AN: DO NOT BE ALARMED! I know things look different but lets just call it spring cleaning. I hit the 100 link limit so things had to change. So without further ado welcome to the Mini Masterlist hub aka the Mega Masterlist. Choose a path whether it be Marvel, WWE, Halloween, DC, or ETC. ; find something you like and get all comfy cozy.
Make a request if you’d like, ask me a question, say hi or don't that's okay! Reblogs, likes, comments are always appreciated ! You can also checkout any of my incorrect quotes/text post under #Lowkeyerror incorrect quotes . Hope you enjoy !
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MINI MASTERLISTS
Marvel Edition | Marvel Edition 2
Here you can find Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, and More
DC Edition
Here you're going to find Harley Quinn, Poision Ivy and More
ETC. Edition
Here you're going to find mostly one off pieces or things I couldn't group. Cheryl Blossom, Quinn Fabray, and the Harry Potter fics are in here, amongst others.
WWE Edition
Here you can find Charlotte Flair, Liv Morgan, and More
Halloween Edition
Here you can find the pieces from my Halloween special which will definitely be a seasonal thing. Halloween themed imagines for all characters will be under this section.
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Notes: Threats of violence, mentions of corruption, improper use of court jargon, that's all I think
Summary: The end of your trial
An: We're getting to the end of the road 2 or 3 more chapters left.
Series Masterlist | Masterlist 1 | Masterlist 2
The court room seems more daunting without Wanda in. You feel smaller without her around. Your friends are still there, Natasha still by your side. The difference today is Carol, Agatha, and Rio, are also sitting with the public.
Seeing them here does help ease some of your nerves. You try to focus on what's happening in the room but your mind keeps drifting.
Your attention doesn't snap back until they call you up to the stand. It seems like the small amount of noise that was in the room left. The sound of your chair sliding back against the floor of the room almost sounds violent.
Your steps echo as you slowly step up to the box. You look out to the crowd, searching for Wanda, hoping you don't see Tony.
You take a small breath, calming all of your nerves. Natasha stands more confidently than you did. There's none of the softness you're used to seeing in her eyes.
“Can you tell me about the day you were arrested?”
You lock your hands together, “The entire day?”
Natasha nods, “Beginning, middle, and end.”
“I went out with my friends in the morning. We had plans to hangout all day but it was hot. We had just been walking around the city, but the hotter it got the less we wanted to be outside. So around two we decided to go home.”
“Please continue,” Natasha encourages softly.
You take in a sharp inhale, “When I got home. I saw a man with a mask standing over my mom. I rushed him but I was a scrawny kid so it didn't do much. We struggled for less than three minutes before he stabbed me. I collapsed after that.”
“Did you see anything to suggest that your mother was alive when you entered the house?”
Your voice cracks as you speak, “No.”
Natasha continues, “Tell me about the arrests specifically.”
“They came in and saw the knife in my hand. The knife I had just yanked out of my stomach. Even though I was still on the floor bleeding out, they asked me a bunch of questions. I didn't answer them and they arrested me.”
“Why didn't you answer their questions?”
The far away look in your eyes almost envelopes the room. It's like the entire court has been teleported back to the moment with you.
“I was in pain, nearly bleeding out. My mom was dead less than two feet away from me. I had been stabbed and watched the person who killed my mother run away. I was a child… it was traumatic.”
“Largely you were alone during your previous trial, is that a fact?”
You swallow, “Yes, my mom was my only family. She wasn't close to her family.”
Natasha prods again, “And on your paternal side?”
“My dad died a few years before my mom. His family wasn't involved either.”
“How old were you during this situation?”
“Sixteen.”
Natasha turns to look at the jury, “Sixteen, your mother has been killed in front of you, you're wounded yourself, no other family willing to take you in. Not only that but you are being accused of the murder with no one assist you during this time. Am I understanding this all correctly?”
You nod quietly, “Yeah.”
She rests after that. You hope to be dismissed, but unfortunately the other lawyer in the courtroom wants to cross examine you.
“You stated to Mrs. Romanoff that you were sixteen when this all started. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-six.”
He nods his head. His eyes are hidden behind red framed lenses, but it feels like he can see right through you.
“So you spent ten years in prison?”
You answer, “Correct.”
“Why didn't you try to get the appeal earlier?”
You don't flinch at the question, “I didn't have the resources or funds to make that claim. After last time with a state appointed lawyer, I didn’t want to go through that again.”
“Ms. L/n you're citing a lack of resources yet today you sit here with Natasha Romanoff, one the most prolific in her field. How does that happen?”
Your hands squeeze together and you glance at them briefly. “My friends brought her during one of their visits.”
The judge looks at the other lawyer, “Sustained. Mr. Murdock, refrain from that line of questioning.”
“I have your record from prison right here. Tell me if it seems accurate. The first year or two nothing from you, no commotion or anything. Then we have year three and four lots of commotion and then radio silence again for the last 6 or so years of your stay.”
You nod, “Sounds accurate.”
“Could you walk us through it?”
You couldn't help the furrow of your brow, “My stay in prison?”
Mr.Murdock smiles, “If you will.”
Your gaze drops to your hand, “I went in at sixteen. I was young and an easy target the first few years there's nothing because I was scrawny and I didn't protect myself. I changed because I was tired of being the target. Years three and four are the years I started defending myself. After showing I was no longer an easy target they left me alone.”
“In what ways did you change?”
You fidget with your fingers. “I bulked up. I started practicing ways I could prevent myself from being taken down.”
He pauses, “Was your intent to hurt the other inmates, beat them into submission?”
Your eyes cut to his lenses in less than a second. The change of your features is noticeable. There's a tension in the room comes with it.
“My intent was to survive.”
“Did that or did it not include acting with intent to hurt other inmates?”
Your grip on your hands became tighter, “No. I don't know how detailed of a record you have, but I never started an altercation in prison. Every commotion, as you called them, was not started by me. So there was no preplanned action of me targeting them. It was always self defense.”
“So you didn't start the altercations, just finished them. Did you carry that mentality before prison?”
“No,” you answered honestly.
Matt is surprised with how leveled you're answering his probing questions, “You're saying that you never-”
“Objection, leading the witness."
“Sustained.”
Matt tense before getting straight to his point, “Did you ever fight with your mother?”
“No.”
“Never?” He questions again.
You double down, “My mom was my everything. We weren't rich, but she still made sure I had everything I ever asked for. When my dad was alive it was just us three, our little family. When he died… my mom wasn't the same. I did what I could to make it easier for her. So no, I didn't fight with her. I never wanted to.”
Murdock runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't ask anymore questions. You finally get to leave the stand.
“Ms. L/n, you've been in the custody of attorney Romanoff for nearly a year now, correct,” the judge is the one to ask.
“Yes, your honor.”
The judge meets your gaze, “You've done well with your monitor. However there was one instance where your presence stirred up some public unrest.”
You swallow, “I recall. I got permission to go out.”
“I understand the situation was stress inducing, probably very overwhelming for you.”
It's as if you're sixteen again, “It was.”
“My question for you Ms.L/n is do you have a plan or path to reacclimation into society if you're cleared here today?”
It takes you a moment to gather up an answer, “I haven't been able to think about my potential freedom. It all feels a little temporary, I haven't wanted to imagine something that's not a guarantee. With that being said, I think I have the support now that I didn't have before. I have people that are able to help me if I do gain my freedom. I have no plans of taking on the challenge alone.”
The judge nods, “Very well, you are free to leave the stand.”
It takes every fiber of your being not to jolt out of the seat. You slowly stand and walk back over to Natasha. She places a comforting but professional hand on your upper arm.
This is it. The moment of truth, the closing statements before the jury decides your fate. This time feels different than before. You allow yourself to feel a slither of hope.
The words that Natasha speaks don't register to you. Neither does the statement of Matt Murdock. All you can hear is your heart pounding in your eardrums.
Then it's recess.
Outside of the courtroom, you flock silently to your friends. No one speaks, though they wish to reassure you.
Yelena clears her throat first, passing her phone in your direction. “It's Wanda.”
You nearly snatch the phone from her. “Wanda,” you breathe out her name.
“You did great up there, detka,” she says over the phone.
“I wish you were here,” you say softly.
Wanda doesn't falter, “I may not be in the courtroom but I'm right outside. When they read the verdict, I'll be right out here waiting for you.”
“I'm scared, Wanda,” you admit.
“There's nothing to be afraid of my love. You know you're innocent, we all do, and I'm certain the jury will find that same thing to be true.”
You take a centering breath, “I hope so.”
“Is Nat around, sweetheart?"
Your eyes cut over to your lawyer approaching your group. “Yeah she's coming right now.”
You extend the phone to Natasha, who takes it before stepping away.
“You look just as worried as the first day we met,” Carol takes in your appearance.
“Thank you for coming,” you tell her earnestly.
She pulls you into her side, “I'm glad to be here and support you Y/n. I told you I'm always here if you need me.”
“Step aside, blonde and bashful. Hun, you're doing a terrific job up there. We're very proud of you,” Agatha moves Carol out of the way.
Rio appears next to her wife, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, “Suit looks good on you.”
You grow shy from the attention, “Thank you for coming.”
“Any time kiddo,” Rio squeezes your shoulder. “I'm not going to tell you not to worry, but I will say that no matter the outcome you know the truth. We all know it and we'd fight a million times over on your behalf.”
You go to answer but you are cut off.
“Well isn't this endearing?”
You feel your body tense. You're about to say something to the man but Peter beats you to it.
He steps right up to the clearly injured man, a fire in his eyes that you've never seen before. You don't even see Peter pull out the knife.
“Just go.”
Tony looks at Peter and the knife pointed at his stomach. He starts to call the young man's bluff. Something stops him, maybe it's because Pete isn't shaking, or maybe it's how he hasn't broken eye contact. You don't really know what it is.
Tony's hands go up in surrender as he takes a step backwards. “You can't run from me forever kid.”
“She won't have to for much longer,” Yelena says as a warning.
Tony only smirks, “A threat, cute.”
His smile drops as he accidentally backs into Natasha, “This family doesn't make threats Stark, only promises.”
Tony knows that he's cornered. He knows he has to go, but he can't leave without sewing a bit of doubt in your head.
“He's dead, you know. The guy responsible for it all.”
That catches your attention, “What?”
You step towards the man, your family behind you weary of what this is.
“I found him and had him killed the next day.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugs, “Isn't it nice to know he's not out there, that he didn't get away with this scott free?”
Natasha’s hand on your shoulder steadies you, “The recess is almost over we have to go.”
You let her guide you past the man.
“You might not understand it yet, but I am rooting for you kid.”
You don't look back at him as you re-enter the courtroom.
“I have you detka,” Natasha says discreetly. It's only for you to hear.
It doesn't calm you entirely, but it helps. You want to hold her hand to feel her more than a client should feel their lawyer.
“Natasha,” your voice almost breaks when you say her name.
Worry flits through her eyes. She grabs your hand carefully. The contact is what helps you hold it together.
“It's almost over,” she gives your hand a small squeeze.
The room fills once again.
“Has the jury reached its verdict?”
One member at the end, stands, “We have your honor.”
“Would you state the verdict for the room?”
The room falls away. It's just you, a child, sixteen. You're quietly waiting, hands wringing themselves together. The nerves build you up, just to slow down for this second that feels like minutes.
You see your mother on the floor. She's laying in a pool of her own blood and you're reaching for her fingers. Despite the knife in your gut, you keep reaching. When you touch her fingers, a single tear falls down your face.
You want her fingers to twitch, to feel her clutch you back, but you feel nothing.
Yet nothing turns into Natasha gently shaking your shoulders. It turns into a small smile on the judge's face, the look of a job well down on the jurors.
“You're free,” Natasha says and that's the phrase that breaks the dam.
A sob comes out of you before you can stop yourself. You are bathed in relief. It begins to flood you, all of the emotions you've been neglecting. The hurt, the resentment, the tough facade, it all comes crashing down on you.
You can barely talk through the tears but the word that keeps falling from your lips is, “Thank you.”
You speak it like a mantra and a prayer.
Natasha wants nothing more than to wrap you up in her arms and take you home. She doesn't like all these prying eyes on you. So she looks back and forth between you and the judge, and it works.
“All convictions against Y/n L/n have been overturned. She is therefore exonerated. Subsequently an undetermined amount of money will be rewarded to Ms.L/n for the claims of false imprisonment. Damages will be collected on fronts of pain and suffering, emotional distress, loss of reputation, and lost wages and future income. Case dismissed.”
As soon as you step out of the court room you are nearly tackled down by Peter and Kate. You wrap your arms around the pair of brunettes. You're equal parts laughing and crying. They hold you back tightly.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” you say with your voice already hoarse.
“Sorry it took so long,” Peter says, wiping his eyes.
Kate cuts him off, “Could've been sooner if someone let us help earlier.”
You don't argue, instead you kiss the top of her head. “I know, I'm sorry. I'll never doubt you again, either of you.”
Kate squeezes you tighter, “Damn right.”
Rio interrupts the moment, “Looks like I'm going to have to find a new nickname. Jailbird doesn't suit you anymore.”
“Thank god,” you joke.
Natasha watches the moment with a smile, her hands itching to hug you. She wants nothing more than to celebrate this with you.
The red head claps her hands together gathering everyone's attention. “Let's go home.”
“We celebrating tonight?” Agatha asks.
Natasha shakes her head, “Tonight is just for Y/n. We'll celebrate in a few days. When it all feels a little more real.”
Bucky nods, “Let's get you home freebird.”
Rio gasps, “I'm so stealing that.”
The chatter of the group is almost enough to make you forget about the press waiting outside the courthouse.
Before they can swarm you, Wanda approaches calmly. At the sight of her the violent and chaotic cameras still. It's as if they're holding their breath. Every flash stops.
She stops right in front of you, “You have anything you want to say sweetheart?”
You nod slightly. Wanda steps to your side, her hand firmly planted in yours.
You clear your throat, before you address the crowd.
“When I was sixteen, my mother was murdered. The one person I loved more than anything in life. The woman who taught me everything I knew was ripped away from me. I did not kill my mother but I spent ten years in prison for her murder. Ten years of my life I can't get back, years of my youth. I stand before you today free and innocent because my friends, Peter and Kate, did not give up on me. I stand before you thanks to the best lawyer in the world Natasha Romanoff, who took my case when she didn't have to. I stand before you, speaking clearly and without fear because of Wanda Maximoff. She's been nothing but kind to me. The last time I was free I hadn't even graduated high-school, I honestly don't know where I'll go from here but I'm just so thankful. To the judge, to the jury, and to my new found family. Thank you, that will be all.”
You get through it without crying. In part to the steadiness of Wanda's thumb cascading across the back of your hand. Once you're done speaking, Wanda begins to lead you to the car. This time the press doesn't follow or crowd you. They stay where they are.
You pile into the back of a car with Natasha and Wanda. You sit between the two women. As soon as the door closes behind Natasha you begin to cry again.
Natasha wastes no time pulling you into her arms.
“I swear I'm happy,” you choke out. “So fucking happy.”
Wanda runs a hand through your hair, “We know baby. It's okay to cry.”
“I'm really free.”
Natasha wipes the tears from your face, “You are.”
You surge forward, slamming your lips into hers. Natasha is surprised at first but soon she's kissing you back softly. You break your kiss with her only to grab Wanda by the collar of her shirt.
Her lips are gentle against yours. The usual hunger is replaced by something more tentative. Your breathing has slowed when your lips part.
“I love you both.”
“We love you too,” Wanda says while her fingers thread through your hair.
“So much malyshka,” Natasha kisses the side of your head.
You smile softly, “Let's go home?”
Wanda wants to dwell on the fact that you called it home but she doesn't. Instead she just intertwines your fingers.
Hi 😊 this is my first time requesting but I was wondering if you could do a Wandanat x fem reader who is their housewife, she feels insecure about not having a job, a real one like her wives so one day, while Wanda and Nat are at work, the reader begins to frantically clean the whole house, make dinner, and try to make everything perfect for her partners, could it please end with fluff? Some praise, reassurance, cuddles and kisses? I adore you and your writing, don't feel pressured to write it though and thank you for taking the time to read my ask ☺️💜🤍
Housewife
ScarletWidow x Fem!Reader
[A/N] Happy Tuesday everyone! ❤️ Thanks for the request anon, I loved writing this 😘 Hope you enjoy!!
Your hands shake as you finish putting away the last of the dishes, your eyes swivelling around the kitchen for the next task that will require your attention. It’s almost embarrassing how much work needs doing given that you’re a housewife. Okay there are three of you living here but it’s not like you even have a baby to blame the mess on. You start wiping down the sides, ignoring the exhaustion that’s starting to seep into your bones.
It’s cleaning a house for God’s sake. Your mind turns to your girlfriends’ who are probably doing something far more strenuous and mentally taxing. They work so hard and you can’t even keep the house clean for them. Your eyes burn with tears that you quickly swipe away, wincing at the strong chemical smell on your hands from the amount of different cleaning products you’ve already used today.
Last night Natasha and Wanda had come home, bringing Sharon and Steve around on a whim. You’d met them both before, Steve being one of their fellow Avengers and Sharon an ex-SHIELD agent who’d begun working at Stark Industries, so you weren’t too embarrassed at them finding you lounging around in your sweatpants.
“Sorry, let me get changed,” You’d laughed. “Make yourself comfortable. Sorry, let me just…”
You moved the books you’d been looking at that had been left haphazard all over the couch. There are also crumbs from where you’d eaten lunch in a rush, so you quickly brush them onto the floor. Neither of them says anything but you did catch a glimpse of Sharon’s face, the hint of disgust and the way she sat down right on the very edge of her seat.
Once you were changed you joined the others in the kitchen where Wanda had begun cooking. Everything she cooked always smelt so good and you wrapped your arms around her waist, kissing her cheek, “What are we having?”
