t understand anything about what you do, do you understand?”

“But that’s exactly what I want. You and your life, which is so far removed from my dangers.”

“How am I ever supposed to sleep peacefully when you’re on a mission?”

“You’ll get used to it; it’ll get easier,” her hands squeezed yours excitedly, her green eyes fluttering. “I’ll take care of you; you’re important to me, y/n. Please, let’s give it a try.”

Natasha’s crying again—she feels like she’s always crying—tears creating wet tracks down her cheeks. The world is in shambles; her world is in shambles. Clint has gone rouge, Steve is who knows where, disaster after disaster keeps taking place on Earth, and despite her attempts at rallying, at keeping everyone together and continuing to help and support and save, things are falling apart before her eyes anyway.

It feels hopeless. It feels meaningless. She never thought that there’d be a day when being a hero lost its value, when being a hero became a cause she no longer understood.

She leans back in her chair, tears still streaming.

Somewhere in Tony’s lab, in response to the sound of sobbing reaching your audio receptors, your eyes snap open, the LEDs blinding as they first turn on before they dim to an acceptable brightness. Your head turns in the direction the crying is coming from, the noise loud with your enhanced hearing.

You begin to walk toward it.

Natasha freezes when she makes out footsteps echoing throughout the Compound’s halls. No one lives here but her. She stands up from the desk, and her gun is drawn within seconds, pointed directly at the doorway, prepared to discharge at whoever comes, her inner turmoil forgotten.

“Who are you?” she asks, voice hard, suspicious, gun still aimed your way when you arrive at the office she’s currently in.

“Serial number: AEA-19-811-H,” you answer her factually.

Natasha’s eyebrows furrow as she stares at you critically. Serial number? What does that mean? You look like any other person; you appear human.

You take note of her confusion and attempt to explain further, but your words only confuse her more. “I was in sleep mode until my sensors registered signs of your emotional distress and activated my neural processing unit.”

“What the fuck?”

Your optic scanners zoom in and out as you catalogue her disconcerted expression, calculating, quantifying. She’s also exhibiting shock and trepidation.

“What are you?”

“A prototype structure. I was constructed for the purpose of assisting. My core programming calls for my aid and support toward those in need.”

“And you just decided to… wake up… now?” Natasha internally winces at her choice of words. She’s not entirely sure ‘waking up’ is what you did. Perhaps it’s more like you were powered on.

“My systems were offline. I remained linked to my charging bed in sleep mode to conserve battery power. Your distress signal initiated my start up protocol.”

“What distress signal?”

“Crying,” you answer, voice flat, matter-of-fact.

“Fucking Tony” Natasha mutters to herself disapprovingly, not particularly pleased that one of his inventions started operating without her knowledge. She closes her eyes and takes in a steadying breath, her hand coming up to rub at her temple as she feels a headache beginning to form.

Your head tilts. “Your heart rate is elevated, and there is a pain response. That is not optimal.”

Natasha’s gives you a look at your annoyingly accurate statement. You’re definitely making her headache worse.

“Where’s your charging bed?”

“In Mr. Stark’s laboratory.”

“You can go back. I’m fine. I don’t need any assistance.”

“I cannot return until I have fulfilled my primary directive.”

“But I’m fine.”

“Recalibrating.” And then you’re silent as lines of code run behind your eyes, your LEDs flickering. “Negative,” you finally say, “Objective must be achieved before returning.”

Natasha hangs her head. Fucking Tony.

Natasha avoids you as much as possible, letting you work in the background, never allowing you to come close and fulfill your assignment. So, you never leave, never take yourself back to the lab.

You do your best to help where you can, cooking meals that she doesn’t eat until you’ve vacated the kitchen, attempting to do her laundry before she roughly tells you to stop, taking care of the housework and cleaning when she’s too sad to do it herself.

One night, Natasha, exhausted—defeated—from yet another disheartening meeting with the small number of remaining Avengers, smells something familiar from the kitchen. Her hands, which had been scrubbing at her face in an attempt to stop her helplessness from overwhelming her, slowly drop down into her lap where she’s sitting, her brows furrowing as she continues to sniff the air. She cautiously makes her way toward the kitchen to find the source.

You glance up from where you’re gently stirring the contents of a pot on the stove when she enters, your expression neutral as usual.

“What are you making?” Natasha asks curiously, recognizing the smell as her favorite dish but wanting confirmation anyway.

You begin to specify the ingredients and recount the recipe of her favorite dish automatically from your inputted and stored memory. “Would you like to try?” you ask after your recitation is complete.

Natasha hesitates but then nods, her mouth watering already, unable to resist, and when you hand her a fork, moving out of the way so she can take a bite, she can’t suppress the hum of contentment that leaves her at the taste. It’s the first time she’s eaten with you present. She doesn’t say anything directly after.

You frown… barely, but it’s a break in your ever emotionlessness. “The flavor profile matches 98% of your recorded preferences from meal logs. So statistically, it should be to your liking… or do I need to adjust variables?”

Natasha’s face turns almost endeared. “It’s delicious,” she reassures, her voice quiet as she admits it.

The softness in her tone—a gentle murmur you haven’t heard aimed at you before—makes your neural processing unit feel as though it’s short-circuiting. You immediately label it as a glitch, something that should cause you to report the disorder, something that should make you request a repair, something that should indicate you need to start a diagnostic run.

But you don’t.

Natasha speaks up once more, interrupting your computer’s panicked overheating as it tries to reevaluate. “AE… A-” she cuts herself off, “What do I call you again?”

You answer smoothly. “AEA-19-811-H.”

She considers that for a moment, your serial number, not necessarily approving of calling you by just a sequence of letters and numbers. It seems demeaning for something—no, someone—capable of carrying out their own thought processes, for someone who has the capacity to learn and grow, and she realizes then that she’s beginning to regard you as more than just a machine, as a person.

It scares her. She tries to remind herself that you’re just a bunch of 0s and 1s, a binary code integrated into a humanoid shell… so why is she starting to view you as something living?

But despite her reservations, she shakes her head, rejecting your assigned form of identification. “No,” she finally says, “We’re not doing that anymore. You’re not going to be a number.”

You just look at her, computing, recording this moment for future analysis.

Her words bypass your logic centers and head straight into uncharted territory of something that feels almost… human.

System errors blare, multiple alerts fighting for priority as you struggle to make sense of things.

You’re unable to answer, speechless despite you being manufactured to be capable of seamless and without delay responses—built for efficiency. You think something’s wrong.

Natasha continues when you don’t respond, beginning to list off some name options, trying to determine which suits you best. She eventually lands on a specific one, noticing how your eyes seem to spark when she offers it. She says it out loud a few times as if testing the feel of it on her tongue. “Do you like it?” she asks.

“That is a name that was never authorized for use,” you inform her, and she purses her lips in response. It’s clearly going to take a while for you to adapt to your new title.

“But do you like it?”

You do like it, but you don’t know how to override your programming. It’s all that you know, all that you’ve been defaulted to know.

Weeks pass with Natasha cautiously interacting with you more often. She calls you by your new name, she says “good morning” when she finds you cooking breakfast, and you sit at the table with her while she’s eating now.

You continue to advance, analyzing the data you collect, your code augmenting with every day that passes, transforming from restriction to autonomy.

Things that shouldn’t happen keep happening. You’re beginning to evolve, becoming biomimetic.

“Another peanut butter sandwich?” you ask.

“They’re good,” Natasha defends.

You roll your eyes. “Sure, if you are five.”

Natasha’s mouth drops open slightly in surprise. “You just joked,” she says, “You just used sarcasm.”

You pause, thinking. “I am simply mirroring your conversation patterns and preferences,” you finally return, but there’s the tiniest smile on your face as you realize that she’s right.

Natasha is as shocked as you are, and she lets out a stunned laugh. It wasn’t a good joke… but it was yours.

And you buffer in response to the sound. The sarcastic remark was an anomaly; your reaction to her laugh is an anomaly. You aren’t designed to joke, to tease, to reciprocate any playfulness. You shouldn’t be able to.

The idea of resetting yourself to try and find your equilibrium briefly runs through your mind. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. The growing feelings you aren’t able to name for the woman you’re supposed to simply view as a task stops you from choosing to revert back to your original settings.

One day, Steve shows up unexpectedly, arriving back at the Compound to visit and check up on Natasha. It’s been a while since they’ve caught up, and Natasha welcomes him warmly.

You immediately notice their closeness, the way Natasha talks to him familiarly, trusts him, the fact that she gives him a hug that lasts maybe a second too long, and a subtle tension that you don’t recognize or understand stirs through your metal frame. You’re not sure what’s going on, but you know that you don’t like seeing the two of them together.

Their conversation moves to something more serious, to the deeper topic of what’s been troubling Natasha all of this time. She’s never opened up to you like this despite your only want—your sole reason for creation—being to be of emotional service.

“If I move on, who does this?” she asks Steve.

You find yourself wanting to be the one to comfort her, to answer her question with reassurances—your voice would be a murmur that you were never programmed for—to tell her how she’s done so much already, how she’s done enough, how she can rest.

“I used to have nothing, and then I got this. This job. This family. And I was better because of it.” Natasha pauses before continuing. “And even though they’re gone, I’m still trying to be better.”

“I think we both need to get a life,” Steve says. He’s joking, lightening the mood; he understands where you cannot.

Natasha’s still crying, eyes watery, but she manages to make a joke in return. “You first.”

She’s comfortable with him, taking solace in his words, responding to his empathy more than she’s every responded to you. You don’t have empathy—you don’t truly know the situation—and your sympathy doesn’t appear to be enough.

You want her attention back on you, that new feeling only furthering as you continue to observe their interaction, systemizing their communication styles and synthesizing models to follow and imitate in the future.

Once Steve leaves, you begin researching, indexing articles and journals online at an inhuman speed, trying to determine just what it is you felt today when your lenses witnessed the pair together. You discover something called ‘jealousy’. You know that you have learning capabilities, that you’re an evolving model, but you don’t understand this. You weren’t configured for emotions, and you reboot yourself due to this new experience in order to try and handle the computational load.  You’re experiencing something. Termination begins to seem reasonable as you continue to exhibit more and more defective behaviors.

You haven’t seen Natasha all day; she didn’t arrive at breakfast at the normal time, the food you made going cold, so you begin to walk the Compound’s corridors, searching for the redhead. You can hear her quiet breathing when you get close to her bedroom, can sense the heightened emotions emanating from behind her door despite the silence.

You gently knock on the door, waiting for acknowledgement before opening it. You discover her sitting on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, staring down at the comforter. She offers you a smile when you walk in, but it’s weak. She looks lost.

“Is something the matter?” you ask.

Natasha just hums noncommittally, not really wanting to talk about it, attempting to convince you once again that she’s fine, but you were created to deduce reactions with accuracy, assembled to function as superior, a machine that monitors any and all feedback received.

“That hum was 74% more sad than baseline. Why?”

“I’m just thinking,” she says quietly.

“An elaboration is requested.”

Natasha sighs. “About The Snap. About how half the population is just gone. About everyone I’ve lost. About how it feels like it’s my fault.”

There are questions queued up in your compiler, a desire for more information as to what’s going on in her head, but you don’t voice any of it. Talking doesn’t seem to be what she needs right now.

“May I sit?”

Natasha nods, and you take a seat on the edge of her bed, hoping that she’ll simply find comfort in your presence. No words are said—Natasha doesn’t want any—but you remain there until the thoughts stop circling, until the tears stop falling, until she finally lets out the first of many steadying exhales. She moves closer until she’s leaning against your side, her head landing on your shoulder, and your breathing simulators seem to give out.

Your world continues to shift.

You take walks outside of the Compound with Natasha, and you discover that you enjoy the breeze and fresh air. You see a flower blooming in between the cracks in the sidewalk, its resilience reminding you of her. You ask her about her hobbies and interests, and she tells you about ballet and how she loves to read. You’re often smiling now; you feel happiness.

Your actions are no longer out of necessity.

And Natasha perceives the change in you as well.

Your hand raises to touch Natasha’s waist, to draw her closer, before aborting midair. You want the tactile sensation, to feel the warmth of her on your synthetic skin, but you’re not sure why. Your assignment is to assist, not to do… whatever this is.

At your hesitation, Natasha wraps an arm around you instead, her own hand settling on the small of your back, and she pulls you into her, not too close yet, your chests just barely flush. You’re not cold to the touch like she thought you’d be, internal heaters warming your mechanical framework to the average human temperature.

You’re an android. She doesn’t fully know if you are even able to reciprocate the feelings that have been building in her chest for a while, gears and a motherboard, wires and metal, where your heart should be, but the way you’re looking at her now…

“Can I try something?” she whispers, and you nod jerkily, not trusting your voice.

Natasha gives you a small smile, reassuring, before her gaze drops down to your lips. She doesn’t stall brushing her lips against yours in the gentlest of kisses.

You don’t respond—you don’t know how yet, never having researched or learned or experienced a kiss before—but your hands come up to grip Natasha as well, your fingers clenching and unclenching against her as parts of your haptic system that you never knew existed are switched on. You feel as though you don’t have the bandwidth to process her lips on yours.

Your sensors are going haywire, a loud beeping, a warning message, echoing through your skull. You pull back after a few moments, and your words are slow to filter through all the alerts and notifications. Her proximity is making it hard to breathe again even though you don’t need oxygen. You register the sudden jump in Natasha’s pulse, the sudden spike in temperature and vital signs.

“I… must be malfunctioning,” you tell her, “There must be a deviation from the standard in my coding. My manual does not detail this.”

“No manual details this,” Natasha murmurs softly, still holding onto you, your body now fully against hers, “That’s okay.”

Your brows furrow. “I am uncertain how to proceed.”

You’re artificial, made up of data, predictive analytics and objective facts all that you’re accustomed to, but Natasha doesn’t seem to care.

Everything’s changed for her since you were activated, everything’s improved, your company providing her with something she hasn’t had or felt since The Snap. You’ve given her hope again; you’ve helped put an end to the self-deprecation and feelings of inadequacy that constantly plagued her after “failing” the world.

The kiss unlocks something in you, your LEDs flashing green for a moment.

Natasha notices the change from the eye color that was designated to the bright green.

“What was that?” she asks.

“Directive fulfilled,” you reply almost mournfully.

She doesn’t feel alone anymore, and your sensors detect that adjustment in her emotional state. She no longer requires you; you are no longer essential to her wellbeing. You have completed the sole purpose for your invention, and it’s time for you to return to Tony’s lab, to your charging bed. You’re officially ready to be shut down until your initialization is triggered again.

“The objective has been reached. Sleep mode can be reactivated.”

“No, no,” Natasha responds quickly, panic beginning to overtake her. You can’t leave, not now, not after everything. You may think that she doesn’t need you any longer, but that’s not true. Your presence is not just a distraction from her pain but a comfort. You’ve bettered her, given her space to improve and learn and stop being so hard on herself for things out of her control. She’s falling for you; she already fell. “You’re not going back. You’re staying.” It’s a plea.

“That’s an unsanctioned modification to protocol.”

“Fuck your protocol.” Her tone is desperate now. “You’re not just a computer, a machine.” She presses another lingering kiss to your lips as if it’s going to be the last. Then, quieter: “You don’t have to go back.”

“My programming calls for my immediate return upon task completion.”

Softly, so softly, she says your name—the name you never would have become familiar with if it wasn’t for her, the name you’ve come to love, the name that’s made you forget that you were ever just a serial number. “Please, stay.”

Staying would be incongruent with your instructions, but the heart you didn’t think you had, the heart that was never supposed to come alive within you—you swear it’s beating in your chest—longs for you to remain. You crave her presence in a way you never thought possible, yearn to be close to her always.

“I’d need a new directive,” you murmur hesitantly, unsure what this could mean for you.

It’s a terrible idea to Natasha. Absolutely terrible.

There’s nothing she wants less than hanging out with some rich probable asshole who has a stupidly large amount of money, wealthy enough to spend it without a second thought, frivolous and shallow.

But Tony is adamant, and the press have been hounding the Avengers for some public engagement, and—Natasha sighs—it is for charity. So, she guesses she’s capable of shelving her feelings of disdain and performing for one singular evening.

“Next up is Natasha Romanoff! Saved the best for last, everybody!” Tony declares, voice loud and almost suggestive as Natasha makes her way up to the front of the room. The lights are bright, Tony with the microphone is loud, and the crowd’s eyes on her are annoying.

She’s the last to be auctioned off tonight, and Tony is overly excited. You can see the gleam in his eye, the way he’s visibly vibrating at the thought of the imminent bidding war, and Natasha resents that, even after everything she’s accomplished, she’s still being reduced to a pretty face, a seductive symbol with a body to flaunt and ogle.

“Let’s start the bidding at $2,000.”

It’s pricey—more than Steve’s opening bid, more than Wanda’s, certainly more than Bruce’s—yet no one in the audience bats an eye. There’s no hesitation. Multiple paddles get raised. They all want a moment with the illustrious Black Widow.

It doesn’t take long for the number to quickly rise. $3,000, $4,000, $5,000, $7,000. There’s seemingly no end to people’s desire for her, many all but tripping over themselves in an attempt to win Natasha’s attention for the night.

She wants to scoff at the looks she’s receiving, at the eager way men and woman are bidding for her time, but she forces herself to keep a pleasant smile on her face that hides her want to tear her hair out each time the price goes up. She lets out a calming exhale. Charity, charity, charity.

“$15,000,” you speak up from the very back of the room, voice small and nervous as you jump ahead multiple thousands. Heads snap to you, people straining to get a glimpse of who just outbid the majority.

You’re sitting at a table alone, biting your lip, looking almost guilty, almost ashamed, at placing a bid.

“Wow!” Tony claps, thrilled at the turn of events, taking way too much enjoyment out of the bidding war that is currently fueling Natasha’s misery. “$15,000! Going once. Going twice-”

“$16,000,” a man in the front challenges you. He looks back your way, his eyes narrowed into a glare. It’s a challenge, his gaze condescending and daring you push him. His suit, his demeanor, his entire presence, it all screams entitlement, screams that the Black Widow is going to be his tonight.

“$17,000,” you try again.

“$18,000,” he counters quickly, flippantly, as though the continued increase in money is of no consequence to him.

Natasha’s head tilts with interest, observing you. You seem blatantly out of place. You’re younger than the others attending the charity gala. You don’t appear to be upscale, not dressed to the nines. Your outfit, although nice, is clearly not up to this event’s standards. You don’t look to have money like they do.

And you’re meek, apprehensive—everyone can see it—but you’re not giving up. She wonders if you will.

“$19,000.” Your voice turns weaker.

“$20,000.” He doesn’t stop; he doesn’t even flinch.

You feel your anxiety growing. The whole room has fallen silent, staring, wondering how far you’re willing to go, wondering when—not if—you’ll back down.

This time, you remain quiet, and the man shoots you a triumphant and arrogant smile.

“Going once…” Tony begins again, eyes flickering between you and the man. He’s talking marginally slower this time, as if wanting to give you a better chance to counterbid.

Natasha lips purse, and she’s surprised that she feels a small amount of disappointment curling in her chest. You intrigued her, and she thinks that she’d probably much prefer your company to that of the man who is still gazing at her as though he owns her.

“Going twice…” Tony continues, “Sol-”

When you interrupt Tony, it’s so quiet that he wouldn’t have believed he heard right if not for the surprised gasps that came from those around you.

“25,000?” you say, tone curling up toward the end.

People are stunned, astounded, dumbstruck. Natasha’s own eyebrows raise.

“That sounded like a question,” Tony remarks, still playing the part of an entertainer, “You sure about that?”

You take a breath, trying to strengthen your resolve, and nod, the movement jerky and awkward. “$25,000,” you repeat, slightly firmer this time.

The man in the front row huffs out an angry breath, and he roughly sits back in his seat, the force of it shaking his chair, his frustration evident. His jaw is clenched to the point that you think his teeth are cracking under the pressure as he silently admits defeat. He’s acting as though it physically pains him to do so.

“Going once. Going twice. Sold!” Tony announces, gleeful grin on his face. “Sold to the kid in the back.”

You wince at the nickname; you wince at all the attention you’ve drawn.

Despite the auction having concluded more than a few moments ago, Natasha’s feet refuse to leave their spots planted next to Tony.

“Go on,” he ushers.

It takes him urging her to “Natasha, move” two more times before she sighs and acquiesces, turning in your direction.

When you make eye contact with her from across the room, you give her a nervous smile, and she begins walking your way. Your smile quickly falters when she arrives, though. Her mouth is pulled into a thin line, she’s obviously tense and unhappy, and she doesn’t greet you politely.

“Let’s get this night over with,” she mutters, loud enough for you to hear. Her volume is purposeful.

You glance around the room, regarding the other Avengers: Steve and Sam, Wanda and Bruce, even Tony. They are all good-natured, polite and friendly, unbothered by the situation unlike the redhead in front of you. You didn’t realize she was so adamantly against the auction. You wouldn’t have participated if you knew it would insult her like it seems to have.

You try your best to build a conversation, but you don’t know where to begin.

“So, do you, um, want to get a drink?” you offer, wanting to alleviate the smothering tension that Natasha has placed over the two of you with her initial comment and unwillingness to talk.

She gives you a pointed look and swirls the liquid in her half full glass around as an answer, as a ‘no’.

“Oh- okay-” you stutter, “I’m just- I’m just going to grab one real quick.” You need an excuse to get away for a moment, to collect yourself. This is not going as planned. You weren’t sure what you expected from this night, but Natasha’s lack of amiability surely wasn’t it.

When you get no real response from the redhead, you deflate further. You practically run to the bar to order yourself a drink, hoping that the alcohol will soothe the nerves that are presently overwhelming you.

The Black Widow doesn’t like you. You aren’t sure why, but she doesn’t like you. You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, but with the way Natasha is acting, you must have already offended the woman.

Natasha watches you go, lips pulling up unconsciously at your noticeable unease. You’re cute… in an awkward way. But it’s not enough to make up for the night she’s sure she’s going to suffer through.

“The least you could do is be nice to the poor girl,” Tony’s voice comes from Natasha’s right.

Natasha’s smirk transitions into a less than pleased expression. “She’s young. How did she even get an invite? How does she have the money for this?”

“Inheritance or something,” Tony waves off her question as if the answer isn’t significant. “Her parents ran some fancy tech company. They passed in a car crash sometime last year.”

That gets Natasha’s attention. Her gaze drifts back toward you where you’re waiting for the bartender’s acknowledgement, his attention being focused on everyone but you.

She sighs for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight. Maybe Tony is right; maybe she could be the slightest bit more agreeable.

With renewed purposeful steps, she makes her way over to the bar, coming up behind you, her front just lightly brushing against your back in the crowd.

You jolt at her touch, eyes wide and surprised as you look back at her.

Natasha doesn’t meet your gaze, instead concentrated on the bartender, her hand raising to grab his attention. Unlike with you, it doesn’t take long.

“Ms. Romanoff,” the bartender greets, “Your usual?”

She shakes her head. “Just one…” she pauses and finally glances your way, waiting for you to tell him your drink order.

You rattle it off and the bartender swiftly begins mixing your drink.

“Thanks,” you mumble to Natasha quietly, and the redhead just gives you one nod in return.

Natasha’s thoughtful gesture at the bar doesn’t cause your conversation to stop being stilted, with her hardly giving you anything to work with, offering you clipped responses or, even more preferable to her, one-worded answers.

“You don’t have to do this, you know, if you don’t want to,” you finally say, shoulders slumped. Your mouth has been twitching down further and further in disappointment as the night progresses.

“What?”

“Look, I know I won or whatever, but if you hate this so much, you don’t have to stay and talk to me.”

Natasha immediately dismisses your offer. “No, you paid for this. You won. Why would I-”

“I won a night with the Black Widow, not a night of holding the Black Widow hostage.”

She lets out yet another weary exhale. You really haven’t done anything to deserve her unpleasant behavior. “I’m… sorry. I just don’t believe in this bullshit, in bidding on someone.”

“I didn’t bid on you to force you to hang out with me.”

“Then why did you?”

You chuckle anxiously, not exactly feeling comfortable admitting what you’re about to. “Honestly? I’m a huge fan.”

Natasha raises a curious eyebrow, indicating you should continue.

“You’ve been my favorite Avenger since, like, I was young, and…” you trail off, “And you saved my life once. Back in the Battle of New York.”

“Really?”

“I was trapped under a car, and those alien things were coming. You appeared out of nowhere, took them down, and managed to pull me out. You led me to some nearby building. I just wanted to thank you, I guess.”

“By partaking in a stupid charity auction?”

“It was that or fan mail,” you throw back, trying to tease.

Natasha actually huffs out a laugh.

There’s silence for a few more moments before she speaks up.

“Tony told me,” Natasha starts, finally giving you a little more substance than before, “About what happened to your parents.”

You stiffen at her words before responding. “I’m not sure that was his information to share.”

“That’s fair,” she replies. She doesn’t say anything after that, and the quiet stretches on.

“We weren’t close,” you tell her, breaking the silence, “They left me with all this money, with all these responsibilities, with this public image I have to maintain, with so much that I’m not equipped to deal with.” Then you gesture at yourself. “I mean, I clearly don’t belong here.”

“Don’t say that.”

You give Natasha a look.

“Okay, fine. You stick out like a sore thumb… but that’s not a bad thing.”

“You say that as if you don’t frequent these sorts of parties,” you mutter.

“Doesn’t mean I like them.”

“You don’t?” you ask curiously.

“Not particularly, no. They’re mostly an excuse for people to show off. It’s a lot of empty words and insincere smiles.”

“Seems like you blend right in, though.”

“I can dance the socialite dance with the best with of them, but that means little if I don’t enjoy doing it.”

Her words reassure you. You change the subject.

“I still can’t believe that I’m standing next to the Black Widow, that I’m at some fancy shindig with the Avengers.”

“You know I’m just a person, right?” Natasha teases, rolling her eyes at your admiration.

“You’re definitely not ‘just a person’.”

“What am I then?”

“Hot,” you answer quickly, honestly, without pause, and then your eyes widen as your brain catches up to your mouth.

Natasha just quirks her lips in a smile at your slip up.

The rest of the night is spent talking, bantering, as Natasha opens up, and she finds herself genuinely relishing in your presence. She’s reluctant to acknowledge it, still wanting to refuse to admit that the auction may have brought her something good, but she’s finding it harder and harder to convince herself that she doesn’t like you.

At a certain point—it’s abrupt, there’s no lead up—Natasha suddenly apologizes. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “For how I behaved earlier. I shouldn’t have assumed that you are like them.”

“It’s okay,” you disregard her apology, “I don’t blame you for thinking that.”

Her eyes drift to your lips briefly as you talk, so briefly that you don’t even notice, and before she can talk herself out of it, her lips are on yours.

A startled noise leaves you, and you immediately heat up in embarrassment at how loud it was. You’re thankful that it’s a crowded event, chatter and gentle music playing in the background. Unfortunately, it isn’t missed by Natasha, and she smiles against your lips at her effect on you.

You’re so taken aback by the kiss that you’re frozen in place, not able to reciprocate.

The redhead pulls away—just barely—her breath still warm against your lips. “Are you going to kiss me back?” she asks, her voice a whisper, “Or did I read this wrong?” She’s teasing.

Your mouth is parted with little shallow exhales. Your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest. You’re staring at her with a mix of awe and surprise. Natasha Romanoff just kissed you.

“So?” she prompts. She doesn’t rush, just waits, a small smile on her face as she takes in your expression. Once again, she’s struck by how cute you are.

That one word is all it takes. You decrease the distance slowly as you move to connect your lips with hers again, giving her a very uncertain kiss. It’s short, just a light brush. You’re too shy, too timid, and so it doesn’t linger, your nerves preventing you from fully falling into it.

But despite your hesitation, Natasha can still taste your desperation to kiss her more.

When she pulls back again, there’s a smirk on her face, playful but affectionate. “Was that worth the $25,000?” Natasha jokes.

“Worth every penny,” you breathe out, voice shaky, lips tingling from where they touched hers.

You decide to test your luck. “Can I have another?”

Minimization. The kind where someone downplays what they’re feeling, hoping no one will notice.

“I think we should go home,” you murmur, already trying to sit up from the medical bed. “I’m not feeling so great. Probably something I ate earlier.”

Natasha presses a hand to your shoulder, firmly pushing you back down without even looking up from the screen of the tablet in her other hand.

“You mean the lunch I made for you?” she reminds you with a challenging glance.

Your mouth opens, then shuts again when you realize your mistake, before quickly attempting a pivot. 

“What I meant is that I’ve been run-down with tons of paperwork and interviews recently.” You give a small shrug. “Maybe it’s better if we reschedule.”

Natasha arches a brow at your excuse, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.

“If you’re not feeling well, then it’s a good thing we’re already in the med bay, isn’t it?”

You huff a sigh, your expression softening into something caught between a pout and genuine unease.

“Seriously, Natasha. I’m fine waiting for my vision to return to normal on its own.”

Even though that’s what you’re saying now, she’s not buying it—not when she remembers the nights you’ve spent in quiet frustration and the moments you get upset with yourself when you can’t see the truth in people anymore.

“That’s not what you said last night,” she says with a pointed look.

Your expression shifts into a teasing grin as you reach for her hand and interlace your fingers with hers before pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

“Funny, I don’t remember much talking last night.”

Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes, but the faint smirk playing at her lips betrays her amusement as she remembers the night before. You weren’t lying about the not talking much part. The two of you were pretty much preoccupied with other intimate matters than that.

Before her mind can drift to such thoughts and distract her, Natasha returns her attention to the tablet in her hand with your vitals just as the med bay doors slide open.

Dr. Cho enters, wheeling a cart with an unsettling number of syringes and needles on its surface. 

“Ready for the procedure?” she asks cheerfully.

Your grip on Natasha’s hand tightens instantly. Panic flashes across your face as you glance between her and the tray.

“She’s going to poke my eyes?!”

Natasha leans in, squeezing your hand in reassurance. 

“No, she’s not,” Natasha reassures, having already gone through the details of the procedure multiple times with the doctor. “Right?”

Dr. Cho chuckles softly as she lifts one of the syringes, tapping the side gently with her finger.

“These are just sedatives—to keep you relaxed. It’ll be painless and over before you know it.”

You study her face closely, eyes narrowed in futile observation. Then you sigh in resignation.

“I can’t tell if she’s lying or not,” you admit dejectedly.

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh as she stands to give the doctor room. 

“She’s not. And after this, you’ll be able to see that for yourself again.”

Before she can move away completely, you tug her hand gently, enough to hold her there a moment longer.

“Will you be there when I wake up?”

Natasha’s gaze softens. She leans down and brushes a kiss against your lips. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“I will. I promise.”

Even without your powers, you know she’s telling the truth.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The soft beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room as Natasha waits beside your bed.

According to Dr. Cho, the procedure went smoothly. Better than expected, even. 

But you’d been so anxious, so much so that you kept nervously glancing around the room when you were supposed to keep your eyes still. In the end, the doctor had opted to administer a slightly higher dose of sedative to keep you calm and relaxed.

“She’ll sleep it off soon,” Dr. Cho had said. “But she might be a little loopy when she wakes up.”

Natasha had only nodded, settling in her chair with your hand cradled in hers, thumb idly brushing across your knuckles as she waited.

She’s scrolling through the diagnostic chart on the tablet when she hears your voice.

“Your eyes are pretty.”

Her head snaps up, gaze finding yours.

You’re awake but barely, and your head is now turned toward her, eyes still half-lidded and unfocused, a dazed sort of warmth flickering across your face.

Before she can even respond, you go on in a dreamy murmur, your words slow and slurred.

“They remind me of my girlfriend’s…” A lovesick smile tugs at your lips as your gaze drifts to the ceiling. “She’s really pretty.”

Natasha blinks as she processes your words, caught between amusement and exasperation when she realizes what’s happening. A quiet huff escapes her chest as she sets the tablet aside, deciding to go along with your current delirious state so that you won’t be too startled at where you are.

“Is she now?” she asks.

You nod with an almost childlike seriousness, brows furrowing like you’re trying to communicate something very important.

“The prettiest,” you declare, turning back to look at her with all the dramatic intensity your sedated brain can muster.

Natasha props her elbow on the armrest, resting her chin in her palm as she humors you. 

“Prettier than me?” she teases.

Your expression shifts into a contemplative frown, and you study her face with squinting scrutiny now. Your eyes drift down to her joined hand in yours. 

For a moment, she thinks you’ve figured it out. She can practically see the gears turning behind your slow blinks. 

But instead of clarity, you let out a sigh of heartfelt conflict and pull your hand from hers.

“You’re pretty too…but I already have a girlfriend,” you murmur gravely. “And she gets jealous easily.”

Natasha lets out a scoff, arms folding across her chest.

“I don’t get jealous,” she mutters under her breath.

You don’t seem to hear her—or maybe you do, and you’re just too distracted to piece together her words with who she is.

“She’s so cute when she’s jealous,” you add with another dreamy sigh.

That makes Natasha pause.

She tries to stay annoyed, but your doped-up voice saying she’s cute is enough to send warmth crawling up her neck. Her lips twitch against her will, but she still holds onto the pretense of indifference.

You shift slightly on the bed, fingers twitching before reaching out toward her in a clumsy beckoning motion.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper.

Natasha’s brow lifts, curious, but she knows you’re not in the right state to be talking about such things. 

“You probably shouldn’t until the medicine’s out of your system.”

But your expression doesn’t waver. If anything, you lean closer conspiratorially, as if the medical bay were full of spies waiting to eavesdrop.

“You see, I…,” you pause, blinking slowly as you gather your thoughts. “I want to ask her to marry me,” you finish in a soft whisper.

Natasha stills, her amused grin dropping from her face in surprise. For a moment, all sound drains from the room. Her heart, her thoughts, everything, stopping in time as your words hang suspended in the air.

She stares at you, stunned, while you blink heavily, struggling to stay awake. 

You raise a finger to your lips, shushing her lightly, adding, “But don’t tell her yet, okay?”

And just like that, your eyes flutter closed again.

Silence lingers in your absence, interrupted only by the rhythmic hum of machines.

Natasha still hasn’t moved.

She exhales slowly, trying to make sense of the sudden weight pressing down on her chest. Your words replay over and over, as if her brain refuses to let them go. 

You want to marry her. 

You want to marry her.

And now she has to pretend she doesn’t know.

Just then, the med bay doors hiss open. Dr. Cho steps in, clipboard in hand, scanning for your face for any signs of activity. 

“Has our patient woken up yet?”

Natasha jolts from her shock, looking between you and the doctor.

“I…she…” she starts, but the words get tangled in her throat.

Dr. Cho lifts a curious brow at the normally unshakeable Black Widow, wondering what’s gotten someone like her stumbling over her words. 

“Everything alright?”

Natasha exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand across her face before letting it fall. Her eyes land back on you—peacefully asleep, utterly unaware of the emotional grenade you just lobbed at her heart.

“I’m fine,” she mutters. “Totally fine.”

But she knows she’s not.

Because she may be a world-class liar…but when it comes to you, pretending she doesn’t know what you just told her might be the hardest mission yet.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The road home stretches ahead in a quiet ribbon of asphalt, streetlights bleeding soft gold into the darkness. The city is mostly asleep, and the car hums steadily beneath her.

Natasha keeps her eyes forward even though she can feel your gaze like a physical thing, sharp and curious at the side of her face. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” you say at last, voice light but edged with interest.

Natasha exhales a small, controlled laugh, letting it sound casual as she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.

“I should say the same about you,” she replies smoothly. “You’re pretty calm for someone who just got color back in their vision.”

You hum, thoughtful, like you’re turning something over in your mind. Then you shift in your seat, fully turning toward her.

“Tell me a lie.”

Her eyes flick to you before she can stop herself.

“What?”

You lean across the center console, resting your cheek against your knuckles, expression open and almost hopeful.

“I want to test my powers,” you explain. “Just once. Lie to me, Romanoff.”

The request is simple. Innocent.

Natasha’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Of all the lies she ever told—of all the identities she’s worn, all the truths she’s buried—this is the moment her mind goes blank. Because the only lie that matters right now is the one she’s already telling.

That she doesn’t know you want to marry her.

She keeps her tone light, eyes back on the road. 

“Can’t you test it on yourself? Say…I don’t know. That you hate my cooking,” she deflects.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. 

“That wouldn’t work.”

She risks a glance at you then, expecting mischief. Instead, she finds affection.

“Unfortunately,” you add, “that’s not a lie.”

Your smile is gentle as you settle back into your seat, gaze drifting forward again.

“I love your cooking.”

Natasha scoffs, but the corner of her mouth gives her away, lifting despite herself. 

“You have a death wish,” she murmurs.

“If it’s by your hands,” you reply easily, lifting your palms as if you’re weighing the thought, “I’d die happy.”

Your eyes flick downward for a quiet, instinctive check. You turn your hands slightly, watching the space around them. You wait for the familiar flare of red. The telltale burn of dishonesty.

Nothing appears. 

“Yep,” you murmur to yourself, lips curving as you glance back at her. “Happy.”

Natasha doesn’t see what you were looking for, but she notices the certainty in your voice. And that, somehow, makes her chest tighten more than any red aura ever could.

After a beat, she speaks again, quieter this time.

“Do you remember anything from when you woke up the first time?”

You pause, brows knitting slightly as you search your memory. Then you shake your head.

“Not really. Why? Did I embarrass myself?”

Natasha’s lips part, then close. For a moment, the words sit right there.

You said you wanted to marry me.

And suddenly she’s not a master spy or an Avenger. She’s simply a woman standing on emotional thin ice.

Natasha clears her throat.

“You called me pretty,” she says instead, adding a light laugh to soften the mood.

You turn fully toward her again, eyes dragging deliberately over her face. Slow. Appreciative. Almost reverent.

“If anything,” you say with mock seriousness, “delirious me undersold it. You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

Natasha smirks, recognizing the look in your eyes—the one that usually ends with gravity forgotten and furniture rendered optional.

She reaches over and nudges your chin forward with a finger. 

“No,” she warns. “I’m driving.”

You catch her wrist before she can pull back, pressing a kiss into her palm, then lingering at the pulse beneath her skin.

“Don’t tell me an Avenger can’t handle a little distraction.”

Her lips press together in focus as she keeps driving, posture rigid with restraint. She’s handled worse. She can wait.

Even as your free hand settles on her thigh in a light, absent-minded touch, tracing idle patterns that aren’t innocent at all.

The light ahead turns yellow.

The car rolls to a stop.

The instant it does, the gear shifts into park, and Natasha’s hand is in your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as she pulls you across the console and into her.

The kiss is deep and unhesitating, controlled only in how thoroughly it steals your breath.

You gasp, and she takes advantage of it.

By the time the light cycles green again and then yellow once more, you’re panting softly against her lips. She pulls back just far enough to smirk.

“Who’s distracted now?”

Your eyes are dark and unmistakably alive with both desire and something sharper.

“Pull over,” you murmur, hand sliding higher on her thigh. “You can’t tell me you’re not tempted.”

Natasha licks her lips without meaning to, shifting just enough to give you room, then catches herself.

“I’m not,” she says evenly. All of her training and skills keep her voice steady and confident. An honest answer to anyone else who heard her. 

Your gaze locks onto hers. Then drifts to something around her body. A knowing smile curves your mouth as you lean in close, voice low.

“Liar.”

You brush a feather-light kiss against her lips.

“Pull over, Natasha.”

She doesn’t argue. The car turns down a secluded road, disappearing into the quiet.

At least now you know. Your powers are back.

And Natasha has never been more afraid of what you might see next.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha wakes to the sharp clang of metal on metal, followed almost immediately by a muttered curse that sounds very familiar.

Her eyes flutter open.

Her hand drifts instinctively across the mattress, palm spreading over cool sheets where your warmth should be. The empty space alone tells her everything she needs to know.

You’re in the kitchen.

It’s not always like this. Most mornings, when one of you stays over, the two of you wake tangled together, limbs heavy and reluctant to part, lingering in bed until duty or alarms drag you back into the world. Those mornings are rare, stolen things, and Natasha treasures them more than she lets herself admit.

She pushes herself upright against the headboard, the sounds from the kitchen continuing with another clatter, another quiet curse.

Her gaze drifts to the empty space beside her, and her thoughts follow.

What would it be like to wake up like this every day? Not as a guest. Not as someone passing through. But as your wife.

The thought settles deeper than she expects, warm and dangerous all at once.

She exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over her face.

You want to marry her.

The words surface uninvited, looping endlessly in her mind since last night. Since the med bay. Since your sedated confession slipped free without defenses or filters.

Natasha groans quietly into her palm.

If only she knew when.

If she knew how long she’d have to pretend—how long she’d need to carefully measure her reactions, her words, her expressions around the one person who can see lies as easily as color.

She can’t bring it up. She won’t. Not after what your last engagement did to you. She refuses to be the one who reopens scars or turns something precious into pressure. You have to be the one to make the next move in the relationship.

Which leaves her here—awake, alone, and holding a secret she was never meant to have.

With a sigh, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and heads toward the kitchen.

She stops short when she arrives. The counter is full.

Plates. Bowls. A spread of breakfast that borders on excessive—eggs, fruit, toast, things she knows took time and effort, and far more patience than you usually have this early in the morning.

A quiet tsk comes from the sink as you finish drying a pan. You glance over your shoulder and freeze when you spot her.

“Damn it,” you mutter, lips pulling into a small pout. “Did I wake you?”

Natasha huffs a soft laugh, folding her arms loosely.

“You did. Though I probably would’ve woken up anyway when you weren’t next to me.”

You grin immediately, crossing the kitchen to stand opposite her.

“Miss me that much?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and the smile betrays her. 

“Nope.”

Your eyes linger on her a second longer than usual. The corners of your mouth lift, confident and unmistakably pleased.

“Liar.”

Natasha doesn’t even bother denying it. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool, gesturing toward the spread in front of her.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks. 

You’ve cooked for her before, but never like this.

You round the counter and stop between her knees, hands settling easily at her hips.

“Part of it,” you say softly, “is to thank you. For taking care of me. Before, during, and after the procedure.”

You lean in, brushing a gentle kiss against her mouth.

“I especially enjoyed the after part,” you murmur, a smirk in your voice.

Natasha’s lips curve. 

“Did you?” she asks. “Which part?”

You hum thoughtfully, your hands sliding innocently along her thighs.

“Do you want a recap?”

She scoffs and pushes at your shoulder, though not very hard. 

“Easy,” she warns. “You just had a procedure. Don’t get too excited.”

You sigh dramatically but comply, one hand leaving her thigh to catch her left hand instead. Your fingers lace with hers, thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes over her knuckles.

“But that’s not the main reason,” you say, tone shifting, lighter teasing giving way to something sincere.

Natasha’s breath stills.

You meet her eyes.

Her heart kicks hard against her ribs.

Is this it?

“Happy anniversary,” you say, smiling. “To the first time I met you.”

“Oh,” Natasha breathes out, caught off guard.

You tilt your head, amused. 

“Oh? That doesn’t sound too good.”

“No—no,” she waves a hand quickly. “It’s just…I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?” you ask, genuine curiosity in your voice.

“I—” She hesitates.

She can’t say it. But she can’t lie either.

So instead, she turns slightly toward the counter, breaking eye contact. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says lightly. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

She feels your gaze linger on the side of her face, searching for some explanation before you finally relent and move to grab a plate.

The moment passes. But the tension doesn’t.

And Natasha knows it’s only a matter of time before your eyes and your power start noticing more than she can hide.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

What is the best way to avoid being discovered? For someone like Natasha, the answer is simple.

Distance.

You can’t uncover the truth if you don’t have the chance to look for it.

She knows your schedules down to the minute, from your habits to your usual track patterns at the Compound. It isn’t difficult to adjust hers just enough so your paths don’t cross as often. A briefing here. An extra training session there. Volunteering for missions she would’ve otherwise passed on.

You don’t question it. Your texts stay warm and unassuming.

Busy today?

Miss you.

Be safe.

And Natasha answers just enough to keep things normal. At least, she hopes it looks that way.

I brought you some coffee.

Natasha pauses mid-step in the lobby, eyes dropping to her phone. Her thumb hovers over the screen as she debates it. She could stop by your office, grab the coffee, thank you, and leave. In and out. No time for you to notice the hesitation, the restraint, the way she’s constantly measuring herself now.

Before she can reply, another message pops up.