“Paella,” Wanda confirmed, turning her head to kiss your cheek in return.
It wasn’t unusual for your girlfriends’ to randomly invite friends home for dinner and you never minded the intrusion. Especially because Wanda usually cooked something extra tasty on those nights and paella was one of your favourites. You leaned your head on her shoulder, watching as she cooked.
“Is there going to be enough cutlery for us to eat from?” Sharon asked, glancing towards the sink, which was admittedly overflowing with dirty dishes.
“Oh yeah, we have loads,” You’d said, not picking up on the hint of disdain in her voice.
“We don’t really have the time to clean up every day,” Natasha explained. “We do have plenty of cutlery though, honestly. You won’t be eating off dirty plates.”
Sharon had raised her eye-brows, “Oh… What do you do for a living Y/N?”
“I’m between jobs at the minute,” You’d said.
“Y/N was working as a clerk in a grocery store but she hated it. We both make enough money so we told her to quit.” Natasha said. “No use in her working if she hates it.”
“We like having a housewife anyway,” Wanda had teased.
Sharon subtly rolled her eyes but didn’t comment further. Steve had distracted you by telling a funny story about Natasha getting confused whilst they were training that day and you’d sat at the table, laughing. As far as you were aware the atmosphere was light and relaxed. Wanda’s paella was delicious as usual, and everyone was having a good time. You didn’t notice anything amiss until Sharon and Steve went to the bathroom just as they were about to leave. You were feeling cold so you’d gone to fetch Natasha’s cardigan, the oversized one that you loved to steal when you’d suddenly overheard them talking.
“Sharon, it’s not like-”
“No I’m sorry, but she should be embarrassed. I was shocked enough that the house was such a mess but to find out she doesn’t even work-”
“I’m sure she has plenty to occupy her in the day even if she doesn’t work. We have no idea what she gets up to, I'm sure she's busy though.”
“And why hadn’t she cooked something for dinner? You mean to tell me that Wanda and Natasha work all day then get home and have to cook and clean on top of that while she sits on her arse all day? I’d be furious if I was them, honestly.”
“It clearly works for them.”
“Well it certainly works for her. Getting to lounge around doing nothing while her girlfriends’ pay for everything. How cushy.”
You hadn’t wanted to listen anymore so you’d quickly grabbed the cardigan, and then gone back into the living room where you’d clung to Natasha like a koala for the rest of the night. Neither she nor Wanda had heard what Sharon said so they didn’t know what was wrong but Natasha teased you, calling you a little leech. For the rest of the evening your eyes had swivelled around the house, seeing it through your guests’ eyes for the first time and you felt embarrassed.
Today had been spent trying to make the house perfect before your girlfriends’ get home. You didn’t want Natasha and Wanda to have to worry about bringing friends around. Sharon had been right, they were paying for you not to work – they should get something out of it. A clean house and a hot, home-cooked meal by the time they get home shouldn’t be too much trouble.
Except it’s been hours and every time you think you’re on the last few tasks you find something else that needs doing. Your list keeps growing longer the more you tick off and everything takes a lot longer than you’d realised. The whole morning had been disappeared just from hoovering, dusting and changing the bed sheets. Because it had taken so long you hadn’t stopped for lunch. You’d gone straight to the store to get ingredients in for dinner then by the time you were home you’d noticed how much of a mess the kitchen was in. Just doing the backlog of the dishes by yourself had taken you nearly an hour.
By the time your girlfriends’ arrive home you think you’re going to fall apart from exhaustion. Dinner is cooking on the stove but it doesn’t look like the photos in the recipe, and you stare at it accusingly, trying to figure out where you’d got it wrong. Wanda dumps a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter “Hey baby. You’re cooking tonight?”
“Yeah, I figured you guys would be tired from work so I… Yeah.”
Natasha wraps her arms around your waist as Wanda unpacks the grocery bag “Are you okay sweetie? You didn’t answer your phone all day, we were worried about you.”
“I’m fine, I was just busy. Sorry.”
Natasha and Wanda exchange a glance. Wanda washes her hands then joins you at the stove “Do you want some help? You look done in.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ve got this. You two relax, put your feet up.”
“You’re acting really weird,” Natasha says.
“You look a little stressed. Besides, I like cooking. What are you making? I can-”
“I’ve got it! I don’t need you taking over!” You snap.
Natasha and Wanda exchange another glance, and Natasha holds you a little tighter. “Baby-”
“It’ll make me feel better if you guys just relax a little and let me serve you this dinner. Please.”
Natasha sighs but lets you go, going to get changed. A moment later Wanda reluctantly follows after her. You continue staring down at the food, feeling your frustration boil that it still looks wrong. It’s been so long since you cooked something. At lunch you either fix yourself a quick sandwich or go out somewhere whilst Wanda does the majority of cooking at home. She’s right; she does seem to enjoy it whereas you don’t. You’re gaining no joy from this, only stress.
You burst into tears, and Wanda and Natasha reappear in the kitchen in an instant. Wanda switches off the stove, looking down at the dish to see if there’s a way she can salvage it whilst Natasha pulls you into her arms, kissing the top of your head “Baby, tell us what’s going on. We’re really worried.”
“I’m sorry I’m so useless,” You sob into Natasha’s chest. “I can’t even have dinner on the table for you when you get home.”
“Hey, hey, wow, where did this come from?” Natasha asks, alarmed. “You’re not useless at all, what made you say that?”
You cry harder and Natasha rubs a hand up and down your back. Wanda abandons the food in the pot and joins you both, her fingers stroking over your hair “Talk to us baby. We don’t think you’re useless and we don’t need you to have dinner ready on the table. So tell us.”
“I- Yesterday- Sharon-”
“Sharon what? Did she say something to you?” Natasha asks fiercely.
“Not to me. To Steve. I don’t work, I should- I should do more around the house-”
“Hey, no, what are you talking about?” Wanda asks. “You don’t need to do anything.”
“But you guys earn all the money. I can’t even keep the house clean or make you dinner or do anything useful-”
“And you’re basing this on something you overheard Sharon say? Who fucking cares what she thinks?” Natasha huffs. “First of all, you don’t need to be useful. We love you, you don’t need to fucking earn it.”
“Besides, you are useful,” Wanda says. “You make us laugh. You always cheer us up when we get home from work no matter how stressed we are. We don’t need you to cook us dinner, I like cooking us all dinner. It helps me relax after a difficult day.”
“We don’t want this place to look like a show home; we want it to be an actual home. I like when you leave your books and your notebooks and whatever else around. You’re always doing something, going from one activity to the next. Who cares if you leave a little bit of mess in your wake?” Natasha asks.
“Besides, you do clean,” Wanda says. “I’ve noticed you’re the one who cleans the bathroom whenever it needs doing. And you always make the bed.”
“I should do more though,” You sniffle.
“You do plenty,” Natasha says firmly. “I like coming home and hearing that you’ve met up with friends or you’ve done something else fun.”
“You’re working on your blog, I bet that’ll really take off,” Wanda says positively. “Or you’re doing those online courses. It’s not like you’re lounging around doing absolutely nothing all day. Don’t worry about Sharon, who cares what she thinks?”
“We won’t be inviting her around again if that’s how she’s talking about you,” Natasha says, clearly annoyed. “You’re our precious girl, you do plenty for us. You don’t need to prove your worth to either of us. Or anyone else.”
“Besides my love… I don’t think you’re an amazing cook,” Wanda says gently. “Why don’t we have some takeout and just cuddle in bed? We can watch a movie if you want. Or start that TV series you keep talking about.”
“We’ll do whatever you wanna do,” Natasha says, kissing your forehead. “Please don’t cry baby. We love you so much.”
“You’re our favourite girl. We don’t need perfect, we just need you,” Wanda says, kissing the top of your head. “Though if you ask me… I think you’re perfect.”
You let them both pet you, pressing kisses to your face and reassuring you. Sharon’s words are still running through your head but your girlfriends’ touch is helping to dim them. Maybe cleaning isn’t as hard as what your girlfriends’ do but you’re reassured to know they don’t want the house to be perfect. Natasha and Wanda are right that you don’t lounge around doing nothing. You might not work but you are looking to upskill so you can look for something else you’ll enjoy more. You’ll try and keep the place a little tidier but you won’t work yourself as hard as you did today. And you definitely won’t attempt dinner again…
she doesn't claim you in public. you think it's because she doesn't care enough. it's because she cares too much.
written April 24-30, 2024
------------------------------
The press conference is still playing when you walk back to the couch. You hadn't meant to stop. You'd been on your way to get water, bare feet quiet on the hardwood, and then the television caught you, the familiar red of her hair against the backdrop of flashing cameras, the sharp line of her jaw, the way she stood with her arms at her sides like she'd been bolted there. Composed. Untouchable. Every inch the Avenger.
You tell yourself you're fine. You get your water. You come back.
You sit down and watch your girlfriend smile at a reporter like she doesn't know how you take your coffee.
On screen, someone asks about her personal life a journalist in the third row, young, eager, pen already moving.
The public has always been curious about the lives behind the suits, Agent. Romanoff. Is there anyone special?
You don't mean to hold your breath.
Natasha's smile doesn't waver. It never does. That's the thing about her, the smile is a tool, honed and precise, and it gives nothing away.
"No one. I think the work speaks for itself," she says, easy, practiced. "I'd rather keep the focus there."
The journalist nods. The room moves on.
You set your glass down on the coffee table very carefully and watch the rest of it in silence every question, every answer, every moment where you scan her face for something and find nothing. She is so good at nothing. That's the thing that gets you. Not the words. The nothing.
By the time Natasha gets home you've watched the clip four times. You don't know why you do it to yourself. Some stubborn, aching part of you keeps looking for a flicker some hal second where something crosses her face that says yes, there's someone. yes, it costs me something.
There isn't. There never is.
You're on the bedroom windowsill when you hear her key in the lock.
"Hey." Her voice from the hallway, still pulling off her jacket. "Traffic was—" She appears in the doorway. Stops. She reads the room the way she reads everything, instantly, completely, and with an accuracy that used to feel like magic until you understood it was just her, paying closer attention than anyone else ever had. "What's wrong."
"Nothing."
"Y/n."
"I said nothing, Nat."
She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, still in her press clothes, blazer on, collar open now at the throat. She looks tired around the eyes in a way the cameras never catch and part of you, the stupid, soft part wants to go to her just because of that. Just because she's tired and she's here and she's yours, except right now she doesn't feel like yours, she feels like something on loan that the world could call back at any moment and she'd hand herself right over without blinking.
"You watched it," she says.
"It was on."
She exhales slowly through her nose. "How many times."
You don't answer, which is its own answer. You watch something move through her expression, not quite guilt, not quite pain. Gone before you can name it.
"Come here," she says quietly.
"I'm fine where I am."
"Detka—"
"Don't." The word comes out softer than you mean it to and somehow that makes it worse. You look back out at the city. "Don't do the voice."
"What voice."
"The one that makes me feel like everything's okay when it's not." You press your cheek against the cold glass of the window. "I'm not — I don't want to be managed right now. I just want—" You stop. You don't know how to finish that sentence. You want something you don't know how to ask for. You want to matter in a way that shows.
She doesn't push. For a long moment the room is just quiet, just the low hum of the city and the sound of both of you breathing.
Then she says "Tell me."
And you look at her, and her eyes are on you with that particular quality of attention she only gives you, not the sharp tactical focus, not the measured professionalism, but something steadier and more frightening than either of those things, and your chest goes tight.
"I'm just tired," you say carefully, "of pretending."
"I know."
"I don't think you do." You slide off the windowsill, and you don't mean to start walking but you do, out of the bedroom, down the hall, because you need somewhere to put yourself and you need it not to be three feet from her while she looks at you like that. "I spend every day out there acting like I don't know you the way I know you. I run into your teammates in the lobby and I'm just — nobody. I'm just some girl you nod at." Your voice is climbing and you hate it, hate how much of you is right there at the surface. "And then I come home and I turn on the TV and I watch you stand there and tell a room full of people that there's no one—"
You hear her follow you. Of course she follows.
"—and you don't even flinch. You don't even—" You turn around in the middle of the living room. "Is it easy? Be honest with me. Because from out here it looks easy."
Something cracks in her face. Just slightly. Just enough.
"No," she says. "It is not easy."
"It looks like it is."
"I know what it looks like." Her voice is tight in a way you rarely hear, controlled the way something gets when it's working very hard to stay controlled. "I know exactly what it looks like from the outside, and I'm telling you — Y/n, I am telling you — that what you see on that screen is not what is happening inside me."
"Then show me what's happening inside you." Your voice breaks on the last word. Just a little. Just enough to humiliate you. You look away. "Because right now I need something, Nat. I need — I look at you up there and I need to know I'm not—" You stop. Breathe. "I need to know I'm not nothing."
"Don't say that." Her voice is sharp now, fast, like the words got out ahead of the composure. "Don't you dare say that."
"Then give me something to hold onto."
The apartment is quiet.
You turn back toward the bedroom because if you stand here one more second in the middle of the living room with your heart this close to the surface you're going to say something you can't unsay.
"Y/n."
Panic. That's what's in her voice stripped clean, unmistakable. Not the controlled urgency she uses in the field. Not the professional edge. Actual panic, low and rough, like something has come loose in her chest.
You slow.
"Don't walk away from me." Her footsteps are quick behind you. "Please. I'm — please don't walk away."
You stop.
She reaches you in the hallway and before you can turn around her hand finds your wrist, not grabbing, not restraining, just holding. Like she needs the contact to believe you're still there.
"Look at me," she says. Low. Rough. "Baby, look at me."
Slowly, you turn.
She looks undone. That's the only word for it. Not the composed woman from the press conference, not the Avenger, not the version of Natasha Romanoff that the world gets. Just her, standing in her own hallway with her blazer slightly wrinkled and her eyes very green and very serious, and something close to fear written all over her face.
You have never seen her look at you quite like this.
You don't say anything. You're not sure you could.
"I need to explain something to you," she says quietly. "And I need you to let me explain it before you decide what it means. Can you do that?"
You nod. Barely.
She exhales. Her hand is still around your wrist. She turns it gently, carefully, and laces her fingers through yours, and then she guides you the few remaining steps down the hallway until your back meets the wall. Not rough. Not urgent. Deliberate. Like she needs you exactly here, exactly still, exactly close enough that she can see your face.
She braces one hand against the wall beside your head and looks at you.
"I want you to think about what my life looks like," she says. "Not what you see on the news. What it actually looks like. The people I've put away. The people who know my name and would do anything — anything — to get to me." Her jaw tightens. "I have enemies that most people don't have nightmares dark enough to dream up. I have a list of people who would consider it a victory just to know someone matters to me."
Your throat is tight. You already know where this is going and it doesn't make it easier to hear.
"The second your name is attached to mine," she continues, low and even, "you are on every one of those lists. You become leverage. You become a target. And I—" She stops. Her hand on the wall curls into a fist. "I have trained for every scenario. I have a contingency for everything. I have walked into situations that should have killed me and walked back out because I knew exactly what I was doing." She looks at you, and what's in her eyes right now is something enormous and unguarded. "I do not have a contingency for losing you. That is not something I can train for. That is not something I survive."
Your eyes sting. You look down.
You feel her breath change.
Her free hand comes up slowly, slowly, like she's afraid a sudden movement will shatter something, and her fingers find your chin. Light. The barest touch. She tips it up, trying to bring your gaze back to hers, and when you resist she doesn't force it. She just holds you there, patient, gentle in the way Natasha is only ever gentle when no one else is watching.
"Hey," she murmurs. "Look at me, detka."
You keep your eyes down. If you look at her right now you're going to lose whatever is left of your composure and you are hanging onto it by the thinnest thread.
A beat. She swallows hard.
"Y/n." Her voice is soft but there's an ache in it. Her thumb traces lightly along your jaw. "I need your eyes. Please." She tilts your chin a fraction more, coaxing, careful. "Give them to me."
Something in that undoes you.
You look up.
She exhales like she's been holding her breath since you stopped meeting her gaze. Her eyes move over your face, searching, cataloguing, the way she does when she's making sure something she cares about is still intact.
"There you are," she breathes.
Your chest aches.
"Do you want to know what I think about," she says, voice barely above a murmur now, "during those press conferences? During the briefings, the meetings, every single moment I have to stand up there and perform?" Her thumb traces slow along your cheekbone. "You. I think about you. I think about the way you look in the morning before you've said anything. I think about the way you laugh when something actually catches you off guard. I think about coming home." She leans in slightly, closing the space between you by another inch. "I stand in front of those cameras and someone asks me if there's anyone and everything in me wants to say — yes. God, yes. There is someone. There is someone who is — " her voice drops further "— the only thing that feels like mine. The only thing that isn't about the work or the mission or what I owe the world." Her forehead nearly touches yours. "And then I think about what happens if the wrong person hears that. What happens if someone with a grudge and a long memory decides to find out who she is."
Your back is still against the wall. She is close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that when she breathes you feel it.
"If anything," she says, and her voice has gone very quiet and very certain, the way it gets when she means something completely, "if anything touched you because of me — because I couldn't keep you out of it—" Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head once, slow. "That would be the thing that finally breaks me. I would not come back from that. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
You understand. You understand completely, and it doesn't make the ache go away, but it rearranges it, turns it into something that doesn't feel like rejection anymore, feels like the opposite of that, feels like being held so carefully that she won't even let the world see she's holding you.
You don't trust your voice. You nod.
"I know it's hard." She brings her other hand up to cup your face, both palms against your cheeks now, cradling, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes where you're dangerously close to letting something spill. "I know what I'm asking of you. I know what it costs. And I need you to know that I see it— I see all of it — even when I can't say so in a room full of cameras. Even when I have to stand there and be nothing." Her eyes search yours. "You are not nothing. You are— Y/n, you are the most important thing."