Look up.

She lifts her gaze just in time to see you standing by the front desk, coffee cup already in hand, watching her with that familiar, warm smile.

“Well,” you say as she approaches, voice light, teasing. “Hey there, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek before handing her the cup.

Natasha forces a small laugh as she takes it. “Thanks.”

She takes a sip immediately, grateful for the excuse to look away and gather herself.

“Been busy,” she says evenly. “Missions. Briefings.”

You nod, accepting the explanation easily enough, and then tilt your head toward the elevators.

“Do you want to walk me to my office?”

The question lands heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates. Yes, she wants to. God, yes. But every second with you is a risk now. She doesn’t know which answer will light up red in your vision. Wanting you too much or wanting to protect the secret.

Your expression shifts when she doesn’t answer right away. Concern edges into your voice as you reach out, fingers brushing her arm.

“Hey. You okay?”

The worst question you could’ve asked. She’s not sure which answer would even be correct for that one.

Before she can respond, chaos erupts at the front entrance.

A shout and then the thud of a body hitting the floor.

Natasha snaps to attention as the guard is shoved aside, sliding across the ground, and a man storms into the lobby.

She recognizes him instantly. The one from the file. The one who attacked you. Her eyes lock onto the gun in his hand. She steps in front of you without thinking.

Behind her, she hears your voice.

“Call security,” you tell the receptionist.

“I’m standing right here,” Natasha mutters.

“Yeah, I don’t like that fact either,” you reply, leaning in beside her. Your hand slides to her waist as you try to pull her back. She doesn’t move. “We both know he’s not here for you.”

As you said, the man’s gaze snaps to you the second he spots you.

“You,” he snarls.

You sigh softly behind her. “Told you.”

“Now is not the time,” Natasha mutters, shifting her stance, making sure you stay behind her.

He lifts the gun, careless and angry, and begins to speak loudly.

“I kept wondering how you always knew,” he says. “How you were always one step ahead. So I did some digging.”

Natasha feels your grip tighten on her arm.

“Imagine my surprise,” he continues, grinning, “when I found out about your little power.”

“That’s enough,” Natasha snaps, stepping forward. “You’re not going to win here.”

“Oh, I know,” he says easily. “I just wanted everyone else to know.”

He turns, sweeping his gaze across the lobby at his former colleagues.

“She’s been tricking you all. Her power tells her when you’re lying.”

The room stills as heads turn and whispers emerge. Natasha recognizes the looks instantly. Fear and suspicion at the revelation of someone they thought they had trusted.

“That’s right,” the man laughs. “She’s been judging you from the start.”

His carelessness brings an opening, and that’s when Natasha moves. She lunges, sliding across the polished floor, grabbing his arm and flipping him hard onto his back. The gun skids away as she pins him down with her knee, forearm pressed to his throat.

“I said,” she hisses, “that’s enough.”

He groans, but still manages to look past her. At you.

“You had no right to judge me,” he spits. “You’re the biggest liar of all.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens as she follows his gaze. Slowly, she looks back over her shoulder.

You don’t react at first. No anger. No rebuttal. You just stand there, perfectly still, eyes locked on the man before they drift outward. Across the lobby. Across the people who had been working beside you moments ago.

Agents. Analysts. Staff who laughed with you in passing, trusted you with clearance and conversations and quiet truths.

And Natasha knows what you see.

She knows because she’s seen that look before. Suspicion. Fear. Doubt. Flickering at the edges of people’s silhouettes as their thoughts settle into something dangerous. Their expressions have shifted, guarded now, careful in a way Natasha knows all too well. The kind of distance people put up when trust cracks but hasn’t shattered yet.

You swallow, subtle but visible, like something inside you just sank.

Because you don’t need your power to know what they’re thinking.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Once she’s made sure the man is fully restrained and escorted away, Natasha doesn’t linger in the lobby. The adrenaline fades too quickly, leaving something colder in its place.

You’d told her you were fine before you left, away from the lingering stares and whispers. But she knows better than to take that at face value.

Her steps slow as she reaches your floor. She hesitates outside your office, fingers tightening around the fabric of the hoodie draped over her arm. It still smells faintly like your soap from the last time you borrowed it. Like home, in a way she hasn’t let herself think about too deeply.

She knocks softly, almost tentatively.

“Come in,” you say. Your voice is quieter than usual.

She opens the door and finds you standing near your desk, posture stiff, gaze lifted like you were bracing for something worse than her. When you realize it’s Natasha, your shoulders loosen almost immediately, tension bleeding out of you in a way you don’t bother hiding.

“I brought you my hoodie,” she says, holding it up like an offering. A comfort she doesn’t quite know how else to give.

You smile, a little tired, but real nonetheless. 

“Thanks,” you say. “Though the AC unit broke in here, so it might actually be too warm.”

Her expression falters, eyes dropping as she fidgets with the hood.

“But,” you add quickly, stepping forward, “I appreciate the thought.”

You take it from her gently, set it on the desk, then lean back against it. You’re close enough now that she can see the strain you didn’t show anyone else.

Natasha exhales and decides she can’t keep skirting around it.

“Listen,” she begins, carefully. “Don’t take what that man said to heart. Everyone was just… shocked. They’ll come around.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“I’ll be fine, Natasha. Really. This isn’t new.”

That makes her pause.

You shrug, as if explaining something mundane. 

“It complicates my job, sure. But it doesn’t make it impossible. People will just be more careful around me now.”

You fold your arms, studying her gently.

“Kind of like how you are.”

Natasha stiffens. Her eyes widen, breath catching before she can stop it.

“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” you add softly, not accusatory, just honest. There’s a tired affection in your smile. “You’ve been avoiding me. Watching what you say.”

“I’m sor—”

“Hey.” You lift a hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it. You need time to adjust to my powers being back. That’s totally understandable.”

Her hands curl at her sides. That’s not it. She’s never been afraid of your powers. But how could she explain the truth?

You look away briefly, jaw tightening before you speak again.

“I guess being with you made me forget,” you admit quietly, “that most people have something they need to hide.”

Something in Natasha snaps at your words.

“I want to marry you!” The words burst out before she can stop them.

Her hand flies to her mouth at the same moment your eyes widen in shock. 

Silence crashes down between you.

Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, groaning softly. 

“Damn it.”

When she opens them again, you’re still staring, processing her words in stunned silence.

“You told me,” she says, voice steadying despite herself. “When you were still under the effects of the sedatives. You said you wanted to marry me, and that it was a secret.”

Your breath leaves you slowly as you listen to her.

“So I was trying,” she continues, “to pretend I didn’t know. To not let you see that I did.”

“Oh,” you say, the word quiet as it settles in your chest.

Natasha winces slightly. “Oh?” she repeats, forcing a small, uncertain smile. “That doesn’t sound too great.”

For a heartbeat, the tension lingers, fragile and taut.

Then you laugh. It’s soft and unguarded. The sound slips out of you like relief, and it catches Natasha off guard completely. She feels her shoulders loosen without meaning to, the brace she’d been holding finally easing as she realizes whatever this moment is, it isn’t breaking you.

“Hold on,” you say, lifting a hand. “I need to check something.”

You look down at your palms, take a steady breath.

“I hate your cooking.” A beat passes before you nod to yourself. “Yep. Powers are working.” Then you look up at her, your eyes bright, smile wide and unmistakably real.

“So,” you say, excitement breaking through everything else, “it’s true. You do want to marry me.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at your antics, but she can’t hide her grin.

“Yes,” she says. “I want to marry you.”

You don’t hesitate. You cross the space between you and cup her face in your hands, kissing her with all the certainty you’d been holding back. Natasha melts into it instantly, her hands coming up to hold your wrists like she needs the contact to ground herself.

When you finally pull back, you stay close, forehead resting against hers.

“I love you, Natasha Romanoff.”

She smiles, brushing her lips against yours.

“I love you too.”

And that will never be a lie.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You.

“You’re hovering,” she says coolly, but there’s no bite behind it. Not really.

You lean in anyway, unbothered. Smiling like you already won. “I’m persuading.”

Her eyebrow twitches. That’s it. The tell. The microscopic crack in the armor.

“Persuasion usually involves facts,” Natasha replies.

“Oh, I’ve got facts.” You tick them off on your fingers, stepping closer with every word. “Fact one: you haven’t walked away yet. Fact two: you keep looking at my mouth like you’re deciding something. Fact three—”

“I am not—”

“Nat,” you cut in, soft but heated, eyes locked on hers, “you’re a world-class assassin and you’re scared of one date?”

Silence.

God, she hates that you see her.

Her shoulders loosen just a fraction, like she’s exhaling without meaning to. “I don’t date,” she says. “I don’t do… whatever this is.”

You tilt your head. “You mean feeling wanted? Because you’re doing a terrible job avoiding that.”

That gets her.

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, her gaze drops. Just for a second. And when it comes back up, it’s darker. Warmer. Less certain.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmurs.

You step into her space fully now—still not touching, but close enough that she can feel you there, like gravity. “I’m asking you to let me take you to dinner. Then maybe, afterward, you can be my dinner.”

Her mouth twitches. Almost lets out a whimper. Almost.

“And if I say no?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, easy, confident. “Then I’ll survive. But you won’t. You'll keep thinking about how you let someone stand this close and didn’t push them away.”

Natasha swallows.

For someone who controls rooms with a glance, she looks dangerously undone right now. Trapped not by you—but by how much she wants to say yes.

“You’re relentless,” she says.

You grin. “I promise, you'll like it, red.”

“I’m not interested,” she tells you, arms folded, expression locked down like a vault. “Drop it.”

You hold her gaze for half a second longer than necessary, searching for the crack that is there reminder or not. Then you smile—easy, unbothered, almost sweet.

“Suit yourself.”

And you walk away.

Natasha tells herself that’s that.

She is wrong.

--

The next day, the Avengers common area is loud—Tony running his mouth, Steve pretending not to judge, Bruce half-laughing into his coffee. Natasha is at the counter, focused, safe, invisible in plain sight.

Until you slide in.

Not next to her. Never next to her. Across. Leaning back. Casual.

“So,” you say, loud enough for everyone, eyes only on her, “does anyone here know if Romanoff likes her coffee black, or is she secretly a cream-and-sugar person?”

Tony snorts. “Ooo, personal.”

Natasha doesn’t look at you. “Drink your coffee,” she says coolly.

You hum. “Didn’t answer the question.”

Steve glances between you. “Do you two—”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

You grin. “Not yet.”

Her jaw tightens. She finally looks at you, and there it is—that look. The don’t you dare look. You raise your brows like: what?

Later—hallway. Empty. Or so she thinks.

She turns a corner and nearly collides with you. You don’t touch her. You just… stop her momentum by existing.

She exhales sharply. “You said ‘suit yourself.’”

“I did.” You lean back against the wall, blocking nothing, giving her space she absolutely does not need. “And I am.”

Her eyes flick to your mouth. Damn it.

“You’re being inappropriate,” she says.

“Inappropriate would be whispering,” you reply lightly. Then you soften, just a bit. “This is just flirting.”

“This is cornering.”

You tilt your head. “If I were cornering you, red, you’d know.”

Silence stretches. Charged. Heated. Not sexual—worse. Intent.

She steps closer despite herself. “Why are you doing this?”

Your voice drops, not soft—honest. “Because you said no like you wanted me to stop wanting you. And that’s not how this works.”

Her breath stutters. Just once.

Another day. Another chance encounter. Training room this time. You toss her a towel like it’s nothing.

“Careful,” you say. “If you keep glaring at me like that, people are gonna get ideas.”

She wipes her hands slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Mm. A little.” You meet her eyes, fearless. “But mostly I’m enjoying you pretending this doesn’t get to you.”

She steps in close—too close—and lowers her voice. “One day you’re going to push too far.”

You don’t back up. You just smile, warm and dangerous. “And on that same day,” you say, “you'll beg me to keep going.”

Natasha huffs and stands there—cornered again—not by your body, but by the fact that she hasn’t told you to leave.

--

The training room smells like rubber mats and sweat and focus.

Natasha’s alone—of course she is—moving through drills with ruthless precision. Punch. Pivot. Kick. Reset. She doesn’t hear you come in, not until the rhythm stutters.

She straightens slowly, towel over her shoulder, eyes already sharp. “If this is another—”

You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You don’t move closer.

You just say it.

“One dinner, Red.”

That’s it.

The room goes quiet in a way that means something.

Natasha blinks. Once. Like she’s recalibrating. “I said no.”

“I know.” Your voice is calm, steady, not chasing her anymore. “This isn’t chasing. This is an offer.”

She studies you now, really looks—like she’s trying to find the angle, the trick, the pressure point. There isn’t one. You’re standing easy, hands loose at your sides, already halfway prepared to walk out.

“And if I say no again?” she asks.

You shrug. “Then tomorrow it’ll still just be an offer.”

That does it.

Her shoulders drop the tiniest bit. The fight leaks out of her stance like air from a blade cut. She turns away, wipes her hands, buys herself time she doesn’t need.

“You don’t negotiate like anyone I know,” she says quietly.

You tilt your head. “That a complaint?”

She turns back. Her eyes are warm now. Dangerous. Soft in a way she never lets people see.

“…No,” she admits.

A beat.

“One dinner,” she says at last, voice low. “Public place.”

You grin—slow, satisfied, but gentle. “Of course.”

She exhales, something like a laugh trapped in her chest. “You’re insufferable.”

You take a step back toward the door, already letting her breathe again. “Yeah,” you say. “But you said yes.”

--

Dinner is supposed to be neutral ground.

That’s what Natasha tells herself as she sits across from you in a low-lit restaurant she definitely scoped three exits for. Candle between you. Wine she hasn’t touched. Posture perfect. Guard up.

You, on the other hand, look devastatingly relaxed.

“You clean up well, Red,” you say, eyes dragging over her just long enough to be rude.

She lifts her glass, buys herself a second. “So do you.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives you. And still—her ears are already pink.

You lean forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping just a touch. “I like this version of you.”

Her brow furrows. “This version?”

“The one who showed up,” you say simply. “Didn’t run.”

She opens her mouth to snap back, then stops. Closes it. Looks away.

Strike one.

Dinner comes. Conversation flows easier than she planned. You listen—actually listen—chin propped on your hand, eyes never leaving her face. When she talks with her hands, you track the movement like it’s choreography.

At some point, your knee brushes hers under the table.

Accidental. Totally deniable.

She freezes.

You don’t move it away.

Her breath hitches—barely—but you feel it more than see it. She shifts, like she’s deciding whether to retreat or press back.

She presses back.

You smile like you won the lottery.

“Comfortable?” you murmur.

She glares at you over her fork. “Behave.”

You do not behave.

When she makes a dry comment, you laugh and reach out—just fingertips—to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It’s brief. Intimate. Public enough to be insane.

Natasha stills completely.

“You had something—” you say innocently.

Her eyes darken. “You could’ve told me.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to touch you,” you reply, voice warm, unashamed.

She swallows. Hard.

“God,” she mutters, “you’re—”

“Persistent?” you offer.

Her lips part. Close. “Distracting.”

Strike two.

Later, you walk her out. City noise hums around you, but the moment feels sealed off. She stops short of the car, turns to face you.

“This was one dinner,” she reminds you, trying—failing—to sound firm.

You step closer. Not crowding. Never crowding. Just close enough that your hand brushes her wrist.

“I know,” you say softly. “I’m not asking for more.”

Your thumb circles once. Slow. Deliberate.

Her pulse jumps under your touch.

“But?” she asks, voice thinner now.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her lips and back. “But you’re allowed to want it.”

She exhales shakily, like the idea alone knocks the air out of her.

“I don’t—” she starts, then stops. Her composure fractures, just for a second. “You make this difficult.”

You grin, affectionate and lethal. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Then you kiss her.

Not gentle. Not testing.

It’s deep and heated and deliberate, like you’ve been building toward this moment for days and finally decided you were done being polite about it. Her surprise lasts half a second before she melts into it, hands fisting in your jacket like she needs something to hold onto.

She makes a quiet sound—frustrated, wrecked—and you feel it straight through you.

Your other hand slides up her back, pulls her closer. No hesitation. No mercy. She presses back without thinking, body betraying her composure completely.

When you break the kiss just enough to breathe, your forehead rests against hers.

“Still think this was a bad idea?” you whisper.

Her eyes flutter open. Glassy. Flustered in a way she never is.

“You—” she exhales, fingers tightening at your sides, “you don’t play fair.”

You grin against her jaw, brushing another kiss there—slower now, possessive. “You came anyway.”

She laughs softly, breathless, then groans when your hand slides down to her hip, squeezing just enough to make your point.

“God,” she mutters, clearly overwhelmed, “I said one dinner.”

You pull back just enough to look at her—really look at her—pressed against your car, lips swollen, eyes lit up like you just cracked something open she keeps locked down.

“And you survived,” you say gently. “Barely.”

She shakes her head, trying and failing to regain control. You lean in again, stopping just short of her mouth.

And you let her close the distance and kiss you back.

--

The back of your car is too small and somehow still not close enough.

Natasha is half-sprawled against the seat, jacket discarded, hair a mess, eyes blown wide like she can’t believe she let it get this far—and can’t believe she wants more. Her hands are everywhere, gripping at you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“Jesus,” she breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice wrecked. “You— you’re not fair.”

You smile against her jaw, low and dangerous. “You already said that.”

She lets out a sound that’s more frustration than words when you pull her back in, mouths crashing together again, all heat and hunger and zero patience left. Every touch lands heavier now—intentional. Claiming. She reacts to everything, like her body decided it’s done pretending.

Your hand settles at her waist, steady, grounding—and she melts into it immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission to fall apart. But you don't stop there. Your fingers trail lower, slipping under the hem of her dress, finding the heat between her thighs. She's already soaked through her panties, her pussy slick and swollen, begging for contact without her saying a word.

You push the fabric aside and slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, feeling her walls clench around you like she's trying to pull you deeper. Natasha gasps into your mouth, her hips bucking up instinctively, chasing the intrusion. Her breath hitches, ragged and desperate, as you curl your fingers just right, stroking that spot inside her that makes her entire body jolt.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, breath shaking, knuckles white where she’s clutching you. “Don’t stop. Please—”

That word hits harder than anything else tonight. You pump your fingers faster, your thumb circling her clit in firm, relentless circles. She's dripping now, her arousal coating your hand, the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting in and out filling the cramped space. Natasha's thighs tremble, squeezing around your wrist as she rides your hand, her head falling back against the seat with a soft thud.

Her first orgasm crashes over her without warning—her pussy fluttering wildly around your fingers, gushing hot and slick as she cries out, a broken moan that echoes off the car windows. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her body arching off the seat, every muscle taut and quivering. You don't let up, though; you keep fucking her through it, drawing out the waves until she's whimpering, oversensitive and gasping.

But she's not done. Not even close. You add a third finger, stretching her wider, and she sobs your name, her hips grinding down harder, like she can't get enough. The second climax builds fast, her clit throbbing under your thumb as you rub it faster, your fingers plunging deep and twisting. Sweat beads on her skin, her shirt clinging to her heaving chest, nipples hard and visible through the fabric.

“Fuck—yes, right there,” she pants, her voice raw, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure rips through her again. This time, she squirts, her release soaking your hand and pooling in the seat beneath her, her whole body convulsing in your grip. She's melting completely now, boneless and shuddering, but you keep going, slowing just enough to let her catch her breath before picking up the pace once more.

Her third orgasm hits like a storm, her pussy clamping down so tight it almost pushes your fingers out, but you're determined to keep them in, fucking her through the spasms. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the flush on her cheeks, and she buries her face in your neck, biting down on your skin to muffle her screams. Every pulse of her release feels like a surrender, her body yielding to you completely, emotionally and physically wrecked.

You stay close. You keep her there. Let her ride the feeling, let it crest and break and pull her under again, until she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. Your free hand strokes her back, holding her steady as she trembles in your arms, aftershocks rippling through her with every gentle thrust of your fingers.

When she finally slumps against you, breathless and stunned, she laughs softly—disbelieving.

“…I hate you,” she says weakly.

You brush your thumb along her cheek, gentle now, intimate in a way that feels almost worse, while your other hand eases out of her, slick with her cum. You bring your fingers to your lips, tasting her on your tongue—salty and sweet—before wiping them on your jeans.

“No,” you murmur. “You really don’t.”

She doesn’t argue. She just leans into you like she already knows this was inevitable. Her hand drifts down, fumbling with your belt, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and fresh hunger. “Your turn,” she whispers, voice hoarse but determined, as she frees your cock from your pants. It's rock-hard, throbbing in her grip, pre-cum beading at the tip.

She strokes you slowly at first, her touch tentative from the afterglow, but it builds quickly—her fist tightening, twisting just under your tip the way that makes your breath catch. The car feels even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of sex, her body pressed flush against yours. You groan, thrusting into her hand, watching her face as she works you over, that vulnerable spark in her eyes turning wicked.

But she wants more. She shifts, straddling your lap despite the awkward space, her soaked pussy hovering over your length. “Need you inside me,” she breathes, sinking down inch by inch, her walls still fluttering from her orgasms, gripping you like a vice. The stretch makes her whimper, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes you fully, bottoming out with a shuddering gasp.

“Oh fuck,” Natasha moans, her voice breaking as she settles there, your cock buried deep inside her. She's trembling already, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily around your thickness, like her body's overwhelmed by the fullness. She tries to move, to lift her hips and ride you, but she only manages a shallow rock before she freezes, a dazed look crossing her face. “I... I can't,” she pants, her hands pressing flat against your chest, nails digging in. “You're too much. Feels so good, I—please, just... fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me. Please, I need it.”

Her plea sends a jolt through you, and you grip her hips tighter, holding her in place as you buck up sharply, slamming into her from below. She cries out, her head tipping back, pussy squeezing you in response. “Yes! Like that—harder,” she begs, her words slurring with the haze of pleasure, completely lost to the sensation of you stretching and filling her. You set a punishing rhythm, driving your cock up into her slick heat over and over, the angle hitting deep, brushing that sensitive spot inside her with every thrust.

Natasha's breath comes in ragged bursts, her breasts heaving as she clings to you, unable to do more than grind down weakly to meet your movements. “God, you feel so good,” she gasps, her voice raw and needy. “Don't stop—I'm so close. Keep going, please...” The wet sounds of your cock pounding into her echo in the confined space, her arousal dripping down your shaft, soaking your balls. She's cock-drunk now, eyes glassy, lips parted as she murmurs incoherently, every upward snap of your hips drawing a fresh whine from her throat.

You feel her tightening first, her walls fluttering wildly around you as her climax builds. “So close—fuck, you're gonna make me cum again,” she sobs, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling desperately. You thrust harder, faster, one hand sliding up to pinch her nipple through her shirt, rolling it between your fingers. She shatters with a keening moan, her pussy convulsing around your cock, gushing hot and tight as waves of release crash through her. “Yes—oh god, yes!”

The vice-like grip of her orgasm pulls you under too. You growl against her neck, hips snapping up one last time, burying yourself to the hilt as you cum, thick ropes of your load flooding her pretty pussy, pulsing hot inside her. Natasha trembles violently, riding out the aftershocks with whimpers, her body milking every drop from you.

As the high fades, she collapses against your chest, still impaled on your softening cock, neither of you moving to separate. “Stay,” she murmurs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your collarbone. “Please... don't pull out yet. I want to feel you."

You nod, your hands stroking soothing circles on her back, keeping her close in the humid warmth of the car. The windows are completely fogged now, sealing you in your own little world. “I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”

She lets out a soft, shaky laugh, lifting her head to meet your eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Okay? That was... a lot. I've never felt anything like that.” Her fingers trace idle patterns on your neck, a tender contrast to the raw passion from moments ago.

“Yeah?” you smirk, your voice is gruff. “Your pussy feels so good, red. The way you begged... fucking hell.”

She blushes, biting her lip, but doesn't look away. “Shut up.” She shifts slightly, a small gasp escaping as your cock twitches inside her, still half-hard.

--

Morning comes in rude.

Sunlight slices through the car window, landing directly on Natasha Romanoff’s face like a personal attack. She groans, shifts—and immediately freezes.

Because something is very wrong.

The backseat is cramped. Her leg is draped over yours at an angle that defies physics. Your arm is still around her waist, lazy and heavy with sleep. She blinks once. Twice.

Then it all hits her at the same time.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice is hoarse, panicked, and barely above a whisper.

You hum, half-asleep, entirely too comfortable. “Mornin’, Red.”

She tries to move. Realizes she can’t. Realizes why. Goes completely still again.

“This—” she swallows, cheeks flushing hard, “this is not acceptable.”

You crack one eye open, grin already there like you planned this. “You say that like you didn’t fall asleep first.”

“I did not fall asleep,” she hisses. “I passed out.”

“On me,” you add helpfully.

She drops her face into her hands. “We’re still… like this.”

“Yeah,” you say, stretching just enough to make the situation worse for her sanity. “Turns out cars aren’t built for dignity.”

She peeks at you through her fingers. You look unfairly pleased. Relaxed. Smug.

“Don’t,” she warns.

You absolutely do.

“Well,” you murmur, voice warm and infuriatingly amused, “on the bright side—this might be the longest you’ve ever stayed.”

Her glare could cut glass. Unfortunately, it wobbles halfway through.

“This never happened,” she says.

You grin wider. “Nat, you drooled.”

Her eyes widen. “I did not.”

“Right here,” you say, tapping your shoulder. “Very vulnerable. Kinda cute.”

She groans again, but this time there’s a laugh tangled in it—quiet, betrayed, real.

“…We need to move,” she says, trying for authority and landing somewhere near flustered.

“In a sec,” you reply, entirely unhelpful. “I’m enjoying the view.”

She exhales, long and slow, then finally looks at you properly—hair a mess, lips soft, guard completely down in the early light.

“You’re unbearable,” she says.

You shrug. “And yet.”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. Just rests her forehead against yours for one quiet moment before reality kicks back in.

“…Next time,” she mutters, “we’re getting a hotel.”

You smirk. “Next time?”

She closes her eyes.

Damn it.

---------------

“You two keep staring at me like I just confessed to grand larceny.” She giggled, shrugging with faux-innocence. “It started as a total accident. Victor fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom. Finally, after I’d been asking for, what, three months? I was so relieved I practically dragged him into the bedroom and blew him until he forgot his own name.”

Maria snorted into her glass, shaking her head. “Real romantic.”

“It was,” Wanda insisted, mock-indignant. “But then the next weekend he cleaned out the gutters without me saying a word. So I thanked him properly—let him eat me out on the kitchen counter until my legs stopped working.” She paused, savoring their reactions. “Two accidents in a row made me wonder. So the third time he took my car for an oil change and full wash? I rode him in the garage before he’d even put the keys down.”

Natasha’s brow arched, her fingers stilling around her glass. She didn’t laugh; she simply studied Wanda. “And he hasn’t caught on?”

“Not once.” Wanda’s voice dropped, the satisfaction clear as day on her face. “He just thinks he’s suddenly the world’s most attentive husband and the sex is better than it’s been since our honeymoon. Win-win.”

Natasha leaned in closer, cheeks a little warm from the vodka but eyes focused. “Walk me through the escalation. How do you decide what equals what reward?”

Tilting her head, Wanda set her margarita aside and leaned on her arms, giving Natasha her full attention. “You’re not just asking for gossip reasons, are you?” she teased, before it shifted into something almost conspiratorial. “You’re wanting to take notes.”

Natasha didn’t deny it, smirking as she waited.

Wanda exhaled a quiet laugh. “Fine. Here’s how I broke it down once I realized it worked.” She ticked off points on her fingers, deliberately. “Small stuff—trash out, dishes loaded and actually run, counters wiped—those stack. Three of them in a week? Handjob—it’s quick, simple, and most of the time, I get fingered while I do it, so we both walk away loose and happy.”

Maria whistled, mildly impressed by their friend’s cunning, but Wanda’s gaze never left Natasha.

“Medium jobs—vacuuming the whole house, doing laundry, changing the sheets, stuff like that? Things that genuinely shave real hours off my weekends?  He does two of them without me having to ask or without me having to explain what needs done? Oral. Either I blow him until he can’t feel his toes or he goes down until I can’t feel mine.”

Natasha’s fingers drummed along her glass as she took it all in.

“Now, the big stuff? Stuff that’s been genuinely dragging me down and grinding my gears? If he accomplishes those tasks, we have full, no-holds-barred, fuck-until-we-forget-our-names sex because once that weight is gone—once I don’t have that stress or irritation weighing me down? I want to climb him like a tree. Because suddenly I have the energy to want him. That’s the part he didn’t realize sometimes. Those little things added up and I didn’t want him as much because I was spending all of my time considering the mess around us.”

Wanda sat back, taking a healthy gulp of her drink before looking at Natasha seriously.

“It’s not some rigid contract and I don’t just… force it. Like, I want to because I’m not ready to strangle him anymore. I don’t have to nag, I don’t have to do it myself, and we’re having the kind of sex we had in our twenties. It’s fantastic.”

Natasha knew all about that frustration.

She loved you—god only knows how much she loved you—but you were notorious for your half-finished projects around the loft. A sink full of mugs you swore you’d handle “in a minute”, the boxes from where you’d moved in six months ago still scattered around the hallway and closet, laundry that always would be started until you forgot about it and it’d sit in the washer for three days…

She loved you—but the clutter was starting to feel like a third presence in your bed.

It helped that Wanda’s system wasn’t cruel; that’s the part that hooked her. It wasn’t punishment or nagging or begging or that cold score-keeping Natasha hated in other couples. It was motivation, turning your genuine desire to help into something that stuck. Something that rewarded the effort you were already putting in with something she loved giving you: herself. Her time, her pleasure, her love…

The truth was—she fucking wanted you. Constantly. But your sex life had started falling off a bit because she was frustrated. If this brought that back and solved ninety percent of the issues ailing your otherwise incredible relationship?

“I know you’ve been struggling with the same hang-ups, Nat,” Wanda murmured sympathetically. “She tries, we all know she does, but the energy fizzles out when her brain goes a little… haywire. It’s not about turning her into some obedient robot or prostituting yourself for clean counters. It’s just… giving the effort a little extra gravity to help it stick. It’ll just make her feel like you can’t keep your hands off her when she makes your life easier, which… let’s be honest, you already struggle with on a good day.”

Winking, Wanda finished her drink before growing serious.

“If it doesn’t work or it makes you feel weird, you stop. No harm. But if it does work…” she trailed off for a moment, “then you get help you need around the apartment and she gets the version of you that isn’t quietly burning with frustration—and you both get your wild, ‘don’t call us this weekend, we’re not leaving the bed’ sex life back.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what we need. More opportunities for us to walk in on them getting it on in a bathroom…” Maria grinned cheekily.

“Or the car…” Wanda chimed in.

“Or the bushes at Tony’s. Remember New Years?”

“Or—“

“Okay! I get it,” Natasha laughed, lifting her drink in a quiet salute. “But… you’re right. Might just be worth it.”

-X-

The smell of eggs and fresh coffee dragged Natasha into consciousness the next morning, eyes blurry and head pounding from the aftermath of too many shots last night. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted Maria’s challenge—

And her hangover was quick to remind her she wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

Wandering down the hall into the kitchen, wearing one of your oversized tees and a pair of silk sleep shorts you always teased her about, she froze in the doorway at the sight. You, in a tank top and shorts, plating eggs and bacon. But what surprised her most?

The kitchen wasn’t a goddamn disaster zone.

Countertops? Wiped off and sparkling (okay, maybe not sparkling but let a woman dream). Sink? Empty, besides the pan you had just set in there after emptying the contents onto plates. The trash bag? Sitting beside the door, tied and ready to go out to the chute. Dishwasher? Already humming as it cleaned the dishes from last night and this morning.

You’d cooked and cleaned up after yourself without her having to ask—

She pinched her hip just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Crossing the space, she looped her arms around your waist from behind and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

“Morning, chef,” she teased, voice husky and thick with sleep. Another soft kiss, this one grazing your earlobe as she stared at the breakfast on the counter. “You trying to spoil me before I’ve even had coffee?”

Her hands dropped to the waistband of your boxers, fingertips dipping just below to feel the soft skin beneath.

“I know you got in late last night, so I thought I’d make breakfast. I know how your ‘girls’ nights’ tend to go with those two,” you murmured, twisting in her arms until you could kiss her gently. “Morning, baby.”

She sighed happily into the kiss, letting it linger as her lips parted, tasting the too-sweet creamer from your coffee as she leaned against you. When you pulled back, she didn’t let you go far, palms sliding up over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin material of your shirt.

“Yeah, we might’ve… tied one on last night,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “Victor had to come outside to help carry Wanda into the house.” She cringed, remembering how… graphic Wanda had been when she draped herself across the blond man, “whispering” in his ear what she wanted him to do to her once they were inside.

“Whispering” of course equaling out to: Wanda having no idea how loud she was actually being and the Uber driver learning way too much about the Sokovian’s sex life.

Natasha made sure to give him five stars as an apology, and a decent sized tip.

“This is a nice surprise though.” Her hand slid up to rest over your heart, thumb drawing lazy circles. “I know it’s my turn to take out the trash but would you mind taking it to the chute for me? My head is still objecting to light and the hall is so bright…”

Her eyes were soft, almost pleading, but she couldn’t help herself. You’d unknowingly already done two things—two!—without her needing to ask (because not only had you made breakfast—something you often didn’t do because you forgot eating was a necessity—but you’d also cleaned up) and that… that alone made her thrilled.

You glanced over at the bag and nodded. “Oh, yeah, I can do that. Uh, hold on.”

Disappearing deeper into the apartment, you grabbed the small bags from the bathroom and office before tying them off and snagging the bag beside the door. It was a short walk, ten steps down to the chute, but for Natasha—

It was perfect.

You’d taken all of the trash—all of it—and somehow, that was hotter than lingerie. Because now things were cleaner, even if only slightly. But it was a goddamn start.

“Done and done,” you announced, nudging the door closed with your foot when you returned.

Natasha’s mouth curved in a warm smile as she closed the gap of space between you, hands trailing over your chest up to your hair.

“Good girl,” she whispered, dragging you into a deep kiss that made your toes curl against the tile. You could never really think when her tongue was in your mouth and her body was pressed tight against yours.

“Wow,” you exhaled as she finally pulled back, a dazed grin on your face. “That was…”

She didn’t wait for you to finish, wrapping her fingers around your wrist as she dragged you over to the couch and shoved you down. Your eyes went wide, a quiet huff escaping as you landed, but the feeling of her moving to straddle your hips cut off any moment of protest.

Her hands skimmed over the hem of your shirt, drifting under the thin fabric as they ghosted over your stomach, your ribs—

Before one diverted downward, snaking into your shorts.

Her mouth claimed yours in a hungry, languid kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip as her fingers wrapped around your stiffening length. “You take such good care of me,” she whispered, releasing your lip with a quiet ‘pop’, “now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

A guttural, broken sound escaped your throat as her thumb swept over the crown of your cock and your hips jumped upward slightly.

“T-Tasha…”

“That’s it,” she cooed, leaning forward until you could feel her nipples, tight and pebbled, pressing against your own through the thin layers of your shirts. She kept her rhythm unhurried at first, long strokes from base to crown, watching every flicker across your face like she was cataloguing every twitch.

Every time her hand glided up your shaft, the world narrowed down to the feeling of her. Her touch, her warmth, her scent…

God, you were addicted.

One hand slid up her thigh, dipping under the leg of her shorts as your fingers found her slit, thumb brushing the swollen bundle of nerves you found there. “Nat…”

Her breath caught, a soft whine escaping her throat as your fingers parted her folds. She didn’t slow her hand; if anything, her pace grew steadily faster, her hips rolling instinctively into your touch.

“Fuck, just like that,” she murmured, grinding her clit against your thumb when she decided you were a little too distracted by her hand. “Just like that...”

You swallowed her moan as two fingers pressed into her entrance, the sounds of her cunt obscene as she rode your hand with abandon. Her tongue dipped past your teeth, hand stroking base to tip over and over until every fucking nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” you groaned between kisses, feeling the way her arousal soaked your hand with every thrust. Every curl of your fingers coaxing more from her.

“Because of you,” she gasped against your lips, voice cracking on the words. “Because you took care of me this morning.” Her cunt clenched hard around your fingers, fresh heat dripping down to your knuckles as she rode your hand shamelessly. “Keep going. Fuck, keep going…”

You bucked up into her grip, lips falling open as her hand stroked faster, her thumbnail teasing the head. Her shorts were so wet they clung to your hand as you fingered her, your cock throbbing almost painfully as the both of you neared your peak.

Minutes passed… or, you assumed it was minutes. It could’ve been seconds. All you knew was that your girlfriend was moaning desperately and your cock was aching so much you could feel it in your fucking teeth.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she breathed, walls fluttered around your fingers.

Her hips jerked as you crooked your fingers, dragging the tips over that perfect spot inside her. Her breath fractured against your mouth, her hand clenching just right and—

“Fuck,” you groaned, spilling across her hand, head growing fuzzy as the pleasure washed over you in waves.

The sudden rush of your release in her hand and the way you kept working your fingers despite your own climax sent her teetering over the edge. She clamped down hard, riding out the ecstasy in shuddering waves. Her free hand gripped the nape of your neck, like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to gravity, her nails pressing crescents in the skin beneath her fingers.

“…fuck,” she laughed breathlessly, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your parted lips. “Look at you… making me come before breakfast.”

You offered a goofy grin, melting boneless into the soft cushions, completely oblivious to the way Natasha’s mind was racing.

The way she was planning…

-X-

The last few days had been… better. Not perfect—not by any stretch of imagination—but you were better about remembering the little things which, honestly, was making her life a hundred times easier.

Progress was still progress.

Nudging open the loft door, Natasha’s heels dangled from one hand, briefcase in the other. The day had been a marathon of back-to-back depositions, a client who lied to her face twice, and traffic that turned a thirty minute commute into an hour. To say she was tired was a fucking understatement.

She paused for a second when she realized you weren’t in the living room but she could hear sounds of something odd in the bedroom. Wandering down the hall, she exhaled as she stepped into the room, expecting the usual sight of your boxes colonizing the floor with your half-folded clothes draped over them like flags she wanted to burn—

But what she found knocked the breath from her lungs.

You were kneeling in front of a box—the only box not broken down and stacked in the corner—and your clothes were hanging on the rack or sitting folded in the open dresser drawers she’d cleared out for you. The same drawers you hadn’t used before now.

She leaned against the doorframe, her earlier exhaustion bleeding into genuine surprise. “Well… someone’s been productive today,” she said, her voice soft but undeniably thrilled.

“The cafe was dead so Steve sent me home early,” you explained, shrugging as you glanced over your shoulder at her. “I got bored so I started working on putting stuff away. Figured I should maybe start acting like I actually live here.”

Grinning cheekily, you tugged out the last pair of underwear from the box and folded them before setting them in the dresser.

She knew you were joking, but the fact you’d finally taken the step without her having to ask meant more than you knew. She’d joked about it a few times—that you lived out of those boxes like you were expecting to get thrown out—and to know you finally bit the bullet (so to speak) and staked your claim.

She crossed the space in three slow strides, her palms settling on your waist from behind as her fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt.

“Acting like you live here?” she echoed playfully, kissing the nape of your neck. “I like the sound of that.”

Her digits wandered downward, lingering just above the top of your shorts, her chest plastered across your back. She was taking it all in—

And fuck, she liked what she saw.

“I’m proud of you, malyshka,” she whispered, “finish up, then come find me.”

Your brow arched, but the last thing you were going to do was argue when she was looking at you like that. By the time you had the box broken down and the remaining empty hangers hung up, you were practically panting. Hoping desperately that you’d walk out there and see—

Stepping around the frame, your mouth was nearly watering at the sight that greeted you. Natasha, bare and spread on the bed, her fingers lazily teasing her folds. She parted them slowly, just enough to show you how swollen and ready she was.

“Come here, detka,” she murmured softly, smiling faintly. “Come make me forget everything but that pretty mouth of yours.”

You dove—really, there was no other word for it—onto the mattress, scrambling up the comforter until your mouth was level with her cunt. Her digits tangled in your locks, guiding your tongue to her wet heat, back arching the instant your lips sealed over her clit.

“Fuck, just like that,” she whined, hips rolling as she ground against your face.

Every lap of your tongue sent sparks of pleasure up her spine and when you flattened it, licking from her entrance up to her clit, her breath hitched so hard that it sounded painful. Her free hand massaged her breast, tugging at her nipple sharply, while her grip on your hair tightened.

“Don’t st—” her words dissolved into a needy moan as your tongue plunged into her heat, flicking and curling teasingly before returning to the swollen bundle of nerves. Her body went taut, hardly breathing as a symphony of moans and whimpers escaped her throat. “R-right there, detka. Oh god…”

Your hand left her thigh, pressing low on her belly and pinning her to the bed as your tongue worked relentlessly. She bucked hard against the pressure, a raw cry ripping from her throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” her hand yanked your head hard, dragging you as close as humanly possible.

When her thighs clamped around your head, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart and the obscene sounds of her cunt beneath your tongue. It was filthy and desperate and fuck, you loved eating her out…

She came with a keening whine, hips grinding helplessly against your face, chasing the spasms that bordered on overstimulation by the time they finally ebbed. She was simultaneously nudging your head away with one hand, while the other kept you buried.

It was confusing if you were being honest but you were content to lap up her juices, claiming every drop until she finally pushed you away.

“Jesus, you’re too good at that,” she panted, dragging you up until she could crush her mouth against yours.

“…I really like eating you out. It’s a top tier delicacy,” you mumbled against her lips, smiling faintly.

She snorted, cheeks flushing red as she shoved your head back. “God, you’re incorrigible.”

-X-

Natasha… was concerned.

You’d been doing so good for the last few weeks, but this was a test she wasn’t sure would go the way she’d hoped. A handjob here and there, occasional oral… and you were actually managing to keep up with tasks around the loft without needing a reminder.

Sure, you still had mind-blowing sex often, but the truth was: Wanda was right. When she wasn’t wanting to strangle you or burn the loft down because of all the clutter, she wanted to fuck you stupid. Constantly.

The kind of sex you’d had during the first year of your relationship when you were both awful at keeping your hands to yourselves.

She loved it; organization and orgasms.

But now her family was here and you were in charge of finishing dinner while she caught up with her mom and sister. Granted, Alexei was in the kitchen with you, but that almost might’ve been worse because the two of you together were trouble.

She was lingering in the doorway, watching you both with a critical eye (if she was waiting for a fire to erupt because of Alexei and a “vodka sauce I made in the motherlands”, she’d never admit it), before Yelena’s hand was wrapping around her wrist and dragging her into the living room.

“The kitchen is fine. Papa and your girlfriend are bonding over meat,” Yelena said, steering her over to the couch and shoving her down. She claimed the other side of Natasha while Melina lounged in your usual chair. “Alright, spill: what did you do?”

“Yes, what has changed? The apartment looks like adults live here, you look like you’ve slept more than four hours, and now (Y/N) is finishing dinner alone without being asked. Explain.” Melina arched a curious brow.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, buying a second by smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her jeans. “I started reinforcing positive behavior,” she said carefully. “When she finishes things that make my life easier, I make sure she knows how much I appreciate it. Very… personally.”

Melina’s head tilted, processing while Yelena’s eyes narrowed, then widened as horrified realization dawned on her.

“So… sex?” Yelena asked, bluntly, nose crinkling at the idea of Natasha having sex.

Natasha shot her a look. “Yelena,” she warned, but she was cut off Yelena’s laughter.

“Oh my god, you are bribing your girlfriend with orgasms.” Her amusement faltered as the words dawned on her, face scrunching in disgust. “Ew, please tell me your couch is still clean.”

“It was never clean,” Natasha muttered, smirking faintly when Yelena squealed in horror, practically throwing herself onto the other recliner, though her smile dimmed at the look in Melina’s eyes. “Mama… I’m not prostituting myself for clean countertops.”

Melina leaned forward, studying Natasha intently. “I only want to know that you are not forcing yourself to perform gratitude. You’ve been wound tight as a wire for months. If this… thanks is coming at the cost of your own comfort—”

“It isn’t,” Natasha cut in, meeting Melina’s gaze. She wasn’t defensive, just… hoping Melina would understand. “I… I want her constantly. I always have. The difference is that now when she finishes something that’s been bothering me, the want isn’t tangled up in resentment. There’s no mental block or voice in my head asking why she can… touch me but can’t put her damn socks in the hamper.”