A tear escapes. You can't stop it. She catches it with her thumb before it gets far, so automatic, so certain, like her hands already know you by heart.
"I love you," she says.
Two words. Simple. And the way she says them, quiet and unperformed, no armor around them, nothing careful about it, makes your knees go soft.
You look at her lips. You look back up at her eyes. You are trying to find your voice and it has completely abandoned you.
"I love you," you say. Barely a sound.
Something in her face shifts, something that was wound very tight comes loose. She lets out a slow breath and she almost smiles except it's softer than a smile, it's relief, it's the expression of someone who needed to hear that more than they knew.
She moves a fraction closer. "I love you," she says again. Quieter. Like it's only for this room, only for you, like she's been keeping it somewhere very private and she's finally letting it out.
You wet your lips. The air between you is barely anything at all now. "I love you." Breathless. Just breath.
Her eyes drop to your mouth. She tilts her head, just slightly. "I love—"
She kisses you.
It's not gentle for long. It starts that way, soft, slow, her lips against yours like a question and an answer at the same time, and then your hand finds the front of her blazer and you grab it, and she makes a low sound against your mouth and the gentleness is over.
Her hands slide from your face into your hair, cradling the back of your head, and she kisses you like she has been thinking about it all day, which, you now know, she has. Thoroughly. Like she's making a point. Like she is done, for tonight, with restraint.
Your back is still against the wall and she is pressed against you now and there is no space, no air, nothing careful or measured about any of it. She tastes like whatever she had on the drive home and she smells like her perfume fading into something warmer underneath and you have both hands in her blazer now and she is kissing you in a way that makes it very difficult to remember what you were even upset about twenty minutes ago.
Not because she's erased it. Because she's answered it. Thoroughly. Against a hallway wall, with both hands in your hair and her whole weight angled toward you like she can't close the distance fast enough.
You pull back just enough to breathe. Your foreheads fall together. Both of you are not quite steady.
"Baby," you manage.
"Detka," she says. Low, rough, slightly wrecked. Her hands slide down to your waist, grip there, firm and sure.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, your face, flushed, your eyes, dark and whatever she sees there makes something shift in her expression. Intent. Certain. The particular focus of Natasha Romanoff when she has decided on something.
She leans down and kisses you again, slow this time, deliberate, thorough, and when she finally pulls back she hooks one arm under your knees and lifts you without a word, easy as breathing, like you weigh nothing, like she has been wanting to do this since she walked in the door and she is simply done waiting.
You make a sound against her shoulder. She turns toward the bedroom.
Your lips find her neck before she's even fully turned toward the hallway.
She inhales sharply, not the controlled kind, the real kind, the kind that comes from somewhere below all that composure and her grip on you tightens instinctively, fingers pressing into the back of your thighs.
"Detka." A warning. Low.
You ignore it. You press another kiss just below her jaw, slow, deliberate, and you feel her swallow.
She keeps walking. Barely.
You drag your lips up the column of her throat, and she tips her head just slightly, just enough, involuntary, the kind of thing her body does before her mind can stop it, and you smile against her skin because Natasha Romanoff just gave you that without meaning to.
"You're going to make me walk into a wall," she says.
"Maybe that's what I want."
She laughs, low and a little rough, and it rumbles through her chest against you. Then she turns her head and finds your jaw with her lips, still carrying you, unhurried, like your weight is nothing, like she has all the time in the world and she drags a slow kiss along the line of it, from the hinge up toward your ear, and your fingers curl into her shoulder.
"Nat—"
"Mm."
She mouths just below your ear and you actually shiver, full body, and her arms tighten around you like she felt it and liked it.
The bedroom doorway. She turns sideways to bring you both through it, still with her lips at your jaw, still completely unhurried, and the confidence of it, the fact that she is navigating a hallway in the dark while taking you apart, does something embarrassing to you.
She gets you through the door and then she's laying you down, slow, controlled, one arm still under you until your back meets the mattress, and she looks at you for just a moment before she follows you down.
Just a moment. Just long enough.
Her hair falls forward, loose now, that deep red catching the low light of the room, and she looks, devastating, that's the word, she always looks devastating but right now with her blazer slightly disheveled and her lips already a little swollen and her eyes on you like you are the only thing worth looking at in any room she has ever been in, devastating doesn't even cover it.
She kisses you before you can say anything.
Deep. Unhurried. One hand flat on the mattress beside your head, the other finding your waist, thumb pressing in like she needs to feel that you're real. You kiss her back and your hands find her hair and she makes a sound low in her throat that you feel more than hear and that sound does something to you, something immediate and irreversible.
Her lips drag from yours down to your jaw and you tip your head back automatically, giving her whatever she wants, and she takes it, mouths down the line of your throat, slow, no rush, like she's learning something. Like she's been thinking about this.
Her teeth graze lightly just below your pulse point.
Your back arches off the mattress.
She does it again, deliberate, and her hand at your waist slides up to hold you there, steady, like she knew you were going to do that and she was ready for it. Her lips close over the spot after and she stays there and your hands tighten in her hair and the sound that comes out of you is quiet and completely involuntary.
"Nat—"
"I have you," she murmurs against your throat.
You pull at her blazer. Both hands, shoving it back off her shoulders, and she shifts just enough to let it go without ever taking her mouth off you, it drops somewhere behind her and neither of you care even slightly.
Her lips move lower. Along your collarbone, slow and purposeful, and you feel her breathe you in, actually breathe you in, nose dragging along your skin, a long slow inhale like you are something she wants to hold in her lungs. Her lips follow. Pressing into your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft skin below it.
Your hands slide down to her shoulders, her back, feeling the lean muscle through her shirt, and she is so warm, she runs so warm, and she is pressed against you like there is no version of tonight where any space exists between you.
She pulls back just enough to look at you. Your shirt. Her eyes come up to yours, asking, and you sit up to meet her.
She takes the hem in her hands and draws it up slowly, slowly, watching your face the entire time, not the fabric, and when it's gone she drops it and just looks at you for a moment. One hand comes up and traces, featherlight, down from your collarbone to your ribs. Following the line of you like she's memorizing it. Like she has time for this, like she is going to take all the time she wants.
"You have no idea," she says quietly. Not quite to you. Almost to herself.
Then she lowers her head and her lips are on your collarbone and you feel her exhale there, warm and slow against your skin, and her hands are at your back and she draws you up, pulls you into her lap in one smooth motion and you go willingly, easily, hands finding her jaw, her shoulders, anywhere you can reach.
Her lips drag up your collarbone to the curve of your shoulder and she breathes you in again, deeper this time, and her grip at your back is firm and certain and you are in her lap with her mouth on your skin and her red hair falling around both of you like a curtain and you think distantly that you would let this woman ruin you completely.
She mouths back to your throat and her hands slide up your spine slow, deliberate, and when they reach your shoulders, she pulls you in closer still and you feel every point of contact between you, her hands warm on your back, your knees on either side of her, her lips finding yours again and kissing you slow and deep like she has nowhere else to be.
Your hands slide down to the hem of her shirt.
You lift it and she breaks the kiss for barely a second, just long enough for the fabric to clear her head, and then her mouth is back on yours like the interruption offended her personally.
You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at her.
She looks back.
Her hand comes up and cups your face, palm against your cheek, thumb at the corner of your mouth and something in the gesture is so certain, so deliberate, that it makes your breath catch.
Her lips drag back to yours. Then to your chin. Then down, slowly, to underneath your jaw, and she mouths there with an unhurried focus that makes your eyes close.
The sound that comes out of you is quiet and unplanned.
She sighs against your skin low, satisfied, like she needed that, like she has been waiting all day to hear it. Her hands press you closer and her lips find the same spot again, asking for it again.
You give it to her.
Her lips curve against your throat like she's smiling, and her hands slide up your back, and you tip your head back and let her have whatever she wants.
Natasha's fingers deftly unhook your bra with a subtle snap, the fabric loosening and falling away from your skin. Her hands slowly trail up your sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She pauses at the curve of your breasts, her thumbs brushing lightly against the undersides.
Your fingers slide up her back, tracing over the smooth skin until they find the clasp of her bra. You undo it with a practiced flick, the fabric going slack.
Natasha exhales against your lips, smiling as she lets the straps slide off her shoulders, dropping the black lingerie beside you. Her bare chest presses flush against yours.
"Better?"
"Yes" you whisper, voice breathless against her lips.
Your bare breasts press against hers, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. You can feel Natasha's heart racing, her breath quickening as she runs her hands down your sides again, this time hooking her thumbs into the waistband of your panties
She slowly slides your panties down, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull them off completely.
Natasha throws them aside, her gaze lingering on your body with open appreciation before she captures your mouth again in a deep, claiming kiss.
You grind down against her lap, your wetness soaking through her slacks, and she groans deeply, your breathing comes out in shaky pants against her lips.
Natasha pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies, watching you grind against the bulge in her lap.
"Fuck—"
Her voice drops lower. "You're soaked."
"It's your fault," you manage to gasp out, your voice trembling as you rock your hips harder against her.
You bury your face in the crook of her neck, overwhelmed by how sensitive you feel.
"You make me this way, baby..." You look down at where you're grinding against her, seeing the wet patch forming on her slacks.
"Please..."
Natasha's eyes darken with lust as she feels your wetness spreading through her pants.
She knows exactly what you're asking for without you having to spell it out.
She shifts you in her lap so that you're straddling her more comfortably, giving you better access to grind against her.
"Nat..."
"Shh..." She hushes you softly, one hand gripping your hip to guide your movements while the other tangles in your hair. You can feel her hardness pressing against your clit through the thin fabric of her pants, the friction making your legs tremble. "Ride me..."
You obey, rolling your hips against her in slow, deliberate circles that make her buck up into you. The wet sounds fill the room as your clit grinds against the thick outline in her pants.
"Natasha—" You whimper, fingers clawing at her shoulders. "I need more, please..."
She groans, reaching for her belt buckle.
The buckle clinks as she frantically undoes it, pushing down her slacks just enough to free herself. Her erection springs free, thick and hard, and presses directly against your bare pussy.
Natasha groans, her head tilting back. "Fuck, that's—" She bites her lip, watching your wet folds glisten against her shaft.
You look down between your bodies, seeing how your swollen wet folds kiss along her length.
The sight makes you whimper, and you start to rock your hips again, this time feeling the delicious slide of her against your most sensitive parts.
"Oh god..." You breathe, feeling a trickle of wetness drip down her length.
Natasha wraps her hand around her base, guiding herself so that her tip catches on your entrance with every roll of your hips.
She teases you like that for a moment, just the tip dipping in before sliding back out, until you're panting and shaking above her.
"Natasha, please—"
"Please what, baby?" She teases, her voice rough. She lifts her hips to thrust up just an inch, just enough for the head of her cock to pop inside you before pulling back out. She repeats the motion, slowly working herself deeper with each pass. "You want it inside you?"
"Yes— fuck, yes," you beg, your walls clenching around just the tip. You don't just want it, you need it. You need her buried inside you so deep you forget your own name.
Natasha grips your hips tighter, fingernails digging in, and then finally, finally, pushes up as you sink down.
You both moan loudly as she fills you completely in one smooth thrust. You're stretched so perfectly around her, taking every inch without resistance. Natasha's hands slide to your ass, squeezing and spreading you wider as she holds you down on her lap, seated fully inside you.
You start moving immediately, lifting and dropping yourself onto her, taking her deep over and over.
Natasha's head falls back, eyes rolling slightly as she watches your breasts bounce with each movement. She meets your thrusts from below, hitting deeper spots inside you that make your vision blur.
"I love you—" She moans loudly, hips stuttering up into you as she says it, her green eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. Her hands grip your ass tightly, guiding your movements. "Fuck, I love you so much..."
Hearing those words in her throaty moan sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core.
You moan out, clenching tightly around her as you pick up your pace, riding her harder and faster.
"Natasha...oh fuck, Natasha...I love you.."
Natasha's eyes flutter open, locking onto yours with an intense gaze filled with love and lust. She lifts her hips sharply to meet your thrusts, hitting that perfect spot inside you again.
"I love you—" She moans again, louder this time, her voice breaking slightly.
She suddenly flips you both over, pinning you beneath her on the mattress without pulling out. She starts thrusting into you in long, deep strokes that make the bed creak. Her green eyes stay locked on yours, half lidded and hazy but never leaving your face.
Her hips snap against yours in a relentless rhythm, driving you into the mattress. Every thrust is punctuated by a low, broken moan from her lips, her green eyes swimming with emotion.
"My girl..." She breathes out, pressing her forehead against yours. "You feel... so fucking good..." She buries herself deep, grinding her hips.
"I love you," You gasp out between moans, wrapping your legs around her waist to pull her closer.
Your walls clench tightly around her every time she bottoms out, and you can tell she's getting closer, her thrusts are getting more erratic and desperate.
"Don't stop— please, don't stop—" You moan out as she hits that spot again, your back arching off the mattress. Your hands scramble for purchase on her shoulders, nails digging in. You're so close you can feel the pressure building, threatening to burst. "Natasha, I'm gonna—" Your voice cracks. "I'm gonna—"
"Cum for me," She groans, her voice strained as her thrusts become short, sharp jabs that hit deeper with each one. Her eyes are half lidded, mouth hanging open as she stares down at you with absolute adoration. "Let me feel you cum around me, baby..."
She grinds her pelvis down, pressing against your clit.
"Right there— right there—" You moan out, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clenches tightly around her, pulsing with each wave of pleasure. Natasha's eyes roll back slightly as she feels you coming undone around her cock.
"That's it, baby— fuck—" She groans, feeling your walls squeeze and flutter around her.
She can't hold back anymore, slamming into you hard and fast until she's chasing her own release. With a broken cry of your name, she buries herself to the hilt and comes, spilling deep inside you.
You both collapse against each other, drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
Natasha doesn't pull out, instead she just wraps her arms around you tightly, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw and neck. Her softening cock twitches inside you, and she lets out a shaky sigh.
"I love you," she murmurs again, softer this time, her green eyes finally closing.
"I love you too," you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. You can feel her heart beating against yours, and you never want this moment to end.
You're both completely spent, physically and emotionally, and you just want to lie here in her arms forever.
6 months later
You knock twice before you push the door open.
"Come in," she says, and her voice is in full work mode, clipped, focused, the tone she uses when she's three reports deep and running on coffee.
You smile before you've even fully stepped inside.
She looks up from her desk.
And her whole face changes.
It happens fast, the professional composure just dissolves, replaced by something warm and unguarded and entirely yours, and she's already standing, already moving around the desk before she's made a conscious decision to do it. Her heels click against the floor and she crosses the office and her hands find your face first, cupping your cheeks, pressing a kiss to your forehead like punctuation.
Then she steps back just slightly and her hands slide down, down your arms, to your waist, and then lower, settling soft and reverent against the curve of your belly.
She looks down.
Then back up at you.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi," she says. Her voice has gone completely soft. Nothing clipped about it now.
Her thumbs trace slow across the curve and she just, looks at you, the way she does when she thinks you're not paying attention, like you are something she still can't quite believe is real.
"What are you doing here?" Not a complaint. The opposite.
"Thought I'd visit." You tilt your head. "Your team said you forgot to eat lunch."
She opens her mouth.
"Again," you add.
She closes it.
"Natasha."
"I was in the middle of something."
"You're always in the middle of something." You reach up and straighten her collar, which doesn't need straightening, just because you can. "She's been kicking since noon by the way. I think she knows when you're being stubborn."
Something moves across her face, that specific expression she still doesn't know she makes, the one she gets every time you say she. Like it hits her fresh every time.
Her hands press a little warmer against your belly.
"Hi, malyshka," she murmurs, low, just for the two of you.
You watch Natasha Romanoff, spy, assassin, Avenger, talk softly to her unborn daughter in the middle of her office, and your chest fills up with something so large you almost can't contain it.
She looks up and catches you looking.
"Don't," she says.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You have the face."
"I don't have a face."
"You have the face you make when you're about to say something that makes me—" She stops. Her jaw shifts. "Don't."
You grin. "Natasha Romanoff is soft."
"I will revoke your visitor badge."
You laugh, and she tries to hold the stern expression and cannot, and she pulls you carefully in by your waist and presses her lips to your temple and stays there.
"Lunch," she says into your hair. "Then I have to finish the report."
"Lunch," you agree.
Her hands are still on your belly. She doesn't move them.
Notes: mentions of violence, confessions, minor mental break, smut, handjob, descriptions of violence leading to arousal, I think thats everything
Summary: Tony's in the hospital, Wanda may be in jail, and you're at home trying not to fall apart.
An: I took a small break for my physical and mental health, but I'm feeling a lot better now. I don't think I can commit to every thursday but I'm still going to try for once a week updates, I just don't want to rush and ruin the story's integrity if it doesn't feel right.
Series Masterlist | Masterlist 1 | Masterlist 2
White walls and the steady beeping of a machine. That's where Tony comes to. He can feel the bandages wrapped around his face, the displacement of his jaw, and the pain. The drugs were not enough to stop the pain.
“She really did a number on you.”
Tony's head lolls to the side. The unimpressed expression he wears doesn't affect the man he's speaking to.
He attempts to sit up. The man at his side moves to help him.
“Easy there.”
Tony groans, but he manages to prop himself up against the pillows with help.
“Are you going to speak? I think the doc said you could.”
Tony opens his mouth with much effort, “What am I supposed to say Rogers?”
“Admit that your plans were stupid.”
Tony goes to shake his head but the movement has him grimacing. “It wasn't, it worked.”
Steve shoots the man a look, “Your face is fucked up. I can see every indent from where she connected with the gun.”
“She's not going to be allowed in court for the rest of the trial,” Tony rebuts.