Yelena’s playful squirming at the idea of Natasha having sex (gross!) faded into something more thoughtful as she studied her sister. It had been a while since Natasha had seemed so… relaxed. Calm.

“Good,” Melina finally replied, nodding once. “Then keep doing it.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try something similar with your father.”

Yelena recoiled so hard she nearly tipped out of the recliner. “Mama, no. Hard no! I do not need that visual.”

Natasha groaned, burying her face in her hands. “God, please. Never again. We are not discussing your sex life with Papa. Ever.”

From the kitchen, Alexei bellowed—needlessly, because the fucking loft wasn’t that big, “Food is ready!”

Natasha and Yelena both scrambled up, grateful for the interruption, and Natasha nudged her sister as they walked into the kitchen.

“This is your fault.”

Yelena glanced at her father, then her mother, and cringed. “I have many regrets.”

-X-

The front door clicked shut behind Alexei’s final booming goodbye, leaving the loft suddenly quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher finishing its cycle. Natasha slipped the deadbolt, leaned her back against the door for a beat, and let the silence settle. The apartment gleamed, counters wiped, leftovers neatly stacked in glass containers in the fridge, and not a single stray fork in the sink. You’d done it all, jumping up between courses to clear plates, wrapping foil over bowls, even sweeping the floor while she hugged her mother one last time.

“I am so tired I can’t feel my toes,” you groaned, sprawled out on the couch.

Natasha smirked as she walked over to you, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table as she lifted your feet into her lap. Her palms slowly massaged from your ankles up to your calves. “My poor baby,” she cooed teasingly. “You were incredible tonight.”

Her hands slid up to your thighs, kneading the muscles with deliberate pressure.

“Every time I looked up, you were doing something else to make this night perfect,” she praised, the teasing softening into something genuinely appreciatively as she studied your face.

She set your feet down and stood, grabbing your hand as she tugged you up.

“Bed. Now.”

You blinked in surprise, but followed along like a diligent girlfriend. Usually when Natasha’s family left, she’d bathe for an hour to decompress, not… this.

(It genuinely didn’t click in your head that her lack of exhaustion came from you helping her take care of everything.)

Shoving you towards the bed, Natasha arched a brow. “Strip. I want you on your back.”

Laughing, you were quick to tug your shirt over your head and toss it aside, your jeans hurriedly joining it on the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha’s eyes tracked every movement as you stripped, watching the way your stomach flexed, the soft weight of your breasts, the line of your hips as your boxers fell away. You could feel that green gaze sweeping over every inch as you flopped into the middle of the bed, cock already half-hard as you stared down the bed towards her.

When she was certain she had your attention—which wasn’t hard, honestly—she began to pluck the buttons of her blouse open, one by one, until it pooled around her bare feet. Black lace came loose with a single flick of her fingers and by the time she was standing naked at the end of the bed, a sight you’d never get tired of seeing, you were panting like you’d run a damn mile.

“Christ, Nat,” you breathed, cock flushed and twitching at the view.

She crawled up the mattress, palms gliding over your knees, spreading you wider as she settled between them. “You cleaned this morning without me asking. Helped prep dinner for five, finished it solo while I caught up with my mom and sister… and didn’t complain once.”

She leaned down, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing just enough to make the muscles beneath her mouth jump. Her hand wrapped lazily around your length, stroking slow and firm as she coaxed you fully hard with practiced ease.

“That’s not a small thing, detka. That’s huge.”

Her tongue traced a wet line from the base to the tip of you, swirling around the head before she took you into her mouth, throat relaxing as she swallowed you down until her nose pressing against your skin. She held you there, humming softly, before pulling back with a deliberate suction that left you slick and aching.

She sat up, shifting high enough to straddle your hips. Her palms braced against your chest, thumbs teasing your nipples as she rocked forward, her slick folds dragging along your cock.

“Just lay back and enjoy,” she whispered, guiding the head of you to her entrance, sinking down just enough to take the tip before stilling. “I want to show you just how thankful I am…”

Her hips rolled torturously slow, taking you inch by inch until she was seated on your lap, walls clenching tight around you. A shudder ran through her, head tipping back and throat flushed bright in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so deep, detka…” she moaned. “Tell me how you want me to ride you… tell me what you want…”

“Use me… I like it when you use me,” you admitted, hands surging up to grip her hips possessively. “When you treat me like I’m just a toy for your pleasure…”

Natasha’s breath hitched audibly, the words washing over her like rain. It wasn’t often that you let her take control, the two of you often playfully fighting for control, so to hear that?

God, she was going to savor every second of this.

Her nails dug slightly into your chest as her thighs flexed. She lifted so agonizingly slow, until only the head remained inside, before dropping back down in one smooth, hard motion. The slap of skin on skin was barely audible over the low moan that tore from her throat, her hips lifting and falling over and over as she set a rhythm.

She didn’t look at you right away. Her head was tipped back, eyes half-closed and lips parted as she rode you like the feeling of your cock inside her was all that mattered; like the feeling of you was the only thing that mattered in her world.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” she rasped, leaning forward to nip at the expanse of your throat. “Stay still. Let me take what I want.”

The bed beneath you creaked as her pace quickened, her hands falling to your knees when she arched her back, breasts bouncing with every greedy rock of her hips. She was chasing her climax shamelessly, using you like a toy made just for her.

“God, baby… you look incredible like this,” you groaned, one hand leaving her hip to drop between her thighs, your thumb circling her clit roughly.

Her hips snapped down hard, grinding you as deep as she could go at the first touch.

“Detka—” the word fractured on a gasp, her nails scoring lines down your thighs as she leaned back farther. Every roll of her body felt like electricity in her veins until her thighs were trembling. She didn’t slow—couldn’t—riding you faster. It was brutal but you didn’t care; all that mattered was the woman above you looked ready to shatter and you were desperate to drive her over the edge.

When you pinched her swollen bundle of nerves gently, her entire body seized, the noise that escaped her throat making your cock twitch desperately inside her. Beads of sweat trickled between her breasts, occasionally glinting in the moonlight from the window, and she looked like a fucking painting. Like some art you’d find in an overpriced gallery.

“Tasha…”

She didn’t say a word, her cunt fluttering wildly as she slammed down on final time, the orgasm ripping through her. Her back arched to the point it honestly looked painful and you surged up, looping your arm around her waist as you helped her ride out every last wave of ecstasy. Your hips rocked to meet every trembling grind from Natasha, her arms lifting shakily to wrap around your neck as she buried her face against your throat.

“…holy shit,” she whispered against your skin, “I think I saw God… and she looked like my girlfriend.”

You laughed breathlessly, still buried deep in her cunt as her walls milked you with helpless clenches. “That so?”

She nodded wordlessly, mouth trailing over your neck as she slowly ground against you. “Uh huh… think you can hold out a little longer, detka? I’m not through with you yet.”

-X-

Two Months Later

Things had gotten so much better over the last two months. The loft was clean, the sex was better than it’d been in months, and Natasha was genuinely… happy.

On top of that, you’d actually remembered her birthday. Granted, both of you were horrible at remembering the important dates until the day of but you’d actually planned something. It was small—a day out for her with her friends—but it was still sweet that you’d managed to plan something.

So when Wanda and Maria mentioned meeting you for dinner at the little Italian place she liked in Brooklyn, she hadn’t thought anything about it.

As Maria parked the car, Wanda slipped out first, wandering inside to check on “wait times”, slipping through the side door of the building left cracked open. She’d sent you a message five minutes ago, informing you they were two blocks out, so everything was set up and waiting.

Wanda peeked into the private room, beaming when she saw you standing awkwardly in the archway of the door. Soft lights were strung up around the room and everyone Natasha adored was crammed into the private space—her family, a handful of friends, and one already tipsy Tony who looked… unusually irate but there wasn’t time to question that.

“Show time,” Wanda whispered with a thumbs up before slipping out to meet Natasha and Maria at the entrance.

A few moments later, long enough to leave your heart pounding in your ears and the box in your pocket feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, Natasha’s friends led her into the room and she froze.

Her eyes went wide as she took in the smattering of faces sprawled out around the room before her gaze met yours. You were wearing that suit she loved seeing you in, standing there with a bashful grin as you lifted your glass in a quiet toast and the others followed.

“Happy birthday, Natasha.”

A disbelieving laugh broke from her throat as she pressed a hand briefly over her chest. “You absolute sneak. No wonder you sent me out with Wanda and Maria all day.”

Grinning, you crossed the room to wrap an arm around her waist, tucking her into your side. “And here you thought your biggest surprise was gonna be me actually remembering to say ‘happy birthday’ this morning.”

“…who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” she teased, lifting her hand to brush over the buttons near your heart, her expression softened with wonder.

Alexei cut in before you could respond, voice booming far too loud in the tiny space, “She is good girl! Planned everything like a general. She—”

Melina lifted her hand, slapping it over Alexei’s mouth casually, like she’d done it a million times before while Yelena just shook her head and muttered, “Volume, Papa.”

“So, gifts first, then food. Because your sister and Clint got into a breadstick eating competition while we were waiting for you and I’m afraid if we feed them anything else right this second, we might actually have to carry them out in wheelbarrows.”

Leading Natasha over to the seat that was designated for her with a large BIRTHDAY GIRL sash around the back, you took the seat beside her as everyone started passing over boxes and envelopes.

A sweet framed photo from a barbecue over the summer from Steve (no, she didn’t tear up, dammit. The garlic in the air was just strong)! A coffee mug from Clint that read: World’s Okayest Lawyer.

One by one, the people who loved her showered her in gifts and every new, thoughtful or silly present left her smile just a little wider.

Finally the pile dwindled to the envelope you’d placed in front of her. A spa weekend voucher for her, Wanda and Maria to the resort upstate she’d mentioned once in passing. Natasha’s brows lifted high in surprise, genuinely touched. “You bought us a whole weekend?”

“I—well, Victor paid for Wanda, I paid for you and we split Maria’s. It’s a joint gift, from us,” you explained with a sheepish grin. “But… I do have one more gift for you that should make up for me pestering our friend.”

You stood, kissing her temple lightly as you shifted to stand in front of her. Her forehead scrunched a little in confusion when you didn’t move to grab anything, but that uncertainty quickly bled away as you squared your shoulders and the room went silent.

(You might have told them ahead of time what you were planning.)

“Natalia Romanova, you are my heart. My soul. You are sunshine on a rainy day and a fireplace in winter. Every moment of life with you has been a blessing and every fucking—oops, shit, sorry, Wanda told me not to swear during this,” you muttered, clearing your throat even as your hands trembled, “Every day, I fall more and more in love with you… and I want to spend every second of every minute of every day with you for the rest of our lives.”

You dropped to one knee, fumbling the box out of your pocket.

“Tasha, will you mar—”

“Wait.” Tony’s chair scraped across the floor as he rose, swaying slightly, face flush with indignation and too much whiskey. “You shouldn’t do this until you know what she’s been doing.”

Pepper hissed his name and reached for his arm but he waved her off.

“Wanda started the whole thing,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely towards the brunette. “Bragging about how she has Victor trained like some goddamn lab rat. Sex as a reward when he does something good.” He laughed, though it was strained. “Taught Pepper and Natasha the trick too. But I caught on when she tried those mind games with me. They’ve been manipulating you two idiots for months.”

Natasha’s face paled, fingers slipping from yours where she’d been reaching for the ring box and falling dully in her lap. Her eyes flickered to you, wide and mortified as she waited for the anger, the hurt… for you to take away the box.

The silence in the room was so awkward but even Yelena couldn’t bring herself to break it.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Victor leveled an unimpressed look at Tony. “Tony, I have known for months.” He shrugged. “It’s a good system. I pretend I don’t notice, Wanda is happy, our home is clean and the sex is… exceptional. Why would I blow up a good thing?”

You glanced up from where you were kneeling, smirking at Tony. “You… are a fucking idiot, Stark. Your wife was offering you sex for chores and instead you decided to try and ruin it for us?”

Tony’s glass froze halfway to his mouth as he gaped at you. “You… knew?”

“I’ve known for about a month,” you admitted, shrugging. “I vaguely mentioned it to Victor last month during game night, he explained the whole of it to me, and honestly, it’s a great way to get my dopamine kick.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to you, but the fear on her face cracked away, replaced with stunned disbelief that hurriedly drifted into relief. You weren’t mad. You’d known for a while, but you were still doing the things that helped make her life easier…

Whatever guilt she’d felt about “tricking” you slowly bled out.

Tony sputtered. “You—you knew? Both of you? And you were just… fine with it?”

“Look, Tony, I like you… but your pride sometimes blinds you from the big picture. Nat’s happy and has a clean apartment, I get the dopamine and praise I crave, and we both get to come—uh, sorry.” You shot Natasha’s parents an apologetic smile before your attention returned to Tony. “Why would I willingly screw that up for myself? And instead of enjoying the benefits yourself, you’re sitting here calling us idiots for enjoying… some damn good rewards. Seems like we might be the geniuses here, Stark.”

Shrugging, your gaze shifted back to Natasha as you smiled softly.

“Now, before I was interrupted… Natasha, baby… will you marry me?”

Pepper gripped Tony’s arm and yanked him back into his chair, hissing something under her breath at him that made his ears go red with embarrassment, but no one was really paying him any mind, too busy watching you.

Natasha was nodding before the question even fully left your mouth, her hand reaching for the box. “Yes,” she whispered, voice shaky but so drenched in love it could’ve drowned you. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

She tugged you forward, one hand landing on the box while the other cradled your cheek, pulling you into a deep kiss. Holding you close even as the table exploded into whistles and cheers.

“Give me that damn ring,” she mumbled against your lips, a stray tear or two streaking down her cheek.

“With pleasure.”

You pulled back just enough to flip the box open, hands shaking so hard you nearly dropped the damn thing in your haste, before carefully sliding the ring onto her finger.

“Your dad helped me pick it out,” you murmured, staring at the jewelry like it was the best thing you’d ever bought as you both stood up, admiring it in the light.

“…wait, you asked my dad to help you pick it out?” Her eyes filled with tears.

“She did!” Alexei practically shouted, throwing his arms around you both, “Asked your papa if she could have my blessing too! And I said of course! I tell her, “You make my Natalia happy? You take care of her?” and she says yes. I cry a little bit. Then we took celebration shots!”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.

“…I might’ve thrown up in your mom’s roses. That shit tasted like rubbing alcohol,” you whispered, kissing Natasha’s temple while Alexei dropped back into an unoccupied chair.

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she leaned into your side, pressing her face against your neck. She thought she’d known what perfect was before she met you, but this?

“You two keep staring at me like I just confessed to grand larceny.” She giggled, shrugging with faux-innocence. “It started as a total accident. Victor fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom. Finally, after I’d been asking for, what, three months? I was so relieved I practically dragged him into the bedroom and blew him until he forgot his own name.”

Maria snorted into her glass, shaking her head. “Real romantic.”

“It was,” Wanda insisted, mock-indignant. “But then the next weekend he cleaned out the gutters without me saying a word. So I thanked him properly—let him eat me out on the kitchen counter until my legs stopped working.” She paused, savoring their reactions. “Two accidents in a row made me wonder. So the third time he took my car for an oil change and full wash? I rode him in the garage before he’d even put the keys down.”

Natasha’s brow arched, her fingers stilling around her glass. She didn’t laugh; she simply studied Wanda. “And he hasn’t caught on?”

“Not once.” Wanda’s voice dropped, the satisfaction clear as day on her face. “He just thinks he’s suddenly the world’s most attentive husband and the sex is better than it’s been since our honeymoon. Win-win.”

Natasha leaned in closer, cheeks a little warm from the vodka but eyes focused. “Walk me through the escalation. How do you decide what equals what reward?”

Tilting her head, Wanda set her margarita aside and leaned on her arms, giving Natasha her full attention. “You’re not just asking for gossip reasons, are you?” she teased, before it shifted into something almost conspiratorial. “You’re wanting to take notes.”

Natasha didn’t deny it, smirking as she waited.

Wanda exhaled a quiet laugh. “Fine. Here’s how I broke it down once I realized it worked.” She ticked off points on her fingers, deliberately. “Small stuff—trash out, dishes loaded and actually run, counters wiped—those stack. Three of them in a week? Handjob—it’s quick, simple, and most of the time, I get fingered while I do it, so we both walk away loose and happy.”

Maria whistled, mildly impressed by their friend’s cunning, but Wanda’s gaze never left Natasha.

“Medium jobs—vacuuming the whole house, doing laundry, changing the sheets, stuff like that? Things that genuinely shave real hours off my weekends?  He does two of them without me having to ask or without me having to explain what needs done? Oral. Either I blow him until he can’t feel his toes or he goes down until I can’t feel mine.”

Natasha’s fingers drummed along her glass as she took it all in.

“Now, the big stuff? Stuff that’s been genuinely dragging me down and grinding my gears? If he accomplishes those tasks, we have full, no-holds-barred, fuck-until-we-forget-our-names sex because once that weight is gone—once I don’t have that stress or irritation weighing me down? I want to climb him like a tree. Because suddenly I have the energy to want him. That’s the part he didn’t realize sometimes. Those little things added up and I didn’t want him as much because I was spending all of my time considering the mess around us.”

Wanda sat back, taking a healthy gulp of her drink before looking at Natasha seriously.

“It’s not some rigid contract and I don’t just… force it. Like, I want to because I’m not ready to strangle him anymore. I don’t have to nag, I don’t have to do it myself, and we’re having the kind of sex we had in our twenties. It’s fantastic.”

Natasha knew all about that frustration.

She loved you—god only knows how much she loved you—but you were notorious for your half-finished projects around the loft. A sink full of mugs you swore you’d handle “in a minute”, the boxes from where you’d moved in six months ago still scattered around the hallway and closet, laundry that always would be started until you forgot about it and it’d sit in the washer for three days…

She loved you—but the clutter was starting to feel like a third presence in your bed.

It helped that Wanda’s system wasn’t cruel; that’s the part that hooked her. It wasn’t punishment or nagging or begging or that cold score-keeping Natasha hated in other couples. It was motivation, turning your genuine desire to help into something that stuck. Something that rewarded the effort you were already putting in with something she loved giving you: herself. Her time, her pleasure, her love…

The truth was—she fucking wanted you. Constantly. But your sex life had started falling off a bit because she was frustrated. If this brought that back and solved ninety percent of the issues ailing your otherwise incredible relationship?

“I know you’ve been struggling with the same hang-ups, Nat,” Wanda murmured sympathetically. “She tries, we all know she does, but the energy fizzles out when her brain goes a little… haywire. It’s not about turning her into some obedient robot or prostituting yourself for clean counters. It’s just… giving the effort a little extra gravity to help it stick. It’ll just make her feel like you can’t keep your hands off her when she makes your life easier, which… let’s be honest, you already struggle with on a good day.”

Winking, Wanda finished her drink before growing serious.

“If it doesn’t work or it makes you feel weird, you stop. No harm. But if it does work…” she trailed off for a moment, “then you get help you need around the apartment and she gets the version of you that isn’t quietly burning with frustration—and you both get your wild, ‘don’t call us this weekend, we’re not leaving the bed’ sex life back.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what we need. More opportunities for us to walk in on them getting it on in a bathroom…” Maria grinned cheekily.

“Or the car…” Wanda chimed in.

“Or the bushes at Tony’s. Remember New Years?”

“Or—“

“Okay! I get it,” Natasha laughed, lifting her drink in a quiet salute. “But… you’re right. Might just be worth it.”

-X-

The smell of eggs and fresh coffee dragged Natasha into consciousness the next morning, eyes blurry and head pounding from the aftermath of too many shots last night. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted Maria’s challenge—

And her hangover was quick to remind her she wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

Wandering down the hall into the kitchen, wearing one of your oversized tees and a pair of silk sleep shorts you always teased her about, she froze in the doorway at the sight. You, in a tank top and shorts, plating eggs and bacon. But what surprised her most?

The kitchen wasn’t a goddamn disaster zone.

Countertops? Wiped off and sparkling (okay, maybe not sparkling but let a woman dream). Sink? Empty, besides the pan you had just set in there after emptying the contents onto plates. The trash bag? Sitting beside the door, tied and ready to go out to the chute. Dishwasher? Already humming as it cleaned the dishes from last night and this morning.

You’d cooked and cleaned up after yourself without her having to ask—

She pinched her hip just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Crossing the space, she looped her arms around your waist from behind and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

“Morning, chef,” she teased, voice husky and thick with sleep. Another soft kiss, this one grazing your earlobe as she stared at the breakfast on the counter. “You trying to spoil me before I’ve even had coffee?”

Her hands dropped to the waistband of your boxers, fingertips dipping just below to feel the soft skin beneath.

“I know you got in late last night, so I thought I’d make breakfast. I know how your ‘girls’ nights’ tend to go with those two,” you murmured, twisting in her arms until you could kiss her gently. “Morning, baby.”

She sighed happily into the kiss, letting it linger as her lips parted, tasting the too-sweet creamer from your coffee as she leaned against you. When you pulled back, she didn’t let you go far, palms sliding up over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin material of your shirt.

“Yeah, we might’ve… tied one on last night,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “Victor had to come outside to help carry Wanda into the house.” She cringed, remembering how… graphic Wanda had been when she draped herself across the blond man, “whispering” in his ear what she wanted him to do to her once they were inside.

“Whispering” of course equaling out to: Wanda having no idea how loud she was actually being and the Uber driver learning way too much about the Sokovian’s sex life.

Natasha made sure to give him five stars as an apology, and a decent sized tip.

“This is a nice surprise though.” Her hand slid up to rest over your heart, thumb drawing lazy circles. “I know it’s my turn to take out the trash but would you mind taking it to the chute for me? My head is still objecting to light and the hall is so bright…”

Her eyes were soft, almost pleading, but she couldn’t help herself. You’d unknowingly already done two things—two!—without her needing to ask (because not only had you made breakfast—something you often didn’t do because you forgot eating was a necessity—but you’d also cleaned up) and that… that alone made her thrilled.

You glanced over at the bag and nodded. “Oh, yeah, I can do that. Uh, hold on.”

Disappearing deeper into the apartment, you grabbed the small bags from the bathroom and office before tying them off and snagging the bag beside the door. It was a short walk, ten steps down to the chute, but for Natasha—

It was perfect.