Steve sighs, “The trial is almost over. I'd be surprised if it wouldn't be done by tomorrow. It's pretty clear that she's innocent.”
“I'm aware.”
Steve pauses just a little as doubt creeps into his mind. “Tony don't bullshit me here, did you kill her?”
“I loved her.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Now it's Tony who is silent. “I didn't kill her, but it was my fault.”
Steve waits for Tony to keep talking.
“You know what I do, who I am. I tried to distance myself from her and from Arno too, but it didn't matter. All it did was leave them defenseless.”
“And the killer?”
“Dead, he was dead the next day,” Tony reveals.
Steve stares at the man, a clear disappointment in his eyes, “If I were her I don't think I'd forgive you.”
The dark haired man's lips folded into his mouth. “She looks just like her mom. All that attitude it's from the both of us, but that impulsivity it's directly from me. She was going to punch me.”
“You deserved it.”
“They killed Jarvis.”
Steve crosses his arms over his chest, “I told you sending him was a bad idea.”
“I didn’t think-”
Steve rolls his eyes, “A common theme when it comes to Y/n.”
Tony throws his hands up in exasperation, “What was I supposed to do with her?”
“Tony, anything would've been better than jail.”
Though it hurts, Tony shakes his head, “You don't get it. They killed my parents, my brother, the woman that I loved. I'm not good to be around.”
Steve takes his hand, “We both know that isn't entirely true.”
The doctor comes in, interrupting them. “Mr. Rogers, how are you feeling?”
Tony chuckles, “Like a million bucks doc.”
“She definitely beat the shit out of you. Swelling around the eye, chipped tooth, abrasion across the bridge of your nose. It's a miracle it didn't break. Your jaw was dislocated but we just popped it back in place. And of course a concussion.”
Tony seems unbothered by the information. “So when can I leave?”
The doctor claps his hands together, “We'll go over the care of your injuries and then get the release forms.”
“Fantastic.”
You are quiet on the ride back home. Natasha keeps taking quick glances at you, they do little to reassure her that you're alright.
She reaches for your hand across the middle console of the car. You flinch, but ultimately let her hold it.
You can't think about the case. Court is the furthest thing from your mind. You expected your father to show up. Maybe not this soon, but you knew it was coming.
You should've been prepared. Instead you let him get under your skin. You let him get into your head and if it wasn't for Wanda you'd be the one in jail. She saved you, by making herself the target.
You couldn't stop yourself from glancing back at Wanda as Natasha dragged you away. The way she swung violently without remorse. The crimson splatters that were flying across her. The shine of the blood coating the gun. It’s mesmerizing, she is mesmerizing.
When Natasha pulls into the garage you're quick to enter the house. She follows you quietly, trying to come up with anything to say.
You head straight for the art studio. You loosen your tie, and throw your suit jacket on the ground. You march for the easel in the middle of the room.
The blank canvas doesn't last too long. Without hesitation you're covering the canvas.
Natasha watches your erratic movements. You look like some kind of mad genius. You use brushes, your hands, whatever is around you. It's like you're attacking the canvas.
She doesn't know how long you're at it. However by the end of it you're breathing heavily. You almost collapse to the ground but Natasha’s there to catch you, wrapping her arms around you.
The wet paint doesn't bother her. Your silent tears do.
“I fucked up.”
Natasha tries to argue with you, “This isn't your fault.”
“Wanda is in jail because of me.”
Natasha begins rocking back and forth trying to calm you. “She's already on her way back here, detka. It’s not a big deal.”
“I almost let him ruin this for me,” you choke out. “If I would've swung on him-”
“But you didn't,” Natasha counters.
“Only because Wanda did it for me.”
Neither of you heard the door open. Wanda had crept in only a moment ago. Enough to hear the last thing you had said.
“And I'd do it again, a million times over in fact.”
You rush to your feet, to get to her. You stop right in front of her. You're mindful of the paint the covers your dress shirt, face, and pants.
Wanda pouts upon seeing the tear stains trailing down your face. She cups your cheek, and tries to wipe away the distress on your features.
“I'm sorry.”
Wanda doesn't hesitate to pull you flush against her. Her hand now strokes the top of your head. It's always a slightly awkward position but it never feels uncomfortable. Your forehead rests in the crook of her neck.
“You don't have anything to be sorry for and don't even try to argue with me. I've been wanting to smack the fuck out of that scumbag since I saw a picture of what he looked like.”
“They won't let you back in the courtroom,” you mumble against her.
She sighs, “No, probably not but I'm not going to let you go in there feeling alone. Nat will be by your side, you friends are going to be there, I'll get some of my people there. You're going to be supported.”
You pull your head up to meet her eyes.
“Don't look at me like that sweetheart,” she says softly
You try to compose yourself, you end up looking away from her, “I just want you there.”
Wanda looks at Natasha, “Is there any chance?”
Nat sighs next, “I don't think so but I'll try.”
You wipe your eyes, “No, it's fine. I'm being dramatic. It's not a big deal.”
Natasha frowns, “Don't minimize how you're feeling.”
“I don't know what I'm feeling!” You yell out only for your voice to die at the end, “I just know that it's too much.”
Natasha takes the lead, “What can we do?”
You look at her and then Wanda. There's no judgment in either of their eyes, just worry mixed with care. It's not overwhelming like everything else. It's grounding.
“Can we just get in bed?”
“Of course we can do that. I'll clean up here and you two go get ready. I'll be quick I promise,” the red head kisses your cheek.
You nod. Wanda sticks out her hand for you to take. You place your hand in hers and let her take you out of the studio.
Natasha begins cleaning as she said she would, but her eyes keep reverting over to the freshly painted canvas. It's Wanda and Tony. It's a side angle of Tony underneath Wanda; bloody, bruised, terrified. While Wanda is on top of him with a crazed look in her eyes, one arm raised, the gun is covered in blood.
The lawyer didn't even think you witnessed that much, but clearly the image was here. Not in your head, but tangible on campus. The glee in Wanda’s eyes is what's startling to Natasha.
There's happiness in the brutality. She wonders if you imagined it or if it's actually there.
It doesn't matter really. As soon as the brunette announced herself, you basically leapt into her arms. Natasha knows you're not scared of Wanda. However now, face to face with the canvas, she wonders if you have a love for the violence.
“I have paint all over,” you stand in the middle of their room. You look down at yourself and then to the bed.
Wanda steps up to you, her hands moving swiftly to the buttons of your top. “We can fix that.”
“You just want to see me without a shirt,” you mumble.
The joke brings a warmth to Wanda, “Maybe I do.”
Your fingers reach for the buttons of her shirt, “I got paint on you too.”
“And now who just wants to see some skin?” Wanda teases.
You roll your eyes as her shirt comes off after yours. “We should shower.”
“Do you want to?” Wanda asks.
You sigh, “No, I just want to cuddle.”
Wanda simply walks over to one of her drawers. She reaches and finds a sleep shirt for you to wear with some shorts. She gets a shirt for herself too, opting to not wear any bottoms.
She tosses the set at you. You put the clothes on without hesitation. Wanda gets into the bed first and soon you're climbing in behind her.
This time it's you grabbing her hand first. You lift her knuckles to your lips, gently kissing them. You can see small bruises and cuts on them from how tightly she was holding the gun when she slammed it into Tony's face.
Wanda takes in the softness of the action. “I'm okay, I've been through worse. I've done worse.”
“I know, doesn't mean I can't kiss your wounds.”
Wanda turns to face you. Her eyes locked on yours, a question bouncing around in her skull, “Does it scare you? When I get like that?”
“You could never scare me,” you mean it.
Wanda chuckles humorlessly, “Detka, my hands will never be clean. I have done deplorable things and if it's in the best interest of what I care about, I will continue to do deplorable things.”
Your hand cups her cheek. She watches how careful you are with her, how gentle your hand lies against her face.
“I know what you do. I get it. You're a criminal. You've tortured and killed, and part of you has to like it. You wouldn't keep doing it if you hated everything about it. I'm ok with it, maybe I'm more than okay with it.”
Her eyebrows pull together, “More than okay with it?”
You blush but don't look away, “I watched you today, and I liked it. I thought it was hot.”
Wanda voice drops, “You thought it was hot?”
You nod, “Seeing you like that. The anger, the relentlessness.” In a much quieter voice, “The violence.”
Wanda let out a shaky breath, “I would do anything to keep you safe. No matter the cost.”
You feel yourself throb under the intensity of her gaze. “You think I'm worth all the trouble?”
“Baby you're priceless.”
You whimper when she says it. Her eyes flicker down. She can see the tent forming in your shorts.
Her tongue darts over her bottom lip as her hand slides between your bodies. It slips into the shorts, and begins stroking you lazily. Your forehead falls to rest against hers.
No one says anything. It's only your breathing that fills the air. She watches your features as she pumps her hand along your cock.
The way your lips tremble, the flush nature of your cheeks, she can feel the sweat building on your forehead.
She angles her head so that your lips brush together. “I would've killed him right there if you wanted.”
You feel her words rush to the tip of your cock. Pre-cum leaking out enthusiastically. She uses it to lube up your cock as she moves her hand faster.
“Wanda,” It's breathless against her lips.
“I did that same thing to that officer. Vin. He was mouthy. I beat him in the back of my car, it was a mess, blood all over my expensive seats.”
Your eyes flutter open and you begin to buck into her hand. Maybe you don't realize it, but Wanda does; you want more.
“I came home and fucked Natasha after. She let me get all my anger out.”
“In the backseat?” You moan as you feel yourself about to climax.
Wanda chuckles, it's deep, “You like the idea of Natty and I fucking in my blood filled backseat? You want that? You want me to make a mess so that you can take me in it, baby? Ride your cock in the blood of my enemies?”
You cum, “Oh my god.”
That's when her lips fully press against yours. You whine into the kiss, still attempting feeling the effects of her hand job.
“I leave you guys alone for less than 10 minutes,” Natasha stands against the door.
“Don't be sour Natty, you want to taste something sweet,” Wanda pulls her cum-covered hand out of your shorts.
She takes the tip of her tongue and licks her palm. Natasha strides across the room, getting onto the bed with no qualms.
Wanda has a playful glint in her eyes. Natasha grips her wife by the wrist, bringing the Don's hand to her mouth.
The way Natasha licks her hand is depraved. The sound she makes when the taste of you is on her tongue has you looking at her with glossy eyes.
Her eyes are sharp when they meet yours. You move desperately, sitting up to immediately connect your lips to the lawyer's.
Natasha can't help the smirk that fights its way onto her lips. “I'm never going to get over how eager you are to taste yourself.”
You push her away from you lightly, just enough to tuck your head in the crook of her neck. “Nat,” a small whine leaves your lips.
She laughs, “I'm only teasing malyshka.”
You place a kiss against her skin. Then you mumble into her shoulder, “Guess I really need a shower now.”
“We could clean you up the old fashion way?” Wanda says suggestively.
“That would only make a bigger mess,” you say.
Natasha gets off the bed first, pulling you up with her. “She's right, after a long day and a fat load, she's probably exhausted.”
You don't even try to hide it, “Tired.”
Wanda stands next, “Then lets get you clean and back in the bed.”
A small part of your brain worries about showering together. You don't know if any of you can keep your hands to yourself. However the only touches in the shower are gentle and helpful. No sex, just a quiet kind of intimacy. Not one that burns, but one that feels like complete safety.
Once you're out of the shower, you're back in bed. This time between the two women you love. Your eyes are heavy, you can barely keep them open.
“Rest, another big day tomorrow,” Natasha kisses your forehead.
“You're going to be free of all of this in twenty four hours,” Wanda speaks with certainty.
“I hope so.”
You're asleep before anything else can be said.
Wanda looks at her wife. The brunette seems calm, but Natasha knows that's not always a good sign.
“What is it?”
Wanda keeps her eyes on the rise and fall of your chest. “I'm going to kill that bastard when this is over.”
For a moment Natasha doesn't say anything. Her expression stays neutral.
Then she mumbles, but it sounds crystal clear to her wife, “Looking forward to it.”
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🥹 thanks for this. I tend to just beat myself up over the deadlines and then I have a hard time opening the app without feeling guilty for not posting... but life happens sometimes. Thanks for your kind words and patiently waiting the new chapter is up right now.
An: Sorry for the delay. Let's just say the curse got me .
Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Masterlist 2
It's a cloudy day. The seasons have wrapped around from when you first got released into Natasha’s custody. The sky looks the same as that day. You nearly feel the same.
There's an uncomfortable anxiety sitting on your chest but also the quiet hope that this would all finally be over.
It's almost time for you to leave. You're in the backyard, a cigarette between your fingers. You take a drag, trying to calm the pounding in your ears.
“You're nervous.”
It's Peter that comes out from the sliding door. He stands next to you, but you keep your gaze on the yard.
“Terrified,” you admit.
“I'm scared too,” he lets out a shaky breath.
You offer him the cigarette and he takes a quick puff.
“It's not just the trial. I'm worried about the after. What happens with us, and with Wanda and Natasha, and the Tony stuff.”
He places his hand on your shoulder, “Whatever happens we will figure it out together. One thing at a time.”
“Sometimes it feels like it all just comes crashing down at once,” you attempt to blink away the impending tears.
Peter thinks of his next words carefully. “It can. Life doesn't really wait for everything to be okay. The only part that matters is that if it all does come crashing down, you're not ever going to have to hold it up by yourself.”
You chuckle, finally looking at the man, “When did you get good at this?”
He smiles back, “Started taking lessons from Kate.”
You shove his shoulder playfully, and he hooks an arm around you. The two of you go back inside, where everyone is waiting.
“Are you ready?” Natasha poses the question.
“As I'll ever be,” you answer back.
You begin to walk to the car.
“We're going to take separate cars, to try to cause less of a commotion. Obviously Nat will be at your side, but we will be in the public seating area,” Wanda’s eyes are sweeping over you.
You nod curtly, “Okay.”
She steps into your space. Hands adjusting the lapels of your suit. She tugs a little at the tie hanging from your neck. It's a standard dark blue suit, nothing super fancy. It's enough to make you look good, but not overtly so.
You let her fuss over you for a minute. Eventually her hands move from the suit to cup your face. You're not sure you've ever seen this look in her eyes.
Maybe she's scared, but there's raw determination and love swirling around her irises. “You know I hate it when you say okay like that.”
Your hand gently comes up to hold one of her wrists. Not prying or pulling, just holding her there, against you.
“I know.”
She kisses you. It's gentle, something that is rare. There's always passion, hunger, fire, but it's different today. Today she's careful and tender, it makes you melt.
Her breath is light against your lips, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I promise you're never going back.”
You feel the need for her to prove it. She needs you to believe her, to believe in them.
You're smiling softly at her, “I know.”
Natasha steals your attention, her hand planting itself in yours. She leads you to her car, you watch the others pile into Wanda's.
It's quiet in the car. No music, just the sound of the engine. Natasha keeps taking small glances at you when she should be looking at the road ahead of her.
Finally she breaks the silence. “It's day one. I don't know how long this will drag out. There's prosecution but not like your first trial, it's different with appeals. I don't think you'll take the stand today, just the officers. I've also got a medical examiner set to testify about your injuries as well as your mothers. No surprises, just what we are prepared for.”
You nod, “I understand.”
“There's going to be media there. Outside the courtroom and inside it too. As soon as we step out, it's likely we'll be swarmed. When it's over it'll be the same. You'll be all over the news and social media.”
You let yourself be sarcastic, “Fantastic.”
“We'll win,” she says like it's a fact.
This time when she glances at you, you meet her eyes, “I trust you.”
What you said to Peter was true. You truly weren't scared of losing the trial. You knew you wouldn't be going back to prison. Natasha and Wanda had given you that irrefutable reassurance. As much as you've begun to see them as your Wanda and your Natasha, they have titles that follow them everywhere.
Natasha is one of the best lawyers in the country and the entire state of New York runs through Wanda Maximoff. It's the safety net that you finally accept. They will not let the system take you from them. The same way you see them as yours, they see you as theirs.
The case is the least of your worries. It's the after that concerns you. The looming presence of Tony Stark.
You aren't naive. The man will appear sooner or later. You wonder what happens then. If Wanda doesn't put a bullet through his skull immediately that is.
Before you get too close to the courthouse Natasha pulls over. She keeps the car running, but puts it in park.
“What're you doing?”
She leans over the center console placing her lips firmly against yours. The surprise doesn't last long, before you're kissing her back.
She presses her forehead against yours, “I just wanted to do that before we went in. I figured if I waited until we pulled up, someone could've seen. I don't care what they see when the case is over, but for now it's better to be careful.”
“One more,” you say surging forward.
Your hand lands on the back of her neck, pulling her further into you. All you really want is for her to climb into your seat.
She breaks the kiss sooner than you hoped for, “You cannot go in there excited.”
Her eyes dart down to the crotch of your pants.
You sigh, “Yes ma'am.”
She pulls back onto the road after that. It's only about five more minutes until she's parking in front of the courthouse.
It's just as crowded as she said it would be. She gets out first, walking around to open your door for you.
It almost feels like he came from nowhere, but there's now a man by Natasha's side. He stands a little bit in front of her, shielding her somewhat from the media.
“That's Clint, he's usually very observant, but today he's going to be our protection.”
He flashes you a brief smile, “Heard a lot about you, did even more retcon for you.”
“Thanks,” you tell him. The anxiety of the crowd touches the edges of your voice.
“Let's go,” Natasha’s hand rest at the small of your back guiding you through the mass of questions and cameras.
It was quieter inside the courtroom but it wasn't any less empty. There were people everywhere talking in hushed tones. You could feel some of them gawking at you but your head felt empty.
You only look back once to catch a glimpse of your support system. They're there, front and center. It comforts you. You rub your palms against your pant legs to attempt to get the sweat off.