You’d taken all of the trash—all of it—and somehow, that was hotter than lingerie. Because now things were cleaner, even if only slightly. But it was a goddamn start.

“Done and done,” you announced, nudging the door closed with your foot when you returned.

Natasha’s mouth curved in a warm smile as she closed the gap of space between you, hands trailing over your chest up to your hair.

“Good girl,” she whispered, dragging you into a deep kiss that made your toes curl against the tile. You could never really think when her tongue was in your mouth and her body was pressed tight against yours.

“Wow,” you exhaled as she finally pulled back, a dazed grin on your face. “That was…”

She didn’t wait for you to finish, wrapping her fingers around your wrist as she dragged you over to the couch and shoved you down. Your eyes went wide, a quiet huff escaping as you landed, but the feeling of her moving to straddle your hips cut off any moment of protest.

Her hands skimmed over the hem of your shirt, drifting under the thin fabric as they ghosted over your stomach, your ribs—

Before one diverted downward, snaking into your shorts.

Her mouth claimed yours in a hungry, languid kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip as her fingers wrapped around your stiffening length. “You take such good care of me,” she whispered, releasing your lip with a quiet ‘pop’, “now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

A guttural, broken sound escaped your throat as her thumb swept over the crown of your cock and your hips jumped upward slightly.

“T-Tasha…”

“That’s it,” she cooed, leaning forward until you could feel her nipples, tight and pebbled, pressing against your own through the thin layers of your shirts. She kept her rhythm unhurried at first, long strokes from base to crown, watching every flicker across your face like she was cataloguing every twitch.

Every time her hand glided up your shaft, the world narrowed down to the feeling of her. Her touch, her warmth, her scent…

God, you were addicted.

One hand slid up her thigh, dipping under the leg of her shorts as your fingers found her slit, thumb brushing the swollen bundle of nerves you found there. “Nat…”

Her breath caught, a soft whine escaping her throat as your fingers parted her folds. She didn’t slow her hand; if anything, her pace grew steadily faster, her hips rolling instinctively into your touch.

“Fuck, just like that,” she murmured, grinding her clit against your thumb when she decided you were a little too distracted by her hand. “Just like that...”

You swallowed her moan as two fingers pressed into her entrance, the sounds of her cunt obscene as she rode your hand with abandon. Her tongue dipped past your teeth, hand stroking base to tip over and over until every fucking nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” you groaned between kisses, feeling the way her arousal soaked your hand with every thrust. Every curl of your fingers coaxing more from her.

“Because of you,” she gasped against your lips, voice cracking on the words. “Because you took care of me this morning.” Her cunt clenched hard around your fingers, fresh heat dripping down to your knuckles as she rode your hand shamelessly. “Keep going. Fuck, keep going…”

You bucked up into her grip, lips falling open as her hand stroked faster, her thumbnail teasing the head. Her shorts were so wet they clung to your hand as you fingered her, your cock throbbing almost painfully as the both of you neared your peak.

Minutes passed… or, you assumed it was minutes. It could’ve been seconds. All you knew was that your girlfriend was moaning desperately and your cock was aching so much you could feel it in your fucking teeth.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she breathed, walls fluttered around your fingers.

Her hips jerked as you crooked your fingers, dragging the tips over that perfect spot inside her. Her breath fractured against your mouth, her hand clenching just right and—

“Fuck,” you groaned, spilling across her hand, head growing fuzzy as the pleasure washed over you in waves.

The sudden rush of your release in her hand and the way you kept working your fingers despite your own climax sent her teetering over the edge. She clamped down hard, riding out the ecstasy in shuddering waves. Her free hand gripped the nape of your neck, like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to gravity, her nails pressing crescents in the skin beneath her fingers.

“…fuck,” she laughed breathlessly, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your parted lips. “Look at you… making me come before breakfast.”

You offered a goofy grin, melting boneless into the soft cushions, completely oblivious to the way Natasha’s mind was racing.

The way she was planning…

-X-

The last few days had been… better. Not perfect—not by any stretch of imagination—but you were better about remembering the little things which, honestly, was making her life a hundred times easier.

Progress was still progress.

Nudging open the loft door, Natasha’s heels dangled from one hand, briefcase in the other. The day had been a marathon of back-to-back depositions, a client who lied to her face twice, and traffic that turned a thirty minute commute into an hour. To say she was tired was a fucking understatement.

She paused for a second when she realized you weren’t in the living room but she could hear sounds of something odd in the bedroom. Wandering down the hall, she exhaled as she stepped into the room, expecting the usual sight of your boxes colonizing the floor with your half-folded clothes draped over them like flags she wanted to burn—

But what she found knocked the breath from her lungs.

You were kneeling in front of a box—the only box not broken down and stacked in the corner—and your clothes were hanging on the rack or sitting folded in the open dresser drawers she’d cleared out for you. The same drawers you hadn’t used before now.

She leaned against the doorframe, her earlier exhaustion bleeding into genuine surprise. “Well… someone’s been productive today,” she said, her voice soft but undeniably thrilled.

“The cafe was dead so Steve sent me home early,” you explained, shrugging as you glanced over your shoulder at her. “I got bored so I started working on putting stuff away. Figured I should maybe start acting like I actually live here.”

Grinning cheekily, you tugged out the last pair of underwear from the box and folded them before setting them in the dresser.

She knew you were joking, but the fact you’d finally taken the step without her having to ask meant more than you knew. She’d joked about it a few times—that you lived out of those boxes like you were expecting to get thrown out—and to know you finally bit the bullet (so to speak) and staked your claim.

She crossed the space in three slow strides, her palms settling on your waist from behind as her fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt.

“Acting like you live here?” she echoed playfully, kissing the nape of your neck. “I like the sound of that.”

Her digits wandered downward, lingering just above the top of your shorts, her chest plastered across your back. She was taking it all in—

And fuck, she liked what she saw.

“I’m proud of you, malyshka,” she whispered, “finish up, then come find me.”

Your brow arched, but the last thing you were going to do was argue when she was looking at you like that. By the time you had the box broken down and the remaining empty hangers hung up, you were practically panting. Hoping desperately that you’d walk out there and see—

Stepping around the frame, your mouth was nearly watering at the sight that greeted you. Natasha, bare and spread on the bed, her fingers lazily teasing her folds. She parted them slowly, just enough to show you how swollen and ready she was.

“Come here, detka,” she murmured softly, smiling faintly. “Come make me forget everything but that pretty mouth of yours.”

You dove—really, there was no other word for it—onto the mattress, scrambling up the comforter until your mouth was level with her cunt. Her digits tangled in your locks, guiding your tongue to her wet heat, back arching the instant your lips sealed over her clit.

“Fuck, just like that,” she whined, hips rolling as she ground against your face.

Every lap of your tongue sent sparks of pleasure up her spine and when you flattened it, licking from her entrance up to her clit, her breath hitched so hard that it sounded painful. Her free hand massaged her breast, tugging at her nipple sharply, while her grip on your hair tightened.

“Don’t st—” her words dissolved into a needy moan as your tongue plunged into her heat, flicking and curling teasingly before returning to the swollen bundle of nerves. Her body went taut, hardly breathing as a symphony of moans and whimpers escaped her throat. “R-right there, detka. Oh god…”

Your hand left her thigh, pressing low on her belly and pinning her to the bed as your tongue worked relentlessly. She bucked hard against the pressure, a raw cry ripping from her throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” her hand yanked your head hard, dragging you as close as humanly possible.

When her thighs clamped around your head, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart and the obscene sounds of her cunt beneath your tongue. It was filthy and desperate and fuck, you loved eating her out…

She came with a keening whine, hips grinding helplessly against your face, chasing the spasms that bordered on overstimulation by the time they finally ebbed. She was simultaneously nudging your head away with one hand, while the other kept you buried.

It was confusing if you were being honest but you were content to lap up her juices, claiming every drop until she finally pushed you away.

“Jesus, you’re too good at that,” she panted, dragging you up until she could crush her mouth against yours.

“…I really like eating you out. It’s a top tier delicacy,” you mumbled against her lips, smiling faintly.

She snorted, cheeks flushing red as she shoved your head back. “God, you’re incorrigible.”

-X-

Natasha… was concerned.

You’d been doing so good for the last few weeks, but this was a test she wasn’t sure would go the way she’d hoped. A handjob here and there, occasional oral… and you were actually managing to keep up with tasks around the loft without needing a reminder.

Sure, you still had mind-blowing sex often, but the truth was: Wanda was right. When she wasn’t wanting to strangle you or burn the loft down because of all the clutter, she wanted to fuck you stupid. Constantly.

The kind of sex you’d had during the first year of your relationship when you were both awful at keeping your hands to yourselves.

She loved it; organization and orgasms.

But now her family was here and you were in charge of finishing dinner while she caught up with her mom and sister. Granted, Alexei was in the kitchen with you, but that almost might’ve been worse because the two of you together were trouble.

She was lingering in the doorway, watching you both with a critical eye (if she was waiting for a fire to erupt because of Alexei and a “vodka sauce I made in the motherlands”, she’d never admit it), before Yelena’s hand was wrapping around her wrist and dragging her into the living room.

“The kitchen is fine. Papa and your girlfriend are bonding over meat,” Yelena said, steering her over to the couch and shoving her down. She claimed the other side of Natasha while Melina lounged in your usual chair. “Alright, spill: what did you do?”

“Yes, what has changed? The apartment looks like adults live here, you look like you’ve slept more than four hours, and now (Y/N) is finishing dinner alone without being asked. Explain.” Melina arched a curious brow.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, buying a second by smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her jeans. “I started reinforcing positive behavior,” she said carefully. “When she finishes things that make my life easier, I make sure she knows how much I appreciate it. Very… personally.”

Melina’s head tilted, processing while Yelena’s eyes narrowed, then widened as horrified realization dawned on her.

“So… sex?” Yelena asked, bluntly, nose crinkling at the idea of Natasha having sex.

Natasha shot her a look. “Yelena,” she warned, but she was cut off Yelena’s laughter.

“Oh my god, you are bribing your girlfriend with orgasms.” Her amusement faltered as the words dawned on her, face scrunching in disgust. “Ew, please tell me your couch is still clean.”

“It was never clean,” Natasha muttered, smirking faintly when Yelena squealed in horror, practically throwing herself onto the other recliner, though her smile dimmed at the look in Melina’s eyes. “Mama… I’m not prostituting myself for clean countertops.”

Melina leaned forward, studying Natasha intently. “I only want to know that you are not forcing yourself to perform gratitude. You’ve been wound tight as a wire for months. If this… thanks is coming at the cost of your own comfort—”

“It isn’t,” Natasha cut in, meeting Melina’s gaze. She wasn’t defensive, just… hoping Melina would understand. “I… I want her constantly. I always have. The difference is that now when she finishes something that’s been bothering me, the want isn’t tangled up in resentment. There’s no mental block or voice in my head asking why she can… touch me but can’t put her damn socks in the hamper.”

Yelena’s playful squirming at the idea of Natasha having sex (gross!) faded into something more thoughtful as she studied her sister. It had been a while since Natasha had seemed so… relaxed. Calm.

“Good,” Melina finally replied, nodding once. “Then keep doing it.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try something similar with your father.”

Yelena recoiled so hard she nearly tipped out of the recliner. “Mama, no. Hard no! I do not need that visual.”

Natasha groaned, burying her face in her hands. “God, please. Never again. We are not discussing your sex life with Papa. Ever.”

From the kitchen, Alexei bellowed—needlessly, because the fucking loft wasn’t that big, “Food is ready!”

Natasha and Yelena both scrambled up, grateful for the interruption, and Natasha nudged her sister as they walked into the kitchen.

“This is your fault.”

Yelena glanced at her father, then her mother, and cringed. “I have many regrets.”

-X-

The front door clicked shut behind Alexei’s final booming goodbye, leaving the loft suddenly quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher finishing its cycle. Natasha slipped the deadbolt, leaned her back against the door for a beat, and let the silence settle. The apartment gleamed, counters wiped, leftovers neatly stacked in glass containers in the fridge, and not a single stray fork in the sink. You’d done it all, jumping up between courses to clear plates, wrapping foil over bowls, even sweeping the floor while she hugged her mother one last time.

“I am so tired I can’t feel my toes,” you groaned, sprawled out on the couch.

Natasha smirked as she walked over to you, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table as she lifted your feet into her lap. Her palms slowly massaged from your ankles up to your calves. “My poor baby,” she cooed teasingly. “You were incredible tonight.”

Her hands slid up to your thighs, kneading the muscles with deliberate pressure.

“Every time I looked up, you were doing something else to make this night perfect,” she praised, the teasing softening into something genuinely appreciatively as she studied your face.

She set your feet down and stood, grabbing your hand as she tugged you up.

“Bed. Now.”

You blinked in surprise, but followed along like a diligent girlfriend. Usually when Natasha’s family left, she’d bathe for an hour to decompress, not… this.

(It genuinely didn’t click in your head that her lack of exhaustion came from you helping her take care of everything.)

Shoving you towards the bed, Natasha arched a brow. “Strip. I want you on your back.”

Laughing, you were quick to tug your shirt over your head and toss it aside, your jeans hurriedly joining it on the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha’s eyes tracked every movement as you stripped, watching the way your stomach flexed, the soft weight of your breasts, the line of your hips as your boxers fell away. You could feel that green gaze sweeping over every inch as you flopped into the middle of the bed, cock already half-hard as you stared down the bed towards her.

When she was certain she had your attention—which wasn’t hard, honestly—she began to pluck the buttons of her blouse open, one by one, until it pooled around her bare feet. Black lace came loose with a single flick of her fingers and by the time she was standing naked at the end of the bed, a sight you’d never get tired of seeing, you were panting like you’d run a damn mile.

“Christ, Nat,” you breathed, cock flushed and twitching at the view.

She crawled up the mattress, palms gliding over your knees, spreading you wider as she settled between them. “You cleaned this morning without me asking. Helped prep dinner for five, finished it solo while I caught up with my mom and sister… and didn’t complain once.”

She leaned down, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing just enough to make the muscles beneath her mouth jump. Her hand wrapped lazily around your length, stroking slow and firm as she coaxed you fully hard with practiced ease.

“That’s not a small thing, detka. That’s huge.”

Her tongue traced a wet line from the base to the tip of you, swirling around the head before she took you into her mouth, throat relaxing as she swallowed you down until her nose pressing against your skin. She held you there, humming softly, before pulling back with a deliberate suction that left you slick and aching.

She sat up, shifting high enough to straddle your hips. Her palms braced against your chest, thumbs teasing your nipples as she rocked forward, her slick folds dragging along your cock.

“Just lay back and enjoy,” she whispered, guiding the head of you to her entrance, sinking down just enough to take the tip before stilling. “I want to show you just how thankful I am…”

Her hips rolled torturously slow, taking you inch by inch until she was seated on your lap, walls clenching tight around you. A shudder ran through her, head tipping back and throat flushed bright in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so deep, detka…” she moaned. “Tell me how you want me to ride you… tell me what you want…”

“Use me… I like it when you use me,” you admitted, hands surging up to grip her hips possessively. “When you treat me like I’m just a toy for your pleasure…”

Natasha’s breath hitched audibly, the words washing over her like rain. It wasn’t often that you let her take control, the two of you often playfully fighting for control, so to hear that?

God, she was going to savor every second of this.

Her nails dug slightly into your chest as her thighs flexed. She lifted so agonizingly slow, until only the head remained inside, before dropping back down in one smooth, hard motion. The slap of skin on skin was barely audible over the low moan that tore from her throat, her hips lifting and falling over and over as she set a rhythm.

She didn’t look at you right away. Her head was tipped back, eyes half-closed and lips parted as she rode you like the feeling of your cock inside her was all that mattered; like the feeling of you was the only thing that mattered in her world.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” she rasped, leaning forward to nip at the expanse of your throat. “Stay still. Let me take what I want.”

The bed beneath you creaked as her pace quickened, her hands falling to your knees when she arched her back, breasts bouncing with every greedy rock of her hips. She was chasing her climax shamelessly, using you like a toy made just for her.

“God, baby… you look incredible like this,” you groaned, one hand leaving her hip to drop between her thighs, your thumb circling her clit roughly.

Her hips snapped down hard, grinding you as deep as she could go at the first touch.

“Detka—” the word fractured on a gasp, her nails scoring lines down your thighs as she leaned back farther. Every roll of her body felt like electricity in her veins until her thighs were trembling. She didn’t slow—couldn’t—riding you faster. It was brutal but you didn’t care; all that mattered was the woman above you looked ready to shatter and you were desperate to drive her over the edge.

When you pinched her swollen bundle of nerves gently, her entire body seized, the noise that escaped her throat making your cock twitch desperately inside her. Beads of sweat trickled between her breasts, occasionally glinting in the moonlight from the window, and she looked like a fucking painting. Like some art you’d find in an overpriced gallery.

“Tasha…”

She didn’t say a word, her cunt fluttering wildly as she slammed down on final time, the orgasm ripping through her. Her back arched to the point it honestly looked painful and you surged up, looping your arm around her waist as you helped her ride out every last wave of ecstasy. Your hips rocked to meet every trembling grind from Natasha, her arms lifting shakily to wrap around your neck as she buried her face against your throat.

“…holy shit,” she whispered against your skin, “I think I saw God… and she looked like my girlfriend.”

You laughed breathlessly, still buried deep in her cunt as her walls milked you with helpless clenches. “That so?”

She nodded wordlessly, mouth trailing over your neck as she slowly ground against you. “Uh huh… think you can hold out a little longer, detka? I’m not through with you yet.”

-X-

Two Months Later

Things had gotten so much better over the last two months. The loft was clean, the sex was better than it’d been in months, and Natasha was genuinely… happy.

On top of that, you’d actually remembered her birthday. Granted, both of you were horrible at remembering the important dates until the day of but you’d actually planned something. It was small—a day out for her with her friends—but it was still sweet that you’d managed to plan something.

So when Wanda and Maria mentioned meeting you for dinner at the little Italian place she liked in Brooklyn, she hadn’t thought anything about it.

As Maria parked the car, Wanda slipped out first, wandering inside to check on “wait times”, slipping through the side door of the building left cracked open. She’d sent you a message five minutes ago, informing you they were two blocks out, so everything was set up and waiting.

Wanda peeked into the private room, beaming when she saw you standing awkwardly in the archway of the door. Soft lights were strung up around the room and everyone Natasha adored was crammed into the private space—her family, a handful of friends, and one already tipsy Tony who looked… unusually irate but there wasn’t time to question that.

“Show time,” Wanda whispered with a thumbs up before slipping out to meet Natasha and Maria at the entrance.

A few moments later, long enough to leave your heart pounding in your ears and the box in your pocket feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, Natasha’s friends led her into the room and she froze.

Her eyes went wide as she took in the smattering of faces sprawled out around the room before her gaze met yours. You were wearing that suit she loved seeing you in, standing there with a bashful grin as you lifted your glass in a quiet toast and the others followed.

“Happy birthday, Natasha.”

A disbelieving laugh broke from her throat as she pressed a hand briefly over her chest. “You absolute sneak. No wonder you sent me out with Wanda and Maria all day.”

Grinning, you crossed the room to wrap an arm around her waist, tucking her into your side. “And here you thought your biggest surprise was gonna be me actually remembering to say ‘happy birthday’ this morning.”

“…who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” she teased, lifting her hand to brush over the buttons near your heart, her expression softened with wonder.

Alexei cut in before you could respond, voice booming far too loud in the tiny space, “She is good girl! Planned everything like a general. She—”

Melina lifted her hand, slapping it over Alexei’s mouth casually, like she’d done it a million times before while Yelena just shook her head and muttered, “Volume, Papa.”

“So, gifts first, then food. Because your sister and Clint got into a breadstick eating competition while we were waiting for you and I’m afraid if we feed them anything else right this second, we might actually have to carry them out in wheelbarrows.”

Leading Natasha over to the seat that was designated for her with a large BIRTHDAY GIRL sash around the back, you took the seat beside her as everyone started passing over boxes and envelopes.

A sweet framed photo from a barbecue over the summer from Steve (no, she didn’t tear up, dammit. The garlic in the air was just strong)! A coffee mug from Clint that read: World’s Okayest Lawyer.

One by one, the people who loved her showered her in gifts and every new, thoughtful or silly present left her smile just a little wider.

Finally the pile dwindled to the envelope you’d placed in front of her. A spa weekend voucher for her, Wanda and Maria to the resort upstate she’d mentioned once in passing. Natasha’s brows lifted high in surprise, genuinely touched. “You bought us a whole weekend?”

“I—well, Victor paid for Wanda, I paid for you and we split Maria’s. It’s a joint gift, from us,” you explained with a sheepish grin. “But… I do have one more gift for you that should make up for me pestering our friend.”

You stood, kissing her temple lightly as you shifted to stand in front of her. Her forehead scrunched a little in confusion when you didn’t move to grab anything, but that uncertainty quickly bled away as you squared your shoulders and the room went silent.

(You might have told them ahead of time what you were planning.)

“Natalia Romanova, you are my heart. My soul. You are sunshine on a rainy day and a fireplace in winter. Every moment of life with you has been a blessing and every fucking—oops, shit, sorry, Wanda told me not to swear during this,” you muttered, clearing your throat even as your hands trembled, “Every day, I fall more and more in love with you… and I want to spend every second of every minute of every day with you for the rest of our lives.”

You dropped to one knee, fumbling the box out of your pocket.

“Tasha, will you mar—”

“Wait.” Tony’s chair scraped across the floor as he rose, swaying slightly, face flush with indignation and too much whiskey. “You shouldn’t do this until you know what she’s been doing.”

Pepper hissed his name and reached for his arm but he waved her off.

“Wanda started the whole thing,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely towards the brunette. “Bragging about how she has Victor trained like some goddamn lab rat. Sex as a reward when he does something good.” He laughed, though it was strained. “Taught Pepper and Natasha the trick too. But I caught on when she tried those mind games with me. They’ve been manipulating you two idiots for months.”

Natasha’s face paled, fingers slipping from yours where she’d been reaching for the ring box and falling dully in her lap. Her eyes flickered to you, wide and mortified as she waited for the anger, the hurt… for you to take away the box.