When you sit Natasha casually leans over to you. You can smell her perfume when she does it. It almost helps you refocus.
“I have you,” is what she says.
You give a slight nod. The judge brings down his gavel and the court settles. You're now in session, your freedom on the line.
You sit and you watch. Your features stay neutral through the beginning. Natasha gives her opening statement. Then she calls Vincent Gonzales to the stand first.
You hadn't seen him since the first trial. He still looks just as slimy. You catch his eye and you can see him swallow harshly as it happens.
Natasha starts off easy. She has him confirm his employment, the years active, and his rank as an officer. After the small formalities she doesn't waste any time.
“Mr.Gonzales do you recall testifying that you saw my client stab her mother?”
He flinches, “Yes, I recall.”
“Was that statement accurate?”
He looks around the room. His eyes find Wanda's and then he sighs deeply. “No, it was not. I would like to recant my previous testimony."
“What did you see?”
He wrings his hands together, “I saw her remove the knife from her own stomach.”
“And how big was the knife?”
He stumbles over his answer, “Large, a little smaller than a foot.”
“And to clarify again, you saw her remove this large knife from her stomach?” Natasha looks him in the eyes while speaking.
“Yes.”
Natasha begins to slowly pace around the room, “So it can be assumed that my client was injured?”
“Yes.”
Natasha narrows in on him at that moment, “So you could tell my client was injured but opted to cuff her and drive to the police station rather than getting her medical treatment?”
His mouth flattens, “I did not notice the extent of her injuries-"
“Please answer the question Mr.Gonzales,” Nat cuts him off.
“Yes, we took her to the station first.”
She turns her back to the man briefly. Her attention diverts to the small projector on the side juror box.
“I submitted some photos of the injury to the court for us to examine. I've highlighted the affected area as my client has been left with a scar.”
The court doesn't hold their gasp as they see the jagged scar of your abdomen. It's healed but that only makes it slightly better.
Natasha had to do some digging, but she did manage to get photos from the freshly sealed wound from the hospital. Those photos appeared next and even you couldn't look at them.
“Hard to ignore the extent of the injury here Mr.Gonzales,” Natasha barely contains her icy glare. “Did you see my client stab her mother?”
‘No, I did not.”
“No further questions, your honor. I'd like to call the next witness,” Natasha waits for the judge to dismiss Vin Gonzales.
Natasha calls Ray Cooper to the stand. He's less composed than Vin but that doesn't worry the lawyer.
“Mr.Cooper your former colleague just testified that my client was injured and neglected care, is that agreeable to you?”
He nods, “Yes, we took her to the station and when we noticed how much blood she was losing we pivoted to the hospital.”
“With all of these factors. I have to ask, how did you come to the conclusion that my client killed her mother?”
The man blinks a few times. His hands rub against his pants. You can see the anxiety on his face.
“Well, she was the only one on the scene. There were no signs of a break in, meaning the killer was let in. Anne had no other close friends or relatives.”
Natasha cuts in, “And did you look into the lineage of her deceased husband?”
“No.”
“Is it possible that a suspect other than my client could've been produced under further investigation?”
He sucks his teeth, “It's possible but your client was uncooperative in the investigation.”
“In what way was she uncooperative?”
He clears his throat, “Well, she wouldn't speak to us.”
“So she used her right to remain silent?”
He fumbles and fails to produce his answer.
Natasha continues to speak in his absence of an answer, “My client was a child,16, accused of murdering her mother. She also sustained a horrific stab wound that almost took her life.”
“Mrs.Romanoff I ask that you stick to questions,” the judge warns her.
Natasha backs off, “I ask that the witness answer my question. Is the uncooperative nature they attributed to my client only related to her use of her right to remain silent?”
The judge turns to Ray, “Answer the question Mr.Cooper.”
“Yes,” the former officer hangs his head low.
Natasha dismisses the officer then calls her last witness to the stand. A medical professional who assesses the injuries that you sustained.
First she confirms that you could've died from the stab wound. Then she confirms it was not self-inflicted. She also suggests that the timing of events would be nearly impossible. Your mother wasn't bleeding out when you got there, she was already dead.
After Natasha dismisses her, the judge calls for a recess.
Your support system meets you in in the halls of the courthouse. The anxiety is still present in your silence, but no one comments on it.
“It's going extremely good in there,” Peter says.
“Yeah the way the jury was looking at those officers was something else,” Kate says.
Yelena agrees, “I think the doctor really sold it.”
You nod, “Yeah.”
Wanda places a hand on your shoulder. It looks casual enough for everyone around but you can feel her lightly squeeze the tension there. “Nervous about getting up there?”
You nod, “Yeah, I just- I can't afford to fuck this up.”
Wanda looks right through you. It's as if she's trying to grab on to your soul with her eyes. “All you have to do is go up there and tell the truth.”
You nod curtly, “The truth.”
Wanda's hand falls off your shoulder when Natasha appears behind you. She leans down to whisper to you, “You're doing great in there.”
You're about to respond to her when you see him. You feel like you'd know it was him even without seeing a picture. He looks similar to Arno. Maybe he's a little shorter, hair a little darker, skin a little more tan.
He's walking in your direction. His eyes are on you. His step doesn't falter when you spot him.
Wanda notices how your skin seems to flush. She follows your line of sight. Her jaw tenses.
“Oh fuck no,” she starts marching towards him.
You grab her wrist, stopping her. She turns back to you, ready to argue you down.
You slip your hand into hers. Eyes hard as they find her green ones. “Not here.”
He strides right up to your group. He shoulders past Wanda, and straight to you.
“You look more like her in person.”
You don't respond to him.
“You really want to do this here, Tony?” Natasha stands closer to you.
He smirks, “A guy can't talk to his daughter?”
“You're not a father, you're a deadbeat,” Kate says to him.
His sunglasses slid down his nose just enough for him to look her in the eyes. “Katherine, I'd watch it if I were you. We both know why your mother didn't have enough money to provide adequate counsel for Y/n in the first place.”
The brunette grits her teeth, “I am not my mother.”
“You're right, at least Eleanor was good at minding her manners and knowing her place.”
Yelena steps in front of Kate as if the words were a gun. It makes Tony chuckle.
“The new consigliere. Hope it goes better for you than the first guy. You blondes don't have a good track record under your belt.”
Wanda’s voice cuts through the banter like steel, “Enough. What is it that you want?”
“Well, Don Maximoff, I just came to see my kid win her freedom.”
“Bullshit,” Wanda calls. “You don't give a fuck about Y/n?”
He pouts, “What makes you think that? I love my daughter.”
You finally find your voice, “You let me rot in prison.”
He looks at you again, “It was safer for you that way.”
You feel your hand twitching, “Safer than what?”
He attempts to be earnest, “I'm not the fatherly type sweetheart. Or at least I wasn't then, but I'm a changed man now.”
“Who killed my mother?”
This is the first thing that finally affects the man. The arrogance and performative nature exits his body.
“I loved Anne. More than I loved anything in this world. I was protecting her, Arno, and you. Distancing you all from this life.”
You didn't buy it, “Or taking us all out separately. Arno first, then my mom, and the me.”
Anger rises on the man's features, “I did not, have my brother or the love of my life killed.”
You scoff, “How am I supposed to believe that when you left me in prison?”
He gestures around, “Doesn't look like you're in prison to me?”
“No thanks to you,” you go back and forth with him.
He's escalating the situation. The people around the courthouse are starting to pay attention.
Tony relents and tries to reach out to touch you, but Wanda steps fully in his path
“You're not touching her.”
“I'm not scared of you Wanda,” Tony tries to push past her again.
This time Wanda grabs his upper arm keeping him close. She has a gun pointed at his stomach.
“Don Maximoff,” she corrects him.
“What, are you going to shoot me in the middle of a courthouse, Don Maximoff?” He says sarcastically.
Wanda smiles tightly, “Don't threaten me with a good time.”
“I'm not the bad guy here Y/n,” Tony tries to plead with you.
“You're not the bad guy? What are you here for Tony? I know what you want and I'm not helping you get it. In fact I will actively stop you from taking it from Wanda. I find it hard to believe that you can be the head of a family, when you don't care about your own blood,” you move closer to him.
“You'll understand one day that things aren't so black and white.”
The laugh that leaves your mouth is bitter, “I will never forgive you for abandoning me. You had plenty of time to show up before I got involved with Wanda and Natasha.”
His jaw clenches, “I'm trying to save you.”
“From what?” You raise your voice.
“From becoming something you're not.”
“You don't even know me,” you argue back to him.
He straightens his posture, “And you think they do? You think the merciless Don Maximoff and her fixer of a wife know you? Newsflash kid you're another one the Don's good deed charity projects that makes her feel better after putting a bullet in someone's brain. The only thing she cares about is being at the top of the food chain.”
His words piss you off. You want to react more than anything. Your friends can see it, so can Natasha. Wanda feels it, as she stands between you and Tony. She knows you can't control it. So she does it for you.
Wanda lifts the gun that was against the man's stomach and strikes him across the face with it. As soon as Natasha registers what is happening she pulls you away from the scuffle.
Everything feels like it's in slow motion as you're being dragged away from Wanda and the rest of the group. Shes
She's on top of Tony, using the gun to strike him over and over again.
Yelena is moving Peter and Kate back from the situation as Bucky tries to pull Wanda from Tony.
“Natasha,” her name falls out of your mouth.
“We have to go. You can't be anywhere near that. The recess is practically over anyway.”
You see the officers approaching the brawl. “Natasha they're-”
She cups your face in her hands, turning your focus to her. She doesn't let you look back. “Wanda is going to be fine. I promise. She will probably get arrested. Yelena will bail her out and we're going to be okay. Right now I need you to focus. We're going to go into the court room. The judge will probably postpone your testimony until tomorrow because of this.”
“Okay.”
Natasha wants to kiss you. She can see that you need it, but instead her hand falls from your face. It settles on your lower back, willing you to move forward despite everything going on behind you.
Wanda keeps trying to smash in Tony's face with her gun. Even when Bucky attempts to pull her off. Even when the police come to remove her. When they take the gun, and get her hands behind her back, she continues to try to stomp on the man's face.
She knows better than to speak, instead she spits at the foot of the man. Her breathing is heavy as they drag her away in the cuffs. Her eyes cut over to Yelena, who gives her a simple nod.
Tony's body twitching lets people know he's alive, but his face is in shambles. It's a bloody mess. Yelena doesn't want to look any longer, deciphering that he is alive should be enough.
Wanda tries to get a grip on her breathing. She looks at Tony's body and back to the door you had just walked through. Natasha and Yelena would handle this. Everything will be fine, but she couldn't help but to worry about you.
She knows that you'll blame yourself. It's the only thing she can think about as they shove her into the police car. She remains silent, tuning out the outside world, as her mind begins to plan her next move.
Guys sorry for ghosting you. I'm in a bit of emotional distress if I'm being honest. The new chapter is almost done but I can only promise it'll be out by Monday night.
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Warnings: Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (N=31, r=23), puplic sex (car), fingering (r receiving), dirty talk, praise, pressure, mention of injury’s
Word count: 10,4k
A/N: Another adventure comes to an end…it was really, really exciting to explore this kind of sport after Redline. It had a similar feeling and I’m honestly so proud of it. I don’t think I’ll leave this universe anytime soon, so I’m definitely open to requests to add more to the story. Deep down, there’s even a small spark to write another one set at the next Olympics with a four year time skip…but I also have something else planned, so we’ll see where it goes! Thank you so, so much to everyone who supported this series 🫶🏼
Part 7
The week before the Olympics stopped feeling like time and started feeling like weather. Everything in it had pressure.
Every morning at the rink felt sharper than the one before. Every drill carried consequence now and every clean landing felt less like success and more like maintenance of something huge and fragile and almost ready to be unveiled. Training became brutal in that clean, focused way Natasha did best.
You trained the program until you could have skated it half conscious. Then you trained it again until even half conscious would not have been enough, because the Olympics were not built for “good enough.” They were built for girls who could perform under pressure so hard it bent the shape of their own bones..and you did.
You pushed and pushed and kept pushing. Accepted every correction Natasha gave you, even the cruelly precise ones. Let the body learn what it needed to learn. Let the mind stop flinching at the quad Lutz and start treating it like a thing that belonged to you if you respected it enough. Two days before the event, you did it without the harness.
That alone nearly took years off Natasha’s life. The rink was private again, completely empty except for the two of you, one assistant with the music and Tony. You stood at the far side, breathing through your teeth, shoulders loose, eyes fixed on center ice like it had personally offended you. Natasha stood at the boards with her arms folded so tightly it looked almost normal.
Inside, she was a disaster. No harness. No line above and no engineered forgiveness if gravity turned cruel. Just the jump and the body and all the old ghosts waiting to see if they had been invited back.
You looked at her once and Natasha nodded and that was all. Your takeoff was clean and the rotation happened so fast Natasha’s vision almost blurred around it, then the landing came and the blade hit and for one impossible, suspended second it looked as though the ice itself was deciding whether to allow history through the door.
Then you held it with no harness. Natasha did not remember crossing the boards. Only that one second she was watching and the next you were coming out of the landing with that stunned, widening look on your face. Natasha was there in front of you, both of you looking at each other like the world had just finally confirmed something they had already bled enough to know.
Nothing else in the room mattered. Not the Olympics in forty-eight hours. Not the field or old scars and old wheelchairs and old fear. Just the fact that now there was truly, fully, devastatingly nothing in the world left to hide behind. When your eyes held after the landing, something passed between them so fierce it almost felt like a vow.
Nothing is stopping us now.
You spent the entire walk out of the rink looking like you might levitate. In the way you moved too fast and then had to stop yourself from breaking into a run for no reason. In the grin you kept trying to hide and failing to hide and then failing to even care about hiding. In the way your whole body seemed lit from underneath by the same thought on an endless loop: You got it.
The jump no one had gotten. The jump people talked about like a boundary line, like a grave marker, like a thing women’s skating looked at from a distance and respected enough not to touch..And you had touched it.
By the time you reached the locker room, you were still half laughing to yourself, half in disbelief, hands trembling just enough to make changing difficult. Your shirt snagged once over your head and you laughed again, a little wild with happiness. Your reflection in the mirror looked flushed and bright and almost feverish with it.
“The field is going to lose its mind..” you muttered to yourself.
Then you looked at the faint scar on your chin, the one that had seemed like an ending for one terrible week and smiled even harder. Because this..this was what came after endings if you were stubborn enough.
When you stepped back out into the corridor, bag over one shoulder and hair still a little damp at the temples, Natasha was waiting and your smile came back instantly. “What are you thinking for dinner?”
You blinked. “Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That sounded like an invitation and an order somehow.”
“It’s both.”
You laughed. “Okay.”
You should have known better than to ask no follow up questions.. What “dinner” meant, apparently, in Natasha language, was not takeout. Not a late quiet meal at home. Not some tucked away place with decent food and privacy. It meant a restaurant so polished and expensive you almost slowed at the entrance from instinct.
The exterior alone looked like money trying not to be vulgar about itself. Dark glass, soft gold lighting, a host stand that somehow managed to seem exclusive before anyone had even spoken. When you stepped inside, the men looked up, saw Natasha and went through a visible transformation from professional neutrality to startled, deeply honored efficiency.
“Ms. Romanoff.” he said immediately. “Of course. We have your table ready.”
You turned your head just slightly and looked at Natasha and she looked straight ahead as if this happened all the time and was therefore not remotely embarrassing. Which, to be fair, it probably did. You followed her through the restaurant trying not to openly gawk at how many people were, in fact, looking up. Some recognized Natasha and some recognized you. Some clearly recognized both and were doing the social dance of pretending not to stare while definitely staring.
The table was tucked far enough into the back to feel private without actually being hidden. When you sat, you leaned in and said under your breath, “Everyone is looking at you..”
Natasha unfolded her napkin with infuriating calm. “Yes.”
“That’s your whole response?”
“Would you like me to apologize.”
You snorted softly. “No. I’m just saying. It’s very… mighty Romanoff of you.”
Now Natasha did smile. “People will look at you too in a couple of days.”
The line should have thrilled you. Instead something in Natasha’s tone caught at you immediately and your brows drew together. “That sounded weird.”
Natasha reached for the menu, then set it back down almost untouched. You knew that gesture now too. The one that meant Natasha had something on her mind heavy enough to make ordinary motions pointless. “What.”
Natasha glanced at you, then at the water glass in front of her, then finally just met your eyes and chose honesty the hard way. “I am still scared.”
The words landed without ornament and your face softened before you could stop it. Natasha exhaled slowly, once and folded her hands on the table between them. “In the training rink.” she said, “it was just us. Tony, the harness and Time. No judges, nom cameras and Olympic final with half the world waiting for you to become either history or a cautionary tale in real time.”
You said nothing. Natasha’s voice stayed level, but the feeling in it was unmistakable. “I watched you do it today and part of me still wanted to stop the session and hide the entire idea in concrete.”
You almost smiled at the image but it vanished quickly when Natasha looked at you directly. “I know what the jump can be. I know what it cost once. And I know the Olympics will magnify every variable until they all look bigger than God.”
There it was..It wasn’t just technical fear.. It was love fear. The kind that came from imagining the wrong angle, the wrong edge, the wrong second, and living with the fact that it would happen to someone whose pain Natasha could no longer survive cleanly.
You reached across the table before you thought about whether the gesture was too much for a public place like this, but Natasha let you. Your fingers settled over hers, warm against the white cloth.
“If it’s not there.” you said quietly, “I won’t do it.”
Natasha’s mouth moved faintly. “You say that very confidently for someone with terrible impulse control.”
You actually laughed. “I’m serious.”
“Y/n-.”