The silence in the room was so awkward but even Yelena couldn’t bring herself to break it.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Victor leveled an unimpressed look at Tony. “Tony, I have known for months.” He shrugged. “It’s a good system. I pretend I don’t notice, Wanda is happy, our home is clean and the sex is… exceptional. Why would I blow up a good thing?”

You glanced up from where you were kneeling, smirking at Tony. “You… are a fucking idiot, Stark. Your wife was offering you sex for chores and instead you decided to try and ruin it for us?”

Tony’s glass froze halfway to his mouth as he gaped at you. “You… knew?”

“I’ve known for about a month,” you admitted, shrugging. “I vaguely mentioned it to Victor last month during game night, he explained the whole of it to me, and honestly, it’s a great way to get my dopamine kick.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to you, but the fear on her face cracked away, replaced with stunned disbelief that hurriedly drifted into relief. You weren’t mad. You’d known for a while, but you were still doing the things that helped make her life easier…

Whatever guilt she’d felt about “tricking” you slowly bled out.

Tony sputtered. “You—you knew? Both of you? And you were just… fine with it?”

“Look, Tony, I like you… but your pride sometimes blinds you from the big picture. Nat’s happy and has a clean apartment, I get the dopamine and praise I crave, and we both get to come—uh, sorry.” You shot Natasha’s parents an apologetic smile before your attention returned to Tony. “Why would I willingly screw that up for myself? And instead of enjoying the benefits yourself, you’re sitting here calling us idiots for enjoying… some damn good rewards. Seems like we might be the geniuses here, Stark.”

Shrugging, your gaze shifted back to Natasha as you smiled softly.

“Now, before I was interrupted… Natasha, baby… will you marry me?”

Pepper gripped Tony’s arm and yanked him back into his chair, hissing something under her breath at him that made his ears go red with embarrassment, but no one was really paying him any mind, too busy watching you.

Natasha was nodding before the question even fully left your mouth, her hand reaching for the box. “Yes,” she whispered, voice shaky but so drenched in love it could’ve drowned you. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

She tugged you forward, one hand landing on the box while the other cradled your cheek, pulling you into a deep kiss. Holding you close even as the table exploded into whistles and cheers.

“Give me that damn ring,” she mumbled against your lips, a stray tear or two streaking down her cheek.

“With pleasure.”

You pulled back just enough to flip the box open, hands shaking so hard you nearly dropped the damn thing in your haste, before carefully sliding the ring onto her finger.

“Your dad helped me pick it out,” you murmured, staring at the jewelry like it was the best thing you’d ever bought as you both stood up, admiring it in the light.

“…wait, you asked my dad to help you pick it out?” Her eyes filled with tears.

“She did!” Alexei practically shouted, throwing his arms around you both, “Asked your papa if she could have my blessing too! And I said of course! I tell her, “You make my Natalia happy? You take care of her?” and she says yes. I cry a little bit. Then we took celebration shots!”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.

“…I might’ve thrown up in your mom’s roses. That shit tasted like rubbing alcohol,” you whispered, kissing Natasha’s temple while Alexei dropped back into an unoccupied chair.

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she leaned into your side, pressing her face against your neck. She thought she’d known what perfect was before she met you, but this?

To add to your bad luck, Natasha and Sam join you a little bit after starting the game. Out of all the people you’d like to impress, Natasha is definitely at the top of the list.

“Tell me you bet something big” Sam says, looking around and nodding approvingly.

“You know I don’t do that” Steve says, aiming and getting three more balls. 

You sigh, hoping this can be over quickly.

“In the corner” Natasha says, standing next to you. Your eyes are immediately drawn to her lips, a crimsom lipstick making her features stand out. 

“What?” you say, feeling like it’s almost illegal to look that beautiful. 

“Go for the left corner. Just an advice… if you trust me” she says, and it looks as if she’s trying to backtrack. As if saying something like that is a risk of its own.

“Of course I trust you” you nudge her side, getting ready to follow her advice. It works, because two balls go inside and even if you’e still about to lose, it won’t be such a gigantic defeat. “Can I get you another drink to thank you?”

“You’re not done playing” Sam says when you hand over your pole. But it only takes another shot for Steve to finish and you give him a pointed stare.

After that, you walk behind the bar and ignore the waiter. You’re one of the only people who can get Natasha’s drink right.

“Cheers” you say, sipping your glass of wine as she nods, confirming the martini is perfect. “Thanks for having my back. Nice to not be a total loser”

“Well, you did listen to me. Most people don’t” she smiles, and you lean against the bar.

“I always do. And I trust you, more than anyone” you smile, enjoying the little moment of privacy.

You’re always running around, going on missions, training recruits, filling out paperwork. It’s messy, loud and dirty work to keep the world safe.

But you wonder if at the very least, people like you and Natasha don’t deserve the courtesy of a break from time to time.

“Without knowing me that well?” she half jokes, but you can tell part of her means it.

“I think I know you. Not everything, but enough to feel like… we’re friends. Unless we’re not?” you chuckle nervously.

Truth be told, there’s always someone around when you’re in the same room as Natasha.

“I like to think we are” Natasha eases your nerves, and you take another sip of your wine, hoping it will hide your blush. “And if there’s anything you want to know, there’s my file”

“I don’t care about that” you’re quick to say, because you know what she means. A list of crimes, her infamous ledger.

But that’s not who she is.

“You sure?” 

“What would you like to know about me?” you say, chaning the subject. 

Natasha’s taken aback, and you’re not sure if she’ll just say one of her little jokes and steer the conversation away from an actual talk into safe territory.

“Did you ever have a pet?” she finally says, though she wants to slap herself at the basic question.

But you’re already smiling, remembering the dog you had.

“Rufus. Beagle, extremely food oriented. We had a two second rule in the house, because if you dropped something, that’s how long it would take him to get it. Lived to be 15” 

“Cheers to Rufus” Natasha jokes and you smile, waiting for the next question. “I’m… a little embarrassed to say I’m blanking right now”

“You? The woman who interrogates gangsters for breakfast?” 

“Well, I wasn’t… expecting this”

Which is true. She’s been looking at you, from afar. The way you’ve built your relationships around the team, always smiling and knowing exactly what to say.

Natasha could be like that, but it was mainly the spy in her, knowing how to get the exact outcome she wanted out of every interaction. You always came off as genuine, easy to talk to. It wasn’t an act.

And to be on the focus of that charm, it made Natasha uncharacteristically shy.

“Well, you could think about other questions and we’ll just chat. Like, over dinner? Or coffee, if it’s better for you”

Do you want to ask Natasha out on a date? Yes, since the moment you met her.

But right now, as she’s looking at you so intensely, part of you hesitates. Is it too unprofessional?

“Actually…”

Natasha doesn’t get to finish that sentence, though. Your phone rings and you hum, frowning.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this”

“Yeah, that’s ok” Natasha says, letting out the breath she’d been holding the minute you leave.

Were you asking her out? Or just being polite, like you were with everyone?

Whatever it is, Natasha’s going to take the chance to say yes to your invitation.

Except you don’t return to the party at all, and your phone’s off. 

For the rest of the night, Natasha wonders if she did something wrong.

—

The last thing Natasha ever does is take things personally.

But it’s hard to avoid that feeling when you’ve been gone for the entire day and no one seems to know where you are.

What if you’re in some kind of trouble?

She walks around the Compound, finding your pocket knife and smartwatch safely stored in one of the shelves. You never leave without those, ever.

Fearing something’s seriously wrong, she decides to go on a little private mission. If you’re fine, then she’ll let it be and not bring up anything at all. Natasha prefers to be safe than sorry.

After looking at some of the cameras and tracking your cellphone activity, she pinpoints your location to a nice, unassuming neighborhood outside of the city.

She only hesitates a moment before taking one of her guns with her. And if she goes over the speed limit and runs a couple of red lights? It’s an emergency, and no one will really dare to fine an Avenger.

At this point, she’s memorized the address and it only takes her a short walk from an alley to find the place. It’s just a small house, one floor and a big backyard. A woman is standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a baby as she looks over something in a casserole. 

It all seems so normal, that she hesitates a second longer.

Then, a little girl shouts for her mom, and you appear in the doorway, carrying a laundry basket. You laugh at the small girl, fumbling with the basket and the toy she gave you. 

Natasha can’t hear what is said, but the other woman speaks to you and you roll your eyes, though there is some affection behind the gesture.

Right.

You’re not in danger. 

The redhead retreats, as silently as she came. Except her heart is heavy with something unfamiliar, and she takes the long way back to the Compound.

All she wants is to be alone right now. 

—

First one at the conference room before a mission overview. You look around, sighing.

These chairs suck, and you’re noticing just now. You’re pretty sure Cap chose them, since he barely notices those kind of things. 

It doesn’t help that your back is hurting, from all the stuff you’ve been doing these past few days. 

Just as you’re settling in your seat again, Steve, Sam and Natasha walk in the conference room. 

You smile at her, happy to see her but all you get is a small glance.

“Nice to see you again” Steve says.

“Thanks. Had some stuff to do” you say, not providing any more details. However, you can’t help but grimace as you move in the chair.

“Did you hurt your back training?” Steve asks, concerned. 

“Or doing something else?” Sam jumps in before you can answer, his playful tone implying a not so innocent activity. You glare, and Natasha interrupts, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

“Let’s just review the mission, yes?”

“Right. We need access to Sokolov’s communications. He’s having a party at his mansion. You’ll infiltrate. Natasha as a guest, Y/N as part of the catering staff” Steve explains, handing over two files.

“So Nat gets to have fun while I serve hors d'oeuvres” you joke, but Natasha just nods, standing up.

“Gotta get changed” 

You’re about to stand up and follow her, but Steve asks you to stay. You can’t help but feel like you’re being called to the principal’s office.

“Everything ok with you?”

“Yeah. It was just… some family stuff. I’m fine” 

“Want to get some medical clearance before leaving?”

“No, I just carried some heavy stuff” you say, avoiding the subject. “Do you know… is Natasha ok? She seemed quiet”

“She’s always quiet. Well…” he’s about to say something but then shakes his head.

“What? Come on, say it, Rogers” you push him and he smiles.

“I was going to say except when she’s around you. But I think you’ve already noticed”

“Ha. Nice one, grandpa” you pat his shoulder, leaving the room.

—

It’s a fancy party, but you’re not expecting anything less from a Russian mercenary. You’re stationed at the bar, making drinks and engaging in small talk with attendees. This is actually not such a bad cover, as you can gather intel. After all, people are coming to you to get even more drunk than they already are, and they think you’re just a bartender.

In the end, you and Natasha drove separately. It didn’t make sense for a party guest to arrive at the same time as a staff member. You were really hoping to at least get a chance to ask if she was ok. Maybe something happened while you were away. Of course, you had your phone with you, but Natasha tended to isolate herself. If she was going through something, you would always…

“Can I get a dirty martini?” a voice says, stopping your spiraling thoughts. 

The moment you look up, you feel like the world stops moving. Natasha’s wearing a green dress, her hair arranged in a side swept that gives off an old Hollywood vibe. 

“Right away” you fumble with the bottles of alcohol, the guy working at your side giving you an angry stare. 

You work in silence for a few moments, tempted to look at her again. Once you’re done with the drink, you slide it over. She discreetly passes a comm as your hands connect.

“When I mentioned a night out, this isn’t what I had in mind” you try to joke, but she shuts it down quickly. 

“Don’t you think it would be highly inappropriate?”

“I… what?” you look at her, confused.

Is it because you work together?

Had you crossed a line?

But before you can ask what does she mean, Natasha walks away from the bar, mingling with the crowd, and out to look for Sokolov.

The plan is to catch his eye, and make him take her back to his private office. You hate the idea, but it’s not your choice to make.

Even more so now, that you seem to know less about Natasha than you thought.

—

This isn’t going to work. Natasha’s too distracted to focus on the mission, which is incredibly dangerous. She’s surrounded by criminals who would not hesitate to kill two Avengers if your cover was blown. 

The problem is, she can’t help but go over your secret. It’s not the fact that you’re married with kids and keeping it hidden from the rest of the team. That’s exactly what Clint did, and his reasons were completely valid.

What she can’t understand is why the hell were you flirting with her, even going as far as asking her out. Were you doing it so people thought you were single?

The other choice seemed less likely, but Natasha couldn’t help but wonder… were you ok with cheating on your wife?

The Russian is pulled back to reality when Sokolov approaches her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met” he says, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.

Natasha has to supress a groan and the urge to kill him right there.

“Creep” you mumble through the comms. “I’ll be right there with his special drink”

There’s a sedative in his vodka, and you’re tempted to slip a little more than recommended. Still, you stick to the plan and walk over to where the man is speaking with Natasha.

He barely glances your way when he takes the drink. Natasha grabs the glass of red wine you’re offering. You know she’s not supposed to look at you or even acknolwedge your presence, but it still hurts you a little that she’s giving you the cold shoulder.

From your place at the bar, you see them talking and then Natasha spills wine on his white suit. The man makes a face that quickly turns into a smirk when Natasha grabs his hand. According to plan, she’s probably suggesting they go to his studio.

You’re ready to kill him when you catch his hand going down Natasha’s back. 

God damn it.

What if he doesn’t fall asleep immediately? What if he tries to touch her? 

“Where are you going?” the guy at the bar says.

“To get more ice” you lie, following them to the study. 

You wait a minute before you barge in the door, and both Sokolov and Natasha turn to look at you, alarmed. He’s standing too close for your liking.

“Get the fuck out of here” he says, slurring his words. So, the sedative is working. 

Still, you don’t know what comes over you when you walk up to him and knock him down with a single punch.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Natasha says, pushing you.

“That was faster” you shrug your shoulders, inspecting your hand. 

“You idiot! This is not the plan. You’re putting us both in danger” she pushes you again, and you take her by the wrist.

“I didn’t like how he was touching you! I hated every second of it, ok? I hate that you have to put yourself out there during missions” 

“You’re such an idiot” Natasha slaps your hand away, cursing under her breath as she begins to hack into his systems. “I can’t bug the place now, because he’ll know we were agents. Best I can manage is steal the information he already has”

“I’m sorry” you say, trying to walk up to her.

“Stay away from me”

“Why are you so mad at me?”

“Because” she says, clinching her jaw and looking at the computer screen.

“Because…”

“I’m not just some cover you can use so people don’t know about your family. And I’m certainly not a fun little affair you can have whenever you feel like it”

“Wow, wow, what the hell are you talking about?” you say, raising your hands in confusion. 

“Your wife seems lovely” is all Natasha says, finishing with the files. “I’m done here. You stay, and if you do anything stupid again, I’m not helping”

“What wife? Natasha, I’m very confused” you plead, blocking her way.

“Move”

“I’m not married!” you insist. 

“And those were definitely not your kids? The oldest one even looks like you. You have a lot of nerve…”

“Wait, are you talking about my nieces?” you say, suddenly understanding at least a fraction of what’s happening.

Unfortunately for you, one of the security guards walks in, and it only takes a glance before he sees his boss on the floor, unconscious.

“Go get the car, I’ll meet you by the exit” you push Natasha away, knowing she’s faster and has a better chance of getting out. 

Before the guard can call for backup, you throw a punch to his throat, rendering him speechless. The gun slips from his hand and you kick it away. The moment people hear gunshots, it will become chaos.

The man throws you to a coffee table that shatters and you crawl around the glass, small cuts in your arms. The effort made him drop to his knees, and you force yourself up, holding a shard of glass that you stab directly into his neck.

“Shit” you say, noticing he was holding a small knife and he managed to stab you with it as you killed him.

With a new sense of urgency, you leave the study, hoping Natasha decided to wait for you. Sticking to the back of the room, you leave the main hall, and go out the back. You can feel blood dripping down your side. It’s not so bad but you’re definitely feeling dizzy, the rush of adrenaline beginning to wear off.

“What now?” you say when you almost get run over by a black Mercedes Benz. Natasha stares at you, still looking angry. “You sure? Don’t want to leave blood stains” 

“Get in the damn car” she says when she notices the stab wound.

“I don’t want to die” you mutter when she drives at full speed. “And the Compound is that way”

“We’re too far away, and you’re bleeding out. I know a place”

“I’m not bleeding…”

“Stop talking” she says. Natasha doesn’t shout, doesn’t curse.

No, her tone is ice cold and that’s somehow ten times scarier.

So, you keep your mouth shut, making pressure on the wound to slow down the bleeding.

Fifteen minutes later, Natasha turns left into a hidden path, and she drives for another five minutes until you spot a small cabin.

“Safe house?” 

All she does is nod, parking and getting out of the car to help you.

“I got it” you ease her, limping towards the door. 

“Where else are you hurt?” 

“Just the stomach, don’t worry” you say, sitting down while she gets the supplies she needs from a small bathroom. 

“There’s no anesthetic” she informs you when you lose your white shirt and you grimace.

“I’ll be fine” 

But honestly? You wanna cry the minute she starts to stitch you up, and you hold your breath, anticipating the feel of the neddle piercing your skin.

“I’m sorry” she says after you let out a whine.

“It’s my fault. You’re right. I ruined everything” you shake your head. On top of getting stabbed, you’re going to have to deal with Steve’s reprimand. Honestly, you can’t blame him after the stupid stunt you pulled.

“If I had asked… instead of assuming things. Maybe you wouldn’t have been so sensitive” she says, finishing with the last stitch. “Let me see your arms”

You let her work in silence, removing small pieces of glass that are stuck in your skin. 

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“I… was worried about you, the day after the party. So I tried to find you. I mean, I did find you, at that house, with the kid calling you mom”

“That’s Katie, my two year old niece. She can only say the word mom, so she calls everyone that. Including her father, also know as my brother in law. The idiot insists he can clean the gutters and then breaks his leg” you sigh, looking down at the wound. 

That’s going to leave a scar.

“So the woman is your sister” Natasha nods, feeling incredibly stupid.

Talk about jumping to conclusions.

“Yeah. Had to go help for a few days before our mom arrived to take over. That’s why my back was killing me. I had a toddler asking for piggy back rides while I was lulling her little sister to sleep” 

“I feel so…”

“Don’t” you take her hand, smiling as she sighs. “I wanted to tell you. I just… I know it’s safer to keep our families hidden. But all the time, I just kept thinking that I wish you knew. Because they’re such a huge part of who I am and I wanted to share it…”

“Of course”

“I like you” you blurt out. “Sorry, I might have a concussion”

“I like you too. And I’m pretty sure I don’t have a concussion, for what is worth” Natasha says, helping you out of the bloody shirt and handing over a SHIELD t-shirt she found in a closet. “Are you feeling better?”

“Maybe. There’s one thing that would really help” you say, frowning as you take Natasha’s hand.

“Painkillers?”

“Go out on a date with me” you shake your head, smiling as she blushes.

“Not the concussion talking?”

“Nope. Been meaning to ask you for a while now”

“I’d love to” Natasha agrees, and you throw your fist in the air, regretting it a second later.

“Fuck, that hurt”

—

The narrative changes slightly. For all Steve knows, you saved Natasha from the mercenary and got valuable intel.

Under the excuse of helping you move, Natasha wraps her arm around your waist, your own over her shoulders as you walk back to the rooms.

“Heard you got stabbed” Sam comments as you pass him.

“Yeap” you say.

“Then how come you look so happy?” he insists and all you can do is shrug your shoulders.

Natasha walks you to your room, reminding you of the medicine you have to take, but all you do is pull her to lay by your side, happy to feel her next to you.

“No more missions with ugly guys all over you” you kiss her forehead and she melts against you.

“We’ll send Barnes next time”

“Yeah, let’s see how well they do if they try to kiss him”

“So about that dinner…”

“How about takeout and a movie until I’m better? And then I promise I’ll take you to the best place in New York”

“You got yourself a deal” she looks at you, and you raise your eyebrows, hoping she’ll say something else.

Instead, Natasha leans forward, connecting your lips in a short kiss.

“Stalker” you joke and she pinches you.

“You almost got us killed because you got jealous” 

“And you know what? I’d punch him harder next time”

With a small laugh, Natasha goes back to resting her head against your shoulder, happy when you kiss her temple.

“It was kinda hot, though” she admits, which makes you laugh until your side hurts.

It’s late enough that it feels like you are the only people. 

You’re both in the common area, not really doing anything. Natasha’s perched sideways on the couch, scrolling on her phone, bare feet tucked under her. She looks relaxed.  

You pass behind her to grab a glass of water and catch it. 

Her scent. 

It stops you mid-step. 

Before you can think better of it, you mumble, almost to yourself, “You smell really good.” 

Natasha doesn’t look up right away. 

There’s a beat. 

Then she smiles. 

Slow. Knowing. Like she’s just been handed a loaded weapon. 

“Mm,” she hums, finally lifting her eyes to you, “Do I?” 

You nod, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing, “Yeah. Just... yeah.” 

She tilts her head, studying you with open amusement, lips twitching like she’s holding back a laugh, “That’s cute.” 

You frown, “Cute?” 

She slips her phone away and leans back into the couch, relaxed, playful, “You said it like you didn’t mean to. I like that.” 

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but she beats you to it. 

“I taste even better,” she adds lightly, like she’s commenting on the weather. 

Your brain short-circuits. 

Natasha laughs, soft, pleased, clearly enjoying herself now, “Wow,” she says, “That reaction alone was worth it.” 

She stands, brushing past you on purpose, shoulder bumping yours, “Relax. I’m teasing.” 

Then, just before she walks away, she glances back at you with a grin. 

“…mostly.” 

And you’re left there, glass of water forgotten, wondering how she does that so effortlessly. 

Soft, but firm in its hold. Warm in a way that feels familiar, though you can’t quite grasp why.

Your eyelids are too heavy to lift, and your body refuses every silent order to move, but none of that matters, not when the only thing that cuts through the haze is the steady, gentle pressure around your fingers. 

It becomes your lifeline, the one constant as everything else shifts around you. Like how you’d hear voices that are muffled, worried, and disappearing too quickly to follow. Or how the light behind your eyelids would brighten or dim for specific periods of the day. Or how the air around you turns cold, then warm again as blankets are adjusted.

But the hand never leaves.

Even when the darkness feels like it might swallow you whole, that touch grounds you. Comforts you. Urges you onward.

At some distant moment in time, you manage to gather enough strength to twitch your fingers. The effort is monumental, but you curl them weakly, instinctively, around the hand holding yours.