“No, really.” You leaned in a little more, forcing Natasha to stay with you and not drift off into all the old ghosts crouched behind the fear. “If I feel it go wrong before I leave the ice, I stop. If the edge feels bad, I stop. If the room feels wrong, I stop. I want to land it, Natasha. I want to make history, but I also very much want to stay in one piece.”
Natasha’s eyes dropped once to their joined hands and your voice softened. “I’m not ending like Vera.”
Natasha looked back up and let out a breath she’d probably been holding since the rink. “Good..” she said quietly, her fingers turned under yours and held on instead of letting go.
Dinner came and went around you after that in a slower rhythm. Not all the tension vanished, some of it never would, not where the jump was concerned. But once the fear had been named and not laughed off or turned into another fight, the evening opened. You talked about the field, about which skaters would crumble under Olympic pressure and which ones would sharpen into monsters because of it. About Mila and whether the disqualification would end Vera’s season or only make her crueler in a more organized way. About costume changes and music cuts and whether judges would overreward courage if the landing was clean enough to make them afraid not to.
At one point Natasha said, almost absently, “The room will belong to you for six seconds after a clean landing.”
You looked up from your plate. “Only six?”
Natasha’s mouth curved. “Then it belongs to no one because they’ll still be trying to recover.”
That made you laugh hard enough to earn a glance from the next table over. At another point you caught yourself just…watching Natasha. The line of her hands around a wine glass. The way she spoke to staff politely but without ever inviting familiarity. The rare, tiny softness that came into her face only when she forgot herself in the middle of saying something truthful. It struck you then, in the middle of an expensive restaurant with candlelight and too many forks and the whole city doing its quiet glitter beyond the windows, that you really did love this woman.
By the time you left, the tension between you had changed shape again, the drive had been pure, exquisite torture. Natasha’s hand never left your thigh the entire time. It started light, a warm, steady weight after she pulled out of the restaurant lot, but the longer the city lights streaked past the windows, the bolder it became. Fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the denim, inching higher with every red light, every quiet stretch of road.
You tried to stay still, but by the time the car rolled to a stop you were squirming. The tension that had crackled between you all evening, every loaded glance across the candlelit table, every time her foot brushed yours had finally boiled over into something you couldn’t ignore. Natasha killed the engine and the silence that dropped was heavy charged. For half a second neither of you moved. Then you both broke.
She reached for you at the same moment you lunged. Mouths crashed together, hungry and messy, all the control you’d both clung to all night finally shattering. Natasha’s hands were everywhere, one fisting in your hair, the other already shoving your jacket off your shoulders. You climbed over the center console without thinking, knees landing on either side of her hips as she yanked you into her lap.
“Seat..” she growled against your mouth, one hand blindly reaching down to recline the driver’s seat all the way back with a mechanical whir. The leather gave way beneath you, opening up space and turning the front of the car into something darker, more private…and far more dangerous.
You settled fully onto her lap and straddling her, The new angle pressed your core right against the hard line of her thigh and a soft, embarrassed sound escaped you before you could stop it. Natasha’s hands slid under your shirt-
“Wait, What if someone sees?” you whispered laughing and glancing nervously at the tinted windows and at the dimly lit concrete pillars around you. Anyone could walk past..anyonecould look in. “Natasha…we’re in a parking garag-”
She cut you off with a slow, wicked smile, the one that always made your stomach flip. “No one will, Detka..” she murmured as she tugged your shirt higher, exposing the soft lace of your bra.
“Tinted windows..late hour..and even if they did…” Her lips brushed the swell of your breast as she pushed the cup aside with her thumb. “I want them to see how beautifully you fall apart for me.”
Then her mouth was on you. She sucked your nipple into her mouth with a low, filthy hum, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch. You gasped and your hands were flying to her shoulders, but instead of pushing her away, you buried your face in the crook of her neck, hiding there like the shy girl you became the second she had you at her mercy.
Natasha’s free hand shoved between your bodies and unbuttoning your jeans with practiced efficiency. She pushed the fabric down just far enough, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear and straight into slick, aching heat.
Two fingers slid inside you without warning and she’s curling immediately against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. You moaned, but the sound was muffled against the warm skin of her neck. You pressed your face harder into her, breathing heavy and shaky, lips parted against her pulse point as you tried to stay quiet.
Every exhale came out as a broken little whimper. Natasha groaned softly, the vibration rumbling through her chest and straight into you. “Fuck…listen to you.” she whispered, “All strong and fierce on the ice, landing quads like you own the world and here you are, hiding that pretty face in my neck like you’re too shy to let anyone hear how good you feel right now.”
She pumped her fingers deeper, thumb circling your clit with devastating precision while her mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder. “It’s adorable. You’re squirming in my lap, trying so hard to stay quiet…but your pussy is clenching around my fingers like it never wants me to stop.”
You whimpered again, the sound vibrating against her skin. Your hips rolled instinctively, riding her fingers in slow, desperate circles, but you kept your face buried, breathing heavy and muffling every moan into the curve of her neck like it could hide how completely she was unraveling you.
Natasha’s free hand gripped your hip, guiding you, helping you fuck yourself on her fingers while she continued her relentless worship of your breasts. “That’s it..hide all you want. I love it when you get shy for me. My unbreakable girl on the ice, and my sweet, breakable one right here in my lap.”
She curled her fingers harder, thumb pressing firmer, the wet sounds of her thrusting into you filling the car. “God, you’re dripping down my hand…”
You were losing it and grinding down harder, thighs trembling on either side of her hips, face still hidden as your heavy, shaky breaths and muffled cries spilled against her skin. The fear of being seen only made it kinda sharper, but the shyness kept you tucked close, clinging to her like she was the only safe place in the world.
Natasha’s voice stayed low, filthy, reverent. “You’re perfect. So strong out there…and so soft and shy when I have you like this. Come for me, Detka..Right now.”
The orgasm crashed over you hard and fast. Your whole body locked up, thighs clamping around her hips and a broken cry tearing from your throat. You pulsed around her fingers, breathing ragged and heavy into her skin as wave after wave rolled through you. Natasha didn’t stop, she rode you through every pulse, milking every last tremor and murmuring soft praise against your ear the entire time. “Good girl…that’s my good girl. So, so perfect. I’ve got you.”
Only when the last tremor finally faded did she ease her fingers out, bringing them to her mouth to lick them clean with a low, satisfied hum. She kept you right there in her lap, face still tucked into her neck, one hand stroking gently up and down your back while you caught your breath.
“Let’s go inside..” she whispered, lips brushing your temple. “And don’t worry…no one saw a thing.”
The car was quiet again, except for your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the reclined seat beneath you. Natasha’s arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close, like she had no intention of letting you move anytime soon.
Olympic morning came in darkness and Natasha woke before the city did. It was habit, yes, but not only that. Some part of her had been awake all night in shifts anyway, surfacing and sinking, every second sleep trying to build itself around the same thoughts and failing.
The Olympics.
The word itself still felt absurd even now, with the accreditation badges laid out on the counter and the schedule confirmed and the outfit hung perfectly straight where she had left it the night before.
Coffee first and then breakfast. Natasha stood at the and let herself think. She thought about the first time she saw you, the grainy vertical video on a student’s phone, the music tinny through bad speakers, that stranger on the ice moving like she had been born inside rhythm and speed and didn’t yet know the scale of what she was doing to people watching her.
About the first meeting in that old rink. You telling Natasha no with your chin tilted and your mouth smiling. About how furious and fascinated she had been. About the first competition win. The first time you skated under her name and made a room understand exactly why Romanoff had wanted you.
About the first kiss, blood on the ice, the hospital white terror in her own chest when she thought, for one second too long, that history had come back to take another girl from her. About the confession on the couch, the jump, the love she had not meant to let become this enormous and now would not trade for anything she had ever won. Then the quad Lutz returned to her mind and her stomach tightened exactly as it had every morning since they decided the Olympics would carry it. Even now after the clean landings and watching you own it without the harness. Enough to remind her that love was the least professional thing that had ever happened to her.
She carried one mug back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress. You were half buried in the blankets, warm and soft and very much not the terrifying Olympic weapon you would become in a few hours. Natasha touched your shoulder lightly.
“Y/n, wake up.”
You made a miserable noise into the pillow and dragged the blanket higher.
“It’s the Olympics..” Natasha said.
One eye opened and then the other. For one second you just stared at her, sleep and reality trying to negotiate terms. Then the truth landed and all the soft blur dropped out of your face.
“Oh God.”
Natasha handed you the coffee. “Exactly.”
You sat up too fast, hair a mess, eyes huge. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“How can you know that.”
“Because if you do, I’ll make you clean it yourself.”
You glared at her weakly over the mug. “You’re very unsympathetic for a woman in love.”
Natasha’s mouth moved faintly. “Drink.”
The drive to the venue felt unreal in exactly the way all great days did. By the time you arrived, the full machine of the Olympics was already alive around you in a way no other event had ever really captured. Security lines, team officials, federations moving like mini countries in motion. Media barricades thicker than before, cameras more numerous, microphones more aggressive, every face sharpened by the knowledge that this was not just another competition.
This was the competition..Your pulse went wild. You stepped out of the car and the noise hit instantly. Not ordinary paparazzi chaos now, Olympic media chaos..Your name snapped from one side and Natasha’s from another. Questions launched before they were even fully upright.
“Y/N, are you attempting upgraded content tonigh-“
“Romanoff, after the qualifying controversy, do you still feel-”
“Y/N, does the fall last week affect your confidence today-”
“Natasha, is gold the expectation-”
Natasha stepped into it all like she always did, one hand immediately at the center of your back, guiding and shielding the path without ever visibly seeming to push. She could feel you tighten under the onslaught. So Natasha made the world smaller the only way she knew how by moving them through it with absolute purpose. Security picked up on her line and formed around it. Event staff carved enough room and the finally got you inside, through one hallway, then another and only once the first official door shut behind them did the noise dull into something survivable.
You exhaled hard and Natasha looked at you once. “Still not throwing up?”
“Undecided.”
That got the smallest huff of amusement from Natasha. Then came the official media room and that was somehow worse. Tables, microphones, badges, federation representatives, press clustered and ready. You and Natasha sat side by side under Olympic branding that still did not look fully real, and the first question came before your pulse had even settled from walking in.
About the qualifier fall, then the disqualification and whether you believed you deserved to be here after the way qualification had happened. Then whether Romanoff thought this was “the comeback narrative of the Games.”
Then whether the quad Lutz rumors were true. You answered the first one, then the second. By the third you could feel your chest tightening again, the same way it did when too many voices wanted pieces of you at once. Natasha saw the shift before anyone else. She leaned slightly toward her microphone and cut in with such controlled force that the room obeyed without even realizing it had.
“My skater deserves to be here because her score deserves to be here.” she said. “The investigation confirmed that. The rankings confirmed that and if anyone in this room still has confusion, I suggest you improve your understanding of edge mechanics before asking another question.”
The room recalibrated around Romanoff in full command and you got three precious breaths in which not a single person looked directly at you. By the time they were released, your nerves had gone from bad to electric.
You both found each other again in the locker room. You changed with shaking hands and Natasha did not comment on the shaking. She only stepped in when the shaking became inconvenient, retouching one line where makeup had blurred from too much nervous breath. Then she crouched and took your skate. Always the same impossible intimacy of Natasha kneeling in front of you while the whole world waited on the other side of a door.
You looked down at her and felt, for one second, as if every version of yourself that had ever wanted anything was standing in the room too. The little girl..the late skater. The woman who had said no, the woman who had said yes. Natasha tied the first knot, then the second. Pulled the laces through and checked the fit with one practiced press of her fingers.
When she looked up, her face was calm. You held her gaze and admitted what was obvious. “I’m losing my mind.”
“I can see that.” Natasha stood and came closer, one hand finding the side of your face carefully around the old scar.
“Whatever happens tonight, Y/n.” she said, “I am already proud of you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Your throat tightened and Natasha kept going. “You made it here. Do you understand what that is? What it means? You dragged yourself from a phone video and a hobby rink to the Olympic ice.” Her eyes held yours. “No one gets to make that small. Not even you.”
By the time they left the locker room, your pulse was still fast, but it had become useful again. Until the tunnel opened and everything was hitting you. The crowd already dense and loud and brightly alive beyond the boards. Flags, cameras, screens bigger than buildings. Somewhere in the stands, people were holding signs with your name on them. Your name at the freaking Olympics.
For one second you genuinely forgot how to breathe. The years and injuries and medals and fear and love and late starts and too much ambition and all the nights you had looked at impossible things and decided to reach anyway. This was the moment you had worked so fucking hard for. And it was enormous enough to swallow you if you let it.
The event began and girl after girl entered and skated. Some were good in that clean, expected Olympic way and some made you wonder darkly what federation politics had dragged them here and why.
And some..Some were terrifying. One Japanese skater so technically secure it looked like she’d been poured onto the ice rather than stepped onto it. An American with components so mature the crowd went quiet for whole sections just to watch. The reigning gold medalist carrying her own legend like a second costume.
Your knee bounced up and down and Natasha placed one hand flat over them and stilled the motion. “Stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
You looked at the ice and whispered, “No one’s doing it..” Natasha knew exactly what you meant. No one dared the quad Lutz.
Programs rose and ended and content came and went. The field was brutal, yes, but still moving within the limits of what they trusted under Olympic pressure. That made your jump bigger now, not less. A thing waiting in the wings with teeth.
When your name was finally called, the room inside you almost came apart. Your entire body flooded cold and hot at once. You stood too fast and sat back down halfway. Natasha caught your wrist and you looked at her with eyes already too wide.
And Natasha knew immediately. You’re too nervous, too much in your head and way too close to the edge where ambition turned blind.
Natasha stepped fully in front of you, blocking the tunnel, blocking the arena, blocking everything except herself. “Look at me.”
Natasha took your face in both hands, not gently, not roughly, just enough to force the world down to one point. “What did we agree.”
You swallowed. “If it’s not there, I stop.”
“If it’s not there?”
“I stop.”
“Immediately.”
You nodded and Natasha searched your face another beat longer, reading everything. The fear, the hunger and the dangerous brightness of wanting too much. Just the young, shaking awe of standing on Olympic ice with a weapon no one else had shown. She got your jacket off in one smooth motion and handed it away without looking. Then, because there was nothing else left except truth, she leaned in and said against the line of your temple, quiet enough that it belonged only to them:
“I love you, Y/n, and now show them.”
Your eyes closed for half a second and when they opened again, the panic had not vanished. But it had steadied, because under the Olympics, under the cameras, under the scoreboards and history and impossible jumps and impossible women..that was still there. Love.
You took one breath and stepped onto the ice and for one suspended second, the entire world seemed to expand around you.
The arena was enormous from here. Thousands of bodies breathing in the same space and waiting for something from you. Light flooded the rink from above in clean white columns and the boards looked farther away than they should have. The first rows blurred into flags and faces and raised phones and banners.
Your pulse hammered so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the backs of your knees..and suddenly the house lights dropped. The arena fell darker around the rink and the ice beneath you turned into its own world white, waiting, absolute. You took one last breath. This is the moment, you thought and the music started.
You moved and the ice came up under you like recognition. Your body found the timing before your mind could interfere. The opening phrase cut cleanly through your spine and shoulders and suddenly it was no longer thousands of people and Olympic pressure and impossible history breathing down your neck.
You skated like the rink had been built for you and forgotten to tell the rest of the world. At the boards, Natasha did not breathe properly for the first ten seconds. Not because she doubted you, because love had made watching you an almost unbearable act of faith.
Your opening element landed clean. Then the next phrase opened and you grew into it more, that beautiful, dangerous quality in your skating taking hold..the way you could make movement look both wild and precise at once, like joy and discipline had finally stopped pretending to be enemies.
Natasha tracked everything. The line of the shoulders, the exact placement of the opening edge, the speed into the transition and the spin that centered and deepened and held, held, held so beautifully the arena quieted into pure attention for the length of it. And then Natasha saw you smile.
A flash of pure, bright aliveness in the middle of the biggest stage in the world. It hit Natasha in the chest so hard she almost lost the next count. God, she thought, not for the first time and never this helplessly, I am so in love with her.
You came out of the spin and into the next section with the music riding right under your ribs. The program was building and the whole arena could feel it now. You could hear the difference in the silence, less rustling, less shifting, more of that terrible collective attention that meant people had stopped being separate from one another and become one body watching.
Then came the setup and the rink seemed to tilt toward it. You felt the approach build in your legs and hips, every piece of it already known, every count already mapped into your bones.
You took the first edge and you felt that I was wrong. The line was ugly and the timing underneath it tilted bad. Your body knew it instantly, with the old animal certainty that came before thought. No.
The jump was poison in this shape. For one horrible split second you saw two roads at once, the one where you ignored it and trusted adrenaline and the one where you remembered what you had promised.
Natasha saw it too, or rather, Natasha saw the setup change just enough to send a spike of terror straight through her body. Her hands actually came up over her own head on instinct, the old reflex of dread and helplessness ripping through her before thought could stop it, No, no, no!
But you did not take off. Instead you folded the mistake into movement with a save so fast and so intelligent it almost looked choreographed if you didn’t know what you were seeing. You rode out of it, wrapped the error in transition and body line and music, and kept the program alive.
Natasha’s hands dropped and her breath came back into her. Beside the boards, Tony had appeared in the seat space left for staff and leaned in just enough to murmur, “That was gorgeous.”
Natasha didn’t look at him. “She saved it beautifully, Natasha, everything is fine.” he added, quieter, because he wasn’t stupid and could see exactly how close she was to dropping dead from stress.
You came out of the save with your heart going wild. Your body was still inside the program, still moving, still answering the music exactly as it needed to, but your mind had split open around one furious thought: Do I go again?
You had promised. If it felt wrong and you stopped. And it had felt wrong, so you had stopped..So that should have been the end of it. Except the song was still moving and the layout still alive. The last chance still somewhere ahead in the architecture if you had the nerve to take it. Fear hit you then,
What if the next one was wrong too? What if you had already saved yourself and the smarter, better, safer choice was to let the jump go and take the skate you had? What if-
Suddenly, across all that distance and light and noise, you found the one face that had taught you the difference between courage and stupidity. Natasha was at the boards, jaw tight and hands still curled around the barrier hard enough to whiten the knuckles. And beside her, because apparently the universe itself had decided today needed more absurdity, Tony stood with one hand in his pocket and the other making the smallest, calmest little nod.
Natasha’s face was not calm, but her eyes were on you and nowhere else. No fear in them now, only agreement.
If it’s there, you go.
If it’s not, you stop.
I trust you to know the difference.
All the noise vanished and your body settled. The line appeared in front of you like it had been waiting all along. The music drove toward its final rise and the program narrowed to one clean corridor of timing and ice and nerve. You entered the setup again and this time the edge bit true, the takeoff felt different immediately..
At the boards, Natasha stopped breathing. One hand flat on the barrier, the other clenched so hard around the edge of it that later there would probably be a crescent of pain in her palm. She counted in her head as you left the ice. One, two, three..The rotation and the air position were there and when you came down, the blade met the ice as though the world itself had decided to witness history properly.
You landed perfectly. Just blade and body and ice aligning in one impossible, devastating answer.
The arena went silent exactly as Natasha had once told you it would. For one full second the whole Olympic stadium forgot how to react, forgot how to be sound and movement and mass..and exploded.
A roar so huge it seemed to shake the air itself. People on their feet, flags whipping and screaming, shouting, pounding hands. The commentators’ voices cracked clean through whatever professionalism they’d been clinging to.
“My God!”
“That was a Quat Lutz!!”
“That is history!”
You barely heard any of it because you were still in the program. You came out of the landing and kept going, the final phrase of the music carrying you as though the jump had not just split the sport in half behind you. Every line after it burned brighter, the whole program surged toward its ending with the arena losing its mind around you and you somehow, impossibly, still inside the performance enough to finish it.
Then the final note hit and you ended perfectly. You stood at center ice, breathing hard enough your lungs burned, the world white and gold and deafening around you. You genuinely did not know if what you had done had been as clean as it felt. It had happened too smoothly, too completely, the landing too right to fully trust in real time.
But the arena..the arena knew. People were throwing flowers and soft gifts onto the ice. Somewhere someone was screaming your name so hard it sounded like pain. The first rows had become a wall of movement and shock and the commentators had stopped even pretending composure and were just speaking over one another in disbelief.
Your legs shook under you, adrenaline was flooding so hard through your body that you couldn’t tell if you were cold or burning alive. You dropped down onto one knee in the center of the ice, your hand pressed to the surface and you stared at the ice like it might answer you.
What just happened?
Then you looked up and found Natasha. She was still at the boards, standing in exactly the same place and was smiling so widely that your heart broke on impact. No restraint left in it and no Romanoff control. Just pure, incandescent pride and joy and something so bright in her face you suddenly couldn’t tell if your own eyes had gone glassy or if the lights were doing strange things.
You got up somehow and skated toward the exit on legs that no longer felt entirely reliable. By the time you reached the boards, your knees were actually wobbling from the adrenaline dump, but Natasha was already there with her hand out. The second your fingers closed, something in you finally accepted that this was real.
Natasha helped you off the ice and you hit the rubber matting in a rush of shaky breath and half-sobbed laughter. “I did it?” you asked, voice wrecked, not even realizing you’d said it like a question. Natasha’s face broke wider somehow, which should have been impossible.
“You did.” she said.
And you lost your mind. You bounced once on the balls of your feet like there was too much electricity in your body to stay grounded, then again, then made one helpless sound of pure joy and launched yourself into Natasha. She caught you with a laugh that sounded as disbelieving as it did happy, arms locking around you immediately. You clung to her hard, almost painfully hard, burying your face into her shoulder because there was too much feeling and nowhere else to put it.
“I did it!” you said again, “Natasha- I-”
“I know.” She held you just as tightly, one hand spread across your back, the other in your hair, laughing once under her breath because joy this large had made even her feel unstable. Around them, the stadium was still erupting, but for one perfect second, inside Natasha’s arms, you felt like the whole world had narrowed down to exactly what mattered: The ice, the jump..and the woman holding you like history had just happened in her hands.
There were still skaters left and was the cruel part. Girls still had to skate and scores still had to come up. Olympic mathematics still had to finish its cold, ugly work. So you sat with Natasha in the kiss and cry area with your medal less hands twisted together in your lap and every nerve in your body still lit from the performance.
You were vibrating., there was no other word for it and your knees kept threatening to bounce. Your fingers kept going to your mouth, every few seconds you would look up at the scoreboard, then at the ice, then at Natasha, then back again as if one of those surfaces might finally explain what had just happened.
Natasha sat beside you with the kind of stillness that only looked calm if you didn’t know her. Natasha’s hand rested on your knee and her face was under control, mostly. But the line of her mouth was too alive, her eyes too bright..She was just as wrecked.
The skaters after you went out under the weight of what had happened and you could feel it. It lived in the arena now, the jump and a fact too huge to ignore. One girl skated beautifully and still looked small inside the aftermath, another had the technical security but not the room. A third nearly lost herself trying too hard to answer the impossible thing you had put on the ice before her. The commentators kept circling back to it every time the camera found Natasha or flashed one more replay.
“The pressure this has created for the remaining field-”
“You can see the entire event changed after that moment..”
“And once again, Romanoff in the boardside position, absolutely unreadable though I have to say, that may be the most emotion we’ve seen from her in years-”
You heard none of the full sentences. You were too busy trying not to crawl out of your skin. “Do you think it’s enough?” you whispered at one point.
Natasha did not look at you, her eyes stayed on the ice. “Yes.”
You let out a breath. “That confident?”
“Yes.”
Then, finally, Natasha looked at you and added, quieter, “But I would prefer you didn’t explode before they confirm it.”
The waiting dragged and every score took too long. By the time the last skater stepped off, your whole body had become one live wire. The standings were about to lock..
The announcer’s voice shifted, that formal, sharpened tone events used when moving from possibility into official fact.
Third place first, a name that was not yours. Your breath caught and your knee bounced hard enough that Natasha’s hand pressed down instinctively to still it.
Second place, another name and still not yours. The world narrowed so violently you thought for one awful second you might actually black out before hearing it. Your pulse was in your teeth, in your temples, everywhere. Then the screen changed and your name came up with points followed.
First.
For one full second you simply stared, as if the letters might rearrange themselves if you blinked. They didn’t, but the arena did. The noise hit in a wave so enormous it almost looked physical. People were back on their feet again, the camera cut to your face, then to the score, then..because apparently the universe itself understood what mattered to Natasha.
“Is Romanoff smiling?” one commentator actually shouted over the rising roar. “I think Romanoff is smiling!”
Smiling was too small a word for what was happening to Natasha’s face. It wasn’t her usual almost smile, the private one that lived in corners and disappeared if you looked directly at it. This was open and disbelieving in its own right. So proud it stripped her down to something almost young. You saw it just before the tears fully took you.
Then you broke. You folded in on yourself with both hands over your mouth and sobbed. The late start, the old rink, TikTok, the first no, the first yes, the disqualification, the giant ridiculous jump..The whole impossible path from nowhere to here.
Natasha was already turning toward you before the first sob properly landed. “Hey.”
You shook your head, laughing and crying so hard you could barely see. “I-”
“Congratulations.” Natasha’s hands found your face first, then one shoulder, then both hands around you when you folded toward her. She drew you in with no concern for cameras, commentary, Olympic decorum, or any other goddamn thing.
“You did it..” Natasha said into your hair and her own voice was no steadier than yours now. “You did it.”
You clung to her. “I can’t-” you tried, and then laughed because apparently there were no words left in the language. Natasha held you tighter, “Breathe, Y/n.” that only made you cry harder for another ten seconds, which Natasha accepted as a temporary structural failure and worked around.
“You breathe!” you managed.
“I am.”
“You’re not!”
That got the smallest huff of laughter out of Natasha, which almost destroyed you all over again. By the time you separated enough to look at the screen again, your own face was wet, your chest hurt from crying, and the reality had still not fully entered your bones.
Olympic champion.
You looked at Natasha like maybe she might translate and she only shook her head once, smiling that impossible smile still. “Yes.” she said. And because that was Natasha saying it, because Natasha knew what every title weighed and was still looking at you like this one had knocked the whole world sideways, you believed it a little more.
The podium ceremony was somehow even less real. The three medalists standing in the narrow back corridor in their formal jackets while the crowd kept roaring in pockets whenever screens replayed the jump. You stood there in a daze. Silver to your left and bronze to your right. Both girls trying, with varying success, not to look like they were still processing what you had done to the event.
The music cue came and the doors opened. The arena lights hit all over again, and they walk out. Third place stepped up first, then second. Then your name rang through the stadium, louder than anything had ever needed to be in your life.
You stepped onto the highest podium and there it was. The freaking top. The place every skater in the world looked at until they either reached it or broke themselves trying.
The medal came a second later at it was so much heavier than you had expected. The ribbon settled against your neck and the gold itself dropped onto your chest with a weight that felt absurdly physical, like history deciding to make sure you noticed. You looked down at it once and laughed and jumped in place, just once, unable not to, joy too large and bright to fit in Olympic posture.
The crowd loved it. Somewhere in the lower stands, someone was crying as if you had personally done this to their family. Above all of it, you found Natasha, she stood at the boards among coaches and officials and cameras and somehow still looked like the only fixed point in the building.
She was watching you and only you. No one else got this face, no federation, no medal, no country or cameras. Just you.
The anthem played and you stood with the gold hanging on you and felt the whole moment sink through you in slow, impossible layers. When it ended, the flash of cameras began in earnest and the chaos came. Photos first, official, staged, smiling. Then more spontaneous ones. Then press trying to cut into the procession, autograph requests from event staff and junior athletes and volunteers and people who would absolutely frame the napkins if that was all you signed.
You smiled in all of them because couldn’t stop. Even when your cheeks started hurting, even when the medal kept shifting heavily against your collarbone and the adrenaline had gone from lightning to a deep, trembling high under your skin. Somewhere in all of it Natasha kept orbiting close enough to intercept the worst excesses without ever once pulling the joy out of the moment. A hand at your back when the crowd pressed too near. A look to staff when someone tried to drag you toward an extra camera setup you clearly did not need. One clipped sentence in Russian that made two overenthusiastic media people physically step backward.
You caught pieces of it, then lost them again in the blur of congratulations and bright lights and disbelief. By the time you finally made it back to the locker room, the hallway quiet itself felt luxurious. The door shut behind you and for the first time since the score came up, there was no crowd left to perform joy for.
Just the room and the medal still around your neck. You stood there for one second, two, staring at the floor as if you’d forgotten what bodies did when they were done changing the world for the day. Then you broke again. You laughed and cried at once, one hand flying to the medal as if you needed to check it was still there and real and gold and yours. The sound that came out of you was helpless and bright and completely wrecked.
Natasha, who had been watching you from two steps away with a smile she still had not managed to stop, moved in immediately and you hit her like a storm. Arms around her neck, forehead to her shoulder, laughing and crying and trying to say something coherent about the podium and the jump and the fact that you had actually done it, but none of it came out in order.
Natasha held you like she’d been waiting all evening to do exactly this without witnesses. One hand spread between your shoulder blades, the other at the back of your head. Her own smile refusing, absolutely refusing, to leave her face.
“I know..” Natasha said, laughing softly into your hair because she was that happy too and there was no hiding it anymore. “I know.”
You pulled back only enough to look at her. “You’re still smiling!”
Natasha lifted one brow, but the expression failed entirely because the smile stayed. “Apparently.”
You laughed again, full and helpless and in love with everything all at once. “This is insane..”
“Yes.”
“I won.”
“Yes.”
“The Olympics.”
“Yes.”
You shook your head like maybe you could dislodge the unreality of it, but couldn’t. It only made another laugh burst out of you, followed by more tears. Natasha wiped one away with her thumb and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
A few days passed and nothing felt normal again. Not in the way you had once understood normal. Because how were you supposed to return to ordinary life after the Olympics had split your life cleanly into before and after?
Before, you had been a girl with a phone, a hobby rink, too much talent for the wrong life and not enough permission to chase more. After, you were an Olympic champion.
The words still did not sit naturally in your body. They landed differently every morning, sometimes like laughter, sometimes like disbelief. Sometimes like something so huge and fragile you were afraid to think it too hard in case it cracked. Your family threw a party so loud and warm and overfed and emotional that you thought you might cry just stepping through the front door.
Your mother had gone far past “small gathering” and into full celebration mode. Your father had cried openly twice before dessert and denied both incidents with no dignity at all. Old family friends came, even neighbour’s. Someone made a cake with a tiny gold medal on top and a little skate piped into the icing that looked vaguely murderous. People hugged you until your ribs hurt and people repeated, “Olympic champion” to your face like they were still checking if it sounded real.
The world outside the house did not calm down either. Your phone became impossible. Commentators who had probably mispronounced your name a year ago now speaking about you like you had redrawn the boundaries of the sport with your own hands. Young girls flooded your socials with clips, edits, tears, confessions, idol worship, impossible declarations of love, and endless videos trying the opening arm line from your Olympic program in living rooms, frozen ponds, malls, public sessions, backyards, any patch of ice they could find.
Natasha’s rink changed too. Registrations climbed so fast the administrative staff looked haunted. Parents with ambition in their eyes and daughters in expensive coats started appearing at the office in numbers that would have made Natasha laugh once and now only made her tired. Because yes, Romanoff Skating had its next true Olympic champion under her name.
And everyone wanted to believe they could buy or beg or discipline their own daughters into the same kind of myth. Natasha still coached, wouldn’t probably ever stop, because it was too deeply built into her. But something in her had shifted, the rink no longer owned all of her.
The girls noticed it first in the smallest ways. Natasha leaving when she said she would leave, not staying until midnight every night out of habit and loneliness disguised as work. Natasha choosing home more often and looking at her phone at odd moments and, once, very visibly smiling in the middle of a hallway because you had apparently sent her something ridiculous.
The younger girls nearly fainted the first time they saw it. Anastasia whispered to you one afternoon, “You domesticated Romanoff.”
You had nearly choked on your coffee. “No one says that sentence ever again!” you said and Anastasia only smirked and pushed off the barrier. But you knew what she meant. The biggest change was not that Natasha cared less about skating. It was that she finally cared about something else enough to let it stand beside skating in equal light.
That took longer for you to understand than it should have. You were still learning what it meant to be chosen gently by someone who had once only known how to choose through hunger.
One evening, when the world had finally gone quiet enough around you for the first time in days, you sat together in Natasha’s living room with no television on and no open notebooks between you and no immediate reason to prepare anything at all. It felt stranger than the Olympics in some ways.
Just you, the city outside the windows and Liho asleep in a black coil at your thigh like he had fully decided you belonged to the furniture now. You sat tucked into the corner of the couch with one leg under you and a glass of water in your hand. Natasha sat beside you, closer than she once would have allowed by instinct and now close by preference.
For a while you said nothing. The silence between you had finally learned how to be peaceful. Then you looked at her and said, “Can I ask you something without you making it annoying.”
Natasha turned her head slightly. “No.”
You snorted. “Great. Very promising.”
“What.”
You hesitated..Not because you didn’t know the question. Because you did, you’d been carrying it around for days, somewhere under the celebrations and the interviews and the constant impossibility of being looked at now.
“What do we do now?” Natasha’s expression shifted by a fraction. “With us.” you added, quieter. “With…everything.”
The room held still around the question. It was not fear, exactly. Not anymore, but more like the shape of a bridge you had both crossed without fully naming the fact that one day you would reach the other side and have to live there. Natasha looked at you for a long beat, then leaned back into the couch and said, with maddening calm, “The next Olympics are in four years.”
You stared at her and laughed. “You are unbelievable!”
“It seemed relevant.”
“It is not relevant.”
“It is absolutely relevant.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “I’m asking you a huge relationship question and you’re answering like a planner.”
“I am answering like someone with foresight.”
“You are answering like a menace.”
Natasha’s mouth curved. “And yet.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned your head back against the couch. “Hopeless.”
For a second Natasha just looked at you. Then, with no warning at all, she said, “Move in with me.”
The laughter died and you turned so fast Liho opened one eye in visible offense.
“What?”
Natasha looked almost too calm, which you had learned usually meant the opposite. “Move in with me.”
“Natasha.”
She kept going, because apparently once she had decided to be brave she was going to do it with the same terrifying directness she brought to everything else.
“I don’t care if it’s my place.” she said. “If you hate my building, we can leave. If you want somewhere else, we find somewhere else. Something bigger. Something quieter. Something with more light if that matters to you.” Her gaze flicked briefly down to Liho. “We keep the cat.”
Liho, correctly understanding that he had become a central legal feature of the proposal, remained asleep. You stared at her. Natasha’s voice lost some of its matter of fact polish then.
“I want…” She stopped, exhaled once and began again more honestly. “I want to come home to you on purpose. Not because you stayed over too late. Not because training ran long. Not because one of us was stubborn enough to ignore the hour.”
That landed somewhere deep in your chest. Natasha looked at you with all that impossible steadiness she had once used to frighten girls into better posture and now was using, somehow, to offer a life.
“I want us.” she said. “Properly.”
The room had gone so quiet you could hear your own pulse and suddenly all the versions of you flickered through your mind in one long, impossible chain.
The first no in the old rink, the first dangerous look, the first kiss made of anger, the blood on the ice, locker room, couch, love confession..The Olympic tunnel. Everything you had been, everything you had survived to become..