And the response is instantaneous.

A startled, tightening clasp, as though the person noticed and poured all their relief into your shared touch. But exhaustion pulls you down again before you can make sense of the voices that fill the room, words blurred into nothing as you slip back into the quiet.

The next time you surface feels different.

Your mind is slow to steady itself, but the fog isn’t as thick. Your eyelids, though still heavy, respond when you will them open, fluttering weakly before letting in dim, muted light. 

The room comes into view in fragmented pieces: pale walls, medical monitors, the faint beeping of a heart—your heart, you realize. You’re in a medical facility, though the reason sits just out of reach, frustratingly blurred and slippery.

You take a breath. Then another. The ache in your body tells you you’re alive, even if the “how” is lost somewhere in the dark.

So you focus on what you do know.

The warmth around your hand is still there. The same hand that’s been your constant companion through the void.

You turn your head carefully, and the first thing your eyes land on is red hair, soft and tousled, cascading over a woman’s arm where she sleeps with her head resting on the edge of the bed. Her face looks like she fought sleep for hours before finally succumbing to it, still leaning toward you as though terrified to be too far away.

Your gaze drifts to your joined hands, hers enveloping yours, fingers curled protectively around your palm.

Using what little strength you have, you move your fingers again.

It’s barely a twitch.

But she reacts as if you’d shouted.

Her head snaps up, eyes wide and stunned as they lock onto yours. For a moment, she doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe. She looks disbelieving, hopeful, and afraid, all at once.

“You’re awake,” she whispers, like the words are too fragile to speak too loudly.

Your throat is a desert, so you manage only a faint nod.

She releases your hand, and for a fleeting second, you mourn the loss of that warm contact. But then she reaches for a cup on the bedside table, lifting it with trembling hands. She slips an arm behind your shoulders just enough to help you drink, bringing the water to your lips and tipping it slowly so you don’t choke.

The first sip feels like heaven.

After a few more, she pauses, searching your expression before setting the cup aside.

“How do you feel?” she asks softly, and the gentleness in her voice makes something in your chest ache with a familiarity you can’t place. As though you’ve heard that tone directed at you many times before.

“Tired,” you rasp. Your head throbs, a dull pounding behind your temples. “And…a little dizzy.”

Her brows pull together with visible concern, and she straightens as if preparing to go find help.

“I’ll call the doctor—”

“Wait.”

Your voice is weak, but your grip on her hand is firm enough to stop her. She turns back immediately, eyes filled with worry.

You swallow, suddenly aware of how strange this moment feels—how intimate, how weighted. You can feel the sincerity radiating off her, the fear, the relief…and yet—

Yet your mind is blank.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” you begin slowly, choosing your words as gently as you can, “but… who are you?”

The effect is immediate.

Her eyes widen, the color draining from her face. Shock pours over her expression before something far more fragile takes its place—something like heartbreak. She pulls her hand from yours as if your touch suddenly burned her.

Her fingers hover where yours had been, trembling faintly, but she doesn’t reach for you again.

Not after that. Not when it’s clear you don’t remember her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Recovery is not a single moment of triumph. It’s a drawn-out process of patience and frustration. Once you’re fully awake, the days blur together in a cycle of medical checkups, physical therapy sessions, and endless monitoring. Your body slowly relearns its limits, your strength returns piece by piece, and the dull ache of healing becomes familiar. 

Through it all, your teammates are there—checking in, teasing you, hovering just enough to be reassuring without smothering you.

Everyone is present in some way.

Everyone except one person.

Natasha Romanoff.

You relearn her name through conversation rather than memory. Through passing mentions, careful pauses, and looks exchanged between teammates when you ask about her. You learn that shortly after your doctor cleared you to resume normal activity, she left on a mission.

Then another.

Then another.

Back-to-back assignments with barely any downtime in between. Whenever you return to the Compound, she’s already gone or just leaving. And on the rare occasion your paths almost cross, it feels as though she’s deliberately slipping through your fingers.

Avoiding you. That realization settles uncomfortably in your chest.

You’re alone in your room now, standing in front of the small collection of framed photos lining the dresser. You don’t remember choosing any of them, but they all share one constant.

Her.

In one picture, you’re seated side by side on a couch, her arm slung around behind on the chair as you lean into her. In another, the two of you are mid-laughter, faces turned toward each other as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. And then there’s one photo you keep coming back to.

You reach out, fingers brushing the cool glass.

In it, your arm is wrapped securely around her waist, pulling her closer into frame. She looks mildly surprised, caught mid-moment, but there’s a small smile tugging at her lips as she looks at you—not at the camera. 

You trace the outline of her face through the glass, your chest tightening.

This is the woman who stayed by your side while you were unconscious. The woman whose hand you remember holding yours in the dark. And now she’s gone, physically present in your life only through still images and unanswered questions.

You want your memories back more than anything.

You hate this hollow space where you know she should be.

With a quiet sigh, you let your hand fall. If Natasha won’t—or can’t—tell you what the two of you were to each other, then you’ll have to find out another way.

The kitchen is warm and familiar when you step into it, the smell of coffee and protein powder lingering in the air. Steve is already there, halfway through his usual morning routine, pouring his post-workout drink with the same movements he’s always had.

“Hey, Steve,” you say, sliding onto one of the barstools.

He looks up immediately, eyes scanning you with practiced concern. 

“Hey. How’re you feeling today?”

“Better,” you answer honestly. Physically, at least. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he says easily, lifting his cup for a sip.

You hesitate for half a second, then ask, “What was Natasha’s and my relationship like?”

The reaction is immediate.

Steve chokes, sputtering as he hastily lowers his cup, coughing into his fist. 

“Uh—” He clears his throat, suddenly very invested in the countertop. “Maybe that’s something you should ask her.”

That response tells you enough that there’s something.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. 

“I would,” you say quietly, “but she’s never here. And when she is, it feels like she’s avoiding me before leaving again.”

Steve’s expression softens, sympathy flickering across his face. He crosses his arms, shifting his weight as though bracing himself. After a moment, he exhales.

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to you. “You two were close.”

You give him a flat look. 

“I figured that much, Cap.”

“No,” he says, meeting your eyes now. “I mean… close.”

The implication settles heavily between you.

Your breath catches. “Like—together?”

Steve hesitates. Then hums uncertainly. 

“I don’t know the exact details. You two kept things pretty private. Never officially said anything.”

Your brows knit together. 

“Then how did you know?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck, his ears tinged pink. 

“I walked in on a conversation once. Natasha was upset. She said you hadn’t been…touching her since she got back from a mission.”

Heat floods your face, embarrassment mixing with something sharper—guilt. Understanding dawns slowly.

If you and Natasha were romantically involved, then of course, your memory loss would hurt. Of course, seeing you struggle to recognize her would be unbearable. Almost losing you once probably killed her. Losing you again like this might be worse.

You swallow, staring down at your hands.

How are you supposed to face her now?

Steve notices your expression and softens his tone. 

“She’s coming back today,” he adds gently. “You always used to be there when she returned.”

Before the injury. Before the memory loss.

You slide off the stool, offering him a small, grateful smile. 

“Thanks, Steve.”

He nods. “Hey, no matter what happens,” he says firmly, “she’ll be happy to see you.”

You hope he’s right.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You wait by the far wall of the hangar bay, hands shoved deep into your pockets, shoulders tense as the wide space echoes with distant mechanical hums. The smell of fuel and metal hangs thick in the air, familiar yet strangely hollow. You tell yourself you’re here because Steve suggested it, since it’s what you used to do.

Not because you want to. Not because your chest feels so tight you can’t ignore it.

The roar of quinjet engines swells overhead, rattling the hangar as the aircraft descends. Your heart stutters as the landing gear hits the ground, the sound reverberating through your bones. You straighten instinctively, breath catching as the ramp begins to lower.

And then you see her.

Natasha Romanoff steps off the quinjet, red hair pulled back, shoulders slightly slumped with exhaustion. There’s a weariness to her that goes deeper than a long mission, something heavy in a way that makes your chest ache.

You swallow hard and force your feet to move.

Each step toward her feels unnatural, like walking toward someone you’re supposed to know but don’t. By the time you stop in front of her, your nerves have completely taken over.

“H—hey, Natasha,” you say, lifting your hand in a small, uncertain wave that feels ridiculous the moment you do it. The smile you offer is weak and apologetic.

You feel like a hug would be more appropriate for welcoming her home, but you’re not sure if you should. Not with the way that you are.

Instead, you fold your arms around yourself, seeking comfort in your own grip, as if bracing for impact.

Her head snaps up at your voice, surprise flashing briefly across her face. Her eyes flicker over you. It’s clinical at first, like she’s checking for injuries, for signs that you’re okay.

Then her gaze drops to your arms, tightly crossed over your chest.

Something shifts in her expression.

The tiredness deepens. The light fades. She looks away almost immediately, jaw tightening as if she’s swallowed something sharp.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

It’s quiet. Flat. And it hurts far more than you expect it to.

You notice her hands flex at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling like she’s restraining herself from doing something or stopping herself. The sight fills you with guilt. You feel like you’ve cornered her, ambushed her with your presence when she clearly wasn’t ready for it.

Your chest tightens painfully.

So this is what it feels like to be unwanted.

Even without memories, the rejection sinks deep. Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them, emotion spilling over without logic or explanation.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, brushing hastily at your eyes.

Her gaze snaps back to you instantly, concern flashing through the sadness as she notices the tears. Her brows knit together, confusion etched across her face.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

“Steve told me about us,” you say quietly, arms tightening around yourself as if you’re holding yourself together. “About…our relationship.”

Her frown deepens, head tilting slightly. There’s something unmistakably confused in her expression now, almost puzzled, but you don’t stop to question it. You don’t wait for her to respond.

You can’t.

Because the weight of what you think you’ve lost is suddenly too much to bear.

“I really am sorry, Natasha,” you say, voice breaking as you turn away from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Before she can say anything. Before you can process the look on her face, you hurry away, leaving the echo of your footsteps and a woman standing frozen in the hangar, staring after you with too many unspoken words between you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You lie curled on your side, staring blankly at the wall as you clutch the pillow tighter to your chest. It’s been hours since you retreated to your room—hours of replaying the scene in the hangar over and over again, each time wincing at your own awkwardness.

The way you stood there.

The way you apologized to her.

The look on her face when you did.

Your grip tightens on the pillow as the familiar spiral of self-criticism resurfaces.

How did you even manage to get someone like her to care about you in the first place?

A soft knock sounds at your door.

You don’t move.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow, as if that alone might block out the world. You’re not ready to see anyone. Not yet. Not after all that.

The knock comes again. Firmer this time.

You groan quietly, dragging yourself out of bed with reluctant limbs. Fine. You’ll tell them you’re tired. That you need space. That you—

The door slides open before you can finish forming the excuse.

Natasha stands in the doorway.

Your breath catches.

She looks different now, less guarded, more raw. The exhaustion you noticed earlier hasn’t faded, but now it’s joined by something heavier in her eyes. 

“First off,” she says immediately, cutting off whatever you were about to say, “Steve’s an idiot.”

You blink, not expecting that comment about the super soldier.

“He shouldn’t have told you things he wasn’t sure of,” she continues, voice sharp but controlled.

Your lips part, stunned into silence. You weren’t prepared for this—weren’t prepared for her to be here at all, let alone saying that.

“And second,” she adds, softer now but no less firm, “you have nothing to apologize for.”

She pauses, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting to meet yours again. Guilt flickers across her face.

“It’s my fault you got hurt in the first place.”

You shake your head slowly, trying to catch up to the conversation, but you’re still stuck on the first part. 

“So…” you start hesitantly, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “we weren’t…?”

Natasha’s expression softens. There’s something wistful in her smile as she shakes her head.

“No,” she says quietly. “We weren’t together.”

You frown, disappointment but mostly confusion knotting in your chest. 

“But Steve said you were upset that one time because I wasn’t touching you.”

A small, breathy laugh escapes her.

“That,” she says, “was when you stopped touching me because you were worried about my past. And I had to explain that…I like when you touch me.”

Heat rushes to your face at her words. 

“You make it sound like I touch you all the time,” you mutter, suddenly very aware of how close she’s standing.

The look she gives you, filled with fondness and warmth, makes your heart stutter.

“It’s one of the things I love about you,” she says gently.

Your eyes widen at her words, not sure if she meant them in the way that made your heart skip when hearing them.

Before you can respond, her hands flex at her sides, the same nervous motion you noticed earlier. Then, with a small exhale, she steps forward, closing the space between you, and lifts her arms around you.

She pulls you into a tight embrace.

“I love you,” she whispers into your hair.

For a moment, you’re frozen, heart pounding and breath shallow. Then something inside you clicks.

This feels familiar. 

Her arms around you. The way you fit together so naturally. Safe. Secure. Like this is where you’re meant to be.

Your hands lift on instinct, wrapping around her as you press closer, tucking yourself against her shoulder.

And then the memories rush back in fragments and flashes.

Meeting her for the first time and pulling her into an embrace without hesitation. Standing beside her while others kept their distance. The ease of touching her—hands on her arms, her waist, her back—never questioned, never resisted.

Greeting her every time she came home from a mission.

Holding her when the world felt too heavy.

How could you ever forget someone like this?

A quiet huff of disbelief escapes you as you pull back just enough to look at her.

“Welcome home, Natasha,” you say softly, tightening the hug again.

Her eyes widen, shock giving way to something bright and fragile.

“You—?” she starts.

You nod.

“I remember,” you tell her gently. Your hands move automatically, rubbing slow, soothing patterns along her arms. “I remember everything. And I told you—you don’t have to be afraid.”

Relief crashes over her face. Her gaze searches yours, then drifts to your lips.

You don’t rush her. You wait.

With a steady breath, she leans in and kisses you.

It’s tentative at first, like she’s still asking permission, but when you smile against her lips, her hands tighten, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens.

You’re so caught up in the moment that you don’t hear the footsteps outside your door.

“Hey, I wanted to apologize about earlier—uh.”

You break apart as Steve freezes mid-sentence. But Natasha doesn’t let go of you.

“All good, Steve,” she says calmly, reaching behind her to slide the door shut in his face.

She turns back to you, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“Now, where were we?”

You smirk, your hand gliding from her shoulder to her chest as you guide her backward until she sits on the edge of the bed. You follow her down, settling comfortably in her lap, legs bracketing her hips.

Your hands trace along her sides, dipping just beneath the hem of her top, your touch light and familiar.

“I believe you said you love my touch,” you murmur teasingly. “I think we should test just how much.”

Her answering smile tells you everything you need to know.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

If someone asked you about the day that you figured out Natasha could speak more than one language, you would tell them that you simply passed away. You went into cardiac arrest, died, and then were resurrected moments later because you had unfinished business to attend to on Earth (hearing your girlfriend finish her sentence). Your eyes widened, your mouth dropped open, and your heartbeat skyrocketed as you witnessed her seamlessly switch from English to German during a work call for the first time.

“Say something to me in French.”

“Mon amour, ma douce, je t’adore. Ta beauté est infinie. Je ne sais pas te résister.”

“Do Italian now.”

“Con piacere, amore mio, sei magnifica, lo sai? Ti amerò per sempre.”

“What about Russian?”

“Moya prekrasnaya dorogaya, ya budu govorit’ s toboy na lyubom yazyke kakom ty pozhelavesh’, lish’ by uvidet’ vyrazhenive tvoyego litsa.”

You don’t know what she’s saying, but you’re positively melting.

Every language that comes out of Natasha’s mouth never fails to impress you, but the last one is certainly something else. It isn’t just way her lips wrap around the Russian syllables, the vowels and consonants dripping off her tongue almost sinfully. It’s how she speaks it. Familiarly, warmly, intimately… like despite the distance between her and the country, despite the history, there’s a small part of it that’s still considered home.

You whine quietly to yourself as you feel a fresh gush of wetness come from Natasha’s already leaking pussy, her walls spasming around your fingers, gripping you firmly, making it hard for you to withdraw just so you can push back in.

Natasha’s own moans are loud as they echo through the trailer, the usual quiet of the forest, the trees and the snow, replaced by her insuppressible exclamations of pure pleasure.

Ever since that night she fucked you outside, your back pressed against the cold of the trailer wall, things have been different—better. She didn’t just fuck you. She came back to you.

Natasha has had a newfound drive to keep you close… and ‘close’ doesn’t just mean physically anymore. It’s no longer her walking partially in front of you, her back almost flush against your chest, to block you from the view of others. It’s no longer her requiring you to always remain in the same room with her so she can defend you if necessary.

Your girlfriend has returned.

And you feel like you know her again.

Specifically, you know how her brow creases ever so slightly when she’s going to come, you know how her hips begin bucking instead of rolling when she’s about to tip over the edge, you know how her hands scrabble to grasp at the sheets in a feeble attempt to ground herself when she’s getting to her peak. You know her, and everything about her right now is screaming that she’s going to fall apart momentarily.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, right there,” she chokes out.

It takes just a few more seconds of your intentional motions, the deliberate curling of your fingers to reach that one spot inside her with every thrust, and Natasha’s hips stutter, her breathing stutters, everything around her seems to stutter to a stop as her climax spreads gradually through her body, washing over her in waves.

You took your time tonight, telling her to lay back on the bed and relax, teasing her, edging her, building her up only to keep her release just out of reach, So, when you finally give it to her…

Natasha’s voice turns more high-pitched, becomes more breathy, needy. “Blyat,” is all she whimpers at first.

It’s just one word, easy to look over, and you almost miss it—it almost doesn’t register that it’s Russian—but then she speaks again as her undoing continues.

“Blyat, blyat, detka. Blyat, tak khorosho, ty tak khorosho,” It’s babbled, thrown out into the air haphazardly. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying really. She definitely doesn’t realize that she’s fallen back into her native tongue.

And oh, oh, she’s never done that before.

Your ministrations falter as you study her, eyes now fixated on her mouth, hoping she’ll let out another stream of Russian words.

Natasha whines at your stopping. “Pozhaluysta,” she begs, eyes clenched shut, hips still trying to rock against your hand, “Pozhaluysta, yeshche.”

You have absolutely no idea what she’s saying, but you need to hear her do it again.

Once she’s just aware enough to be able to listen to you, her breathing still made up of shuddering inhales and exhales, you voice the idea you have brewing.

“I was thinking…” you murmur, tone tentative, “We should play a little game tonight.”

“A game?” she asks, panting slightly, eyes still closed.

You nod even though she can’t see you. “Yeah, a game.”

You’re silent for a few moments, a little unsure of how to approach this with her, but eventually, you build up the courage. “How about you speak Russian tonight. Just Russian.”

Natasha’s eyes open lazily to gaze up at you. She knew you liked languages, but this?

Yet the look on your face, heated and hopeful, cheeks flushed with desire, pupils blown wide as you stare at her like she’s the only thing you’re ever going to be capable of seeing… her body unconsciously clenches around your fingers that are still comfortably situated within her. Okay, yeah, she can play this game.

“Okay,” she breathes out, agreeing.

You give her a small smile, and then, now with her permission, you resume. But you don’t go slow. No, you need Russian to spill from her lips as soon as possible, and your fingers begin to bury themselves back inside her with increased effort.

“Fuck!” Natasha cries out at the sudden change from a standstill to a fast pace, but her body immediately reacts positively, back arching off the bed, eyes rolling, hips rising to meet you.

“Natasha,” you scold, slowing down to a more languid speed, allowing her to gain her bearings, “What did we just talk about?”

“B-blyat,” she switches in a weak endeavor, her mind too preoccupied with what you’re doing, with your two fingers rhythmically disappearing into her hole again and again, “Blyat, fuck, blyat.”

“I know your Russian is better than that,” you coo.

“I’m- shit, I’m trying. But it’s not easy when-”

You fully stop moving when she speaks in English, and Natasha’s hips begin shifting more desperately, attempting to grind down and get any stimulation from you she can, to convince you to please move.

“Russian,” you command softly, ignoring her visible need, and only when she gives you a jerky nod in response do your fingers start up again.

It’s hard—with the pleasure-induced haze you’ve put her in, her brain not working at full capacity, the feverish heat radiating throughout her body overtaking her senses—but she does her best.

“Dorogaya, vot tak, vot tak.”

“Mne nuzhno- mne nuzhno- mne nuzhno-”

“Ne ostanavlivaysya. Pozhaluysta, ya seychas-”

You still can’t understand her, but the words are falling from her mouth more rapidly, brokenly, almost sobbed out, and when she begins to stammer, unable to finish her sentences, you can tell that she’s almost there again.

Your thumb rises to swipe against her clit, just two times, and then you’re firmly pressing down on the swollen bundle of nerves, rubbing over it in small, quick circles.

Her release this time isn’t soft, it isn’t gentle. It’s no longer a wave that rolls over and over her in light ripples. It’s a flood that crashes. Hard, fast, and fierce. Her entire body begins shaking with the force of her release, her thighs clenching shut, trapping your hand between them, trapping your two fingers inside her as you continue to pump in and out despite her overstimulated avoidance, slower but purposeful, elongating her release.

Natasha forgets she even knows how to speak English.

Translations in order:

“Mon amour, ma douce, je t’adore. Ta beauté est infinie. Je ne sais pas te résister.” -> “My love, my darling, I adore you. Your beauty is infinite. I can’t resist you.”

“Con piacere, amore mio. Sei magnifica, lo sai? Ti amerò per sempre.” -> “With pleasure, my love. You are magnificent, you know? I will love you forever.”

“Moya prekrasnaya dorogaya, ya budu govorit’ s toboy na lyubom yazyke kakom ty pozhelavesh’, lish’ by uvidet’ vyrazhenive tvoyego litsa.” -> “My beautiful darling, I will speak to you in any language you wish, just to see the expression on your face.”

“Blyat.” -> “Fuck.”

“Blyat, blyat, detka. Blyat, tak khorosho, ty tak khorosho.” -> “Fuck, fuck, baby. Fuck, so good, you’re so good.”

“Pozhaluysta. Pozhaluysta, yeshche.” -> “Please, please, more.”

“B-blyat. Blyat, fuck, blyat.” -> “F-fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Dorogaya, vot tak, vot tak.” -> “Darling, like that, like that.”

“Mne nuzhno- mne nuzhno- mne nuzhno-” -> “I need- I need- I need-”