You set your glass down carefully because your hand had started shaking and you did not trust yourself not to spill. “You really know how to do this with no warning..” you said softly.
Natasha’s eyes moved over your face, reading the emotion there and not looking away from it. “Yes.”
“That’s deeply unfair.”
“Probably.”
You laughed once under your breath, but tears were already there. Natasha saw them and shifted slightly closer, not touching yet, giving the moment room to become what it was. You looked down at your own hands and then back at her. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t care if it’s your place or mine or somewhere new?”
“No.”
“Just…” Your mouth trembled faintly around a smile. “Just us and Liho.” Now Natasha’s expression softened in the quietest, most devastating way.
“Yes.” she said. “Just us and Liho.”
You covered your eyes with one hand and laughed at yourself. “God, that’s so domestic.”
Natasha, unbelievably looked pleased. “I know.”
You dropped your hand and looked at her properly through the blur in your eyes. For a second you could not speak..the ending of one life and the beginning of another stood so close together in the room that you felt almost dizzy with it. But then you said, with all the honesty you had and no energy left to make it prettier:
“Yes.”
Natasha went still, not because she was surprised you wanted her, Because yes, even now, even after everything, yes still had the power to strike her silent. Your smile widened through the tears.
“Yes.” you said again, because apparently this would become a pattern between you, the need to hear impossible things twice in order to let them settle into reality. “I want that, I want you. I want us. I want the cat, unfortunately.”
Natasha let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost relief, almost something much bigger than either. Then she reached for you and you met halfway on the couch, the kiss not rushed, not desperate, not made of battle this time. Just a long, quiet, devastatingly certain kiss between two women who had finally fought their way out of becoming each other’s damage and into becoming each other’s home.
When you parted, you rested your forehead against Natasha’s and said, “You know this is ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“You saw me on TikTok and now we live together.”
Natasha’s mouth brushed the corner of yours in the shape of a smile. “That is one version of the story.”
“It’s the funniest one.”
“It is not the one I would tell.”
You pulled back just enough to see her face. “What version would you tell?”
Natasha looked at you for a long moment. Then she said, with no performance in it at all: “That I found the love of my life skating in borrowed light and decided not to lose her.”
Your whole face gave up trying to stay composed. You kissed her again before anything else could happen to either of you. Later, much later, when you were still on the couch and the city had gone black outside and Liho had migrated into Natasha’s lap with the absolute confidence of a creature who knew the household order had shifted permanently in his favor, you thought about beginnings and middles and endings.
About how you and Natasha had once looked like the kind of story that could only end in wreckage. Maybe that had been true once, but not now?
Now the ending was just a quiet room, a sleeping cat, Natasha’s hand warm over yours and a future finally simple enough to want without fear. And for the first time since you had stepped on Olympic ice, you felt something even rarer than triumph:
warnings - fluff, self conscious reader, shy reader, kissing, reassurance, comfort, Nancy being so soft and gentle, relationship is in it’s early stages
ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ʚଓ⋆
You are getting ready to go on a date with your girlfriend, Nancy. You just finished, and your room is scattered with unworn clothes, bobby pins and hair ties.
You go to clean up, rushing around the room. But every time you move past the mirror, or even your reflection in the window, your body tenses. Your nose scrunches slightly and your eyes flicker away.
Nancy had finished getting ready a while ago, sitting on your bed as a quiet solace. She notices you from her position on the bed, having been watching you the whole time. The way you avoid your reflection. The way your shoulders tense just slightly each time. The way your expression changes. No matter how much she’d tell you how amazing you look, there was always something in your eyes that didn’t quite meet the curve in your smile.
“…y/n,” she says gently.
You pause mid-step, turning slightly toward her.
“Come here.” She pats her lap.
You hesitate for just a second, then walk over slowly. You settle onto her lap carefully, your movements slow, your hands unsure of where to go.
Her arms come around you immediately, and you sigh, your chest not so hollow anymore. Her hands rest lightly at your sides and she searches for your pupils, unable to find them, only your eyelids.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Look at me.”
Your head lifts slowly and hesitantly. Her hand comes up, fingers brushing softly under your chin, tilting your face just slightly. She studies you for a minute, and her expression is so soft you almost feel guilty for worrying her.
“You look so pretty,” she says quietly, smoothing down your ridden up skirt.
Something in your chest cracks a little.
“I…” you try, but your voice falters. A few tears sting your eyes sharply.
“Oh—hey,” she coos softly, her thumb immediately brushing under your eye, catching a tear. “Tell me what’s wrong, baby.”
You shake your head slightly, your voice small. “Don’t feel pretty…”
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, her voice dropping even softer.
Her thumbs wipe away your tears carefully. “C’mere,” she whispers, pulling you closer against her chest.
She holds you there for a moment, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back. She leans back just enough to look at you again, her hands coming up to cradle your face. “Sweetie,” she says softly, her blue eyes searching yours. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”
You blink at her, your cheeks already warming slightly. Her thumb brushes across your cheek again.
“I’m serious. You’re so pretty, it actually hurts sometimes,” she adds quietly.
She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “Don’t cry,” she murmurs. “You don’t deserve to feel like that.”
You sniffle slightly. “Thank you…”
She immediately shakes her head, her curly hair swaying gently around her face.
“Hey. No,” she says, her tone gentle but firm. “Don’t thank me for that.”
Her hand cups your jaw. “It’s not something I’m giving you, okay?” she murmurs. “It’s just the truth.”
You look down shyly. Your cheeks flush deeper. A smile creeps its way on to your face.
“Oh…” she teases lightly, her pitch slightly rising. “There she is.”
Before you can react, she leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another. And another. And another.
“Pretty girl,” she murmurs between kisses, her hand coming up to gently stroke your hair.
You let out a small, flustered sound, your shoulders scrunching. “Nance—” you mumble, already blushing hard.
She kisses your other cheek. Your temple. The corner of your mouth “Look at you. Getting all shy on me.”
You hide your face in her chest, overwhelmed, your hands gripping lightly at her shirt.
She chuckles quietly, tilting her head slightly. Her lips brush gently against the side of your neck. And you let out a small, involuntary sound.
She pauses immediately and pulls back just enough to look at you, letting out a quiet, amused breath.
“You like that?” she murmurs, leaning in again and pressing another soft kiss to the same spot.
You react by softly whimpering again, followed by a small, breathy sound you can’t quite stop, the pleasure intense as your grip tightens in her shirt.
When she pulls back again, you immediately try to hide your face. But her hand comes up gently, tilting your chin back toward her.
“Hey,” she murmurs softly.
Your eyes flick up to hers, embarrassed.
She just smiles, lashes fluttering elegantly.
And then her lips press against yours, soft and warm, your noses bumping together.
“So pretty,” she whispers against your mouth. Her hands wrap around your waist, squeezing softly at your delicate skin.
“C’mon,” she murmurs. “Tell me something.”
You blink at her. “What…?”
Her hands gently rub up and down your sides.
“Who’s my pretty girl?”
You hesitate for a moment and your voice comes out small.
“Me…”
Her face lights up instantly. “That’s right,” she praises softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”
You don’t even think about it when you say it, just tossing the question into the air like it doesn’t matter, like it won’t land anywhere important.
“Hey… name a woman. A random woman.”
Natasha doesn’t even look up from where she’s leaning against the counter, turning a knife in her hand with that quiet, practiced ease that makes everything she does look effortless.
“Anya.”
Immediate.
No hesitation, no pause, no thinking.
Just the answer.
And that’s what makes you look up.
“…who’s Anya?”
You’re still smiling when you ask, still expecting it to stay light, to stay part of the joke.
Natasha shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing, like it should be nothing.
“Just a name.”
You let out a small laugh, sitting up straighter as your eyes narrow just a little.
“No, that was way too fast to be just a name.”
Now she looks at you, calm, unreadable, but attentive in that quiet way of hers.
“It was random.”
“It didn’t sound random.”
There’s something in your tone now, something sharper than before, and she notices. Of course she does.
Natasha straightens just slightly, her attention settling fully on you as she sets the knife aside.
“I remember a lot of names.”
“You don’t remember what I asked you to buy yesterday.”
There’s the smallest pause. Barely there, but enough for you to catch it.
“…that was different.”
You hum, unconvinced, already standing and closing the distance between you without really deciding to.
“Okay, so where is she from?”
“A mission.”
Too easy.
That answer comes too easily.
You tilt your head, studying her now like you’re trying to pull the truth out of her by force.
“What kind of mission?”
“It was a while ago.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s enough.”
You stop right in front of her, arms crossing loosely, but your focus is sharp now, fixed entirely on her face.
“Natasha.”
She hums softly, like she’s indulging you.
“Mhm?”
“Why do you remember her name that fast?”
There it is again. That flicker. That fraction of a second where something passes through her expression before it smooths out again.
“I told you. It was random.”
You don’t believe her.
Not even a little.
“Okay,” you say, lifting your hand slightly, counting without breaking eye contact, “option one. Ex.”
“No.”
“Too fast.”
“Because it’s not true.”
You lift another finger.
“Agent.”
A pause.
“…yes.”
You blink, caught off guard by how easily she gives you that.
“She was an agent.”
“Oh my God, she’s real.”
There’s a slight tightening in her jaw now, not defensive, just aware.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”
You step a little closer, your curiosity now fully turning into something else, something you’re not naming yet.
“What kind of agent?”
“She tried to kill me.”
That stops you completely.
“…what?”
“Twice.”
You stare at her, trying to decide if she’s serious, and the worst part is… she is.
“That’s the woman you picked.”
“You said random.”
You let out a breath that turns into a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head as you look at her.
“So your brain went straight to someone who tried to kill you.”
“She was memorable.”
“Oh, I’m sure she was,” you murmur, but there’s an edge there now, something quieter and more pointed. “Do you think about her often?”
That’s when it shifts.
You see it happen.
Natasha’s posture changes just slightly, her attention sharpening, focusing in on you in a way that suddenly makes you feel like you’re the one being studied now.
“You’re jealous.”
You scoff immediately, even as your chest tightens just a little.
“I am asking questions.”
“Mhm.”
She pushes off the counter slowly, taking her time as she steps toward you, and you already know you’ve made a mistake.
Because now she’s interested.
And when Natasha is interested, she doesn’t let things go.
“You always do this?” she asks softly, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch without meaning to.
“Do what?”
Her gaze drags over your face, slow, deliberate, like she’s reading every little reaction you’re trying to hide.
“Get like this.”
You frown slightly, defensive.
“I’m not getting like anything.”
Her hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against your arm, barely there but enough to make your focus slip for a second.
“Possessive,” she murmurs.
Your stomach tightens.
“I am not—”
“You are,” she says quietly, almost amused, stepping just a fraction closer. “It’s subtle. But it’s there.”
You swallow, trying to keep your footing.
“I just think it’s weird you said her name that fast.”
“Of course you do.”
Her fingers trail from your arm to your waist, slow enough that you’re very aware of it, very aware of how easily she settles there, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“But that’s not all.”
You try to ignore the way your pulse picks up.
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
Her voice dips slightly, softer now, closer.
“You didn’t just ask who she was.”
You hold her gaze, even as it gets harder to.
“You started guessing. Ex, agent…” she pauses, just long enough to make you feel it, “lover.”
Your breath catches.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
You hesitate, and that’s enough.
Her thumb shifts lightly against your side, slow, absent, like she’s not even thinking about it, which somehow makes it worse.
“…did you like her?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes then, something warmer, something that almost looks like satisfaction.
“She tried to kill me.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Her hand tightens just slightly at your waist, not enough to hold you there, just enough to remind you that she could.
“No,” she says, softer now, but there’s still that teasing edge underneath. “I didn’t like her.”
You exhale, some of the tension slipping out of you before you can hide it.
“Good.”
Her eyebrow lifts just a little.
“Good?”
You roll your eyes, trying to recover.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
Her voice drops just enough to make it unfair, her forehead almost brushing yours now.
“Because it sounded a little like you didn’t want me liking anyone else.”
Your cheeks warm.
“That’s not—”
Her thumb presses slightly more firmly against your side, grounding you, steadying you, keeping you right where you are.
“Not what?” she asks quietly.
You hesitate again, and she notices. Of course she notices.
“Say it.”
You glare at her, but there’s no real heat behind it anymore.
“I didn’t like it.”
There’s that soft, satisfied hum from her, like she’s been waiting for that.
“Better.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. The air between you feels different now, heavier, but not in a bad way.
Quieter.
“I just…” you start, softer now, your voice losing that defensive edge, “you could’ve just said me.”
And that’s what finally softens her.
Completely.
Her hand relaxes at your waist, her touch gentler now, more careful.
“You’re not random,” she says, and this time there’s no teasing in it, just something steady, something real.
You look at her, really look at her, and it hits harder than you expect.
“If you ask me to name someone that matters,” she continues, her voice low but certain, “it’s you.”
Your chest tightens.
You try to hold onto the bit, onto something lighter.
“…you still said Anya first.”
And there it is again, that small curve of her lips.
“Next time,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing lightly against your side again, softer now, “I’ll say you.”
You narrow your eyes at her, even if you’re already losing.
“There shouldn’t be a next time.”
She leans in just slightly, her voice dropping into something quieter, more certain.
“There will be.”
A small pause.
“You like it when I make you jealous.”
You let out a breath, shaking your head as you push lightly at her shoulder.
“I do not.”
She doesn’t move.
If anything, she looks more sure.
“Mhm.”
You try to step away, and this time she lets you, but her fingers linger just a second longer than they need to, like a reminder.
Summary: Time is of the essence, and there isn't any time to sugarcoat the truth. Everything has to be settled before your first court appearance.
An: Next chapter will be court, get ready for improper use of lawyer jargon. Sidebar if yall see any content on social media about my fics send it my way 🫣. I'm not saying there is but... idk I want tp be alert 🤸♀️
Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Masterlist 2
Kate is curled up in her girlfriend’s arms. The tear stains along her face have dried. Yelena simply holds the brunette.
Kate didn't want to talk when Yelena came into the room. The blonde hypothesizes that she didn't even want to talk to Peter.
The guilt is plainly written on her face. The only words that Yelena says to Kate are, “It's not your fault.”
The young woman doesn't fight her, but she also doesn't just accept it. Yelena can see the defiance in Kate's eyes. It's like she refused to even hear the woman out.
So Yelena doesn't talk anymore. It's unhelpful, instead she pulls Kate into her arms. For a moment Kate is going to protest, but the way Yelena holds her is calming.
So they sit there in silence. An hour passes, maybe two. Neither woman is tired enough to sleep.
A knock on the door interrupts the silence. Yelena sighs before getting out of the bed and walking to the door.
Bucky stands there, something is off in his posture. The man nearly never loses composure, but now she can tell something has shaken him by the way he's standing.
“I um I called the clean up crew.” He says lowly. “Wanda is in there, she- she looks scared. She asked for you.”
“Scared?”
Bucky gives her a singular nod, “Scared.”
“Okay, I'll be there just give me a minute.”
He affirms silently, and Yelena shuts the door. She stalks back over to Kate.
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah, he's dead,” Yelena answers though she wishes she could lie to Kate.
“Am I-”
Yelena’s eyes sharpen dangerously, “Don't say that. Do not ever say that. No, never. I will never let anyone harm you. Not the Don, not my sister, not even myself. Do not say but either, there is no but. This is not your fault.”
“Lena,” Kate's eyes begin to water again.
Yelena surges forward kissing the brunette fiercely. Whatever dark thoughts ruminate in Kate's head disappear. Her palm rests against Yelena’s cheek, holding her in place.
The blonde whispers against Kate's lips, “I love you.”
That only has the woman melting more, “I love you too.”
Yelena pecks her lips one more time, “I will be right back. I promise.”
Kate leans back into the bed. Her eyes swimming with desire. “Hurry back.”
Yelena leaves the room swiftly, already feeling the need to get back as fast as she can.
When the blonde enters the room there are people inside cleaning everything. The floors, the ceiling, the debris. She doesn't get to see Jarvis, he's already wrapped up in a bag.
It takes her longer than it should have to find Wanda. The leader is sitting on the floor. Her knees aren't up to her chest but they might as well be.
There's a far away look in her. She's unfocused, a sight Yelena has never seen before. She cautiously makes her way over to the woman.
The blonde sits down next to Wanda. For a long while no one says anything. When Wanda finally opens her mouth, her voice is laced with rasp.
“I need a new consigliere.”
Yelena can't contain her surprise, “Me?”
“I need someone I can trust to do what's in the best interest of business. Even if that means standing up to me. My brother did it all the time, but he could never back up his reasoning. He was an idiot, not intelligent enough to be useful in this role, but Yelena you are.”
Yelena looks at Wanda’s side profile, “Why now?”
Wanda’s hands dig into the fabric of her pants. She keeps her head straight, eyes locked on the center of the room. A worker is scrubbing the floor there.
“If something were to happen to me. I need someone who I know can fill my shoes.”
That frightens Yelena. Not the thought of being the Don, but she has never heard Wanda speak like this in her life. The Don has been in Yelena’s life for years now, and she's never seemed this on edge.
“What did he say to you?”
Wanda almost freezes, but she tries to be strong. “He said Tony wants my empire and that he is going to kill me for fucking his daughter.”
“A death threat?”
Wanda shakes her head, “More than that. I had a gun to his head and those were his last words. It was a promise and I need to be prepared for anything, even the possibility of me getting whacked.”
“Does my sister know?”
Wanda’s lips fold into her mouth and she shakes her head. “I haven't told her yet.”
“She won't want this for me,” Yelena says.
Wanda's gaze drops to her lap, “I know. I don't want it for you either, but I need it. If loyalty was all it took I could pick anyone, but Lena I need a leader. Not a soldier."
“What does this change?”
Wanda speaks clinically, “More responsibility, more power, more money.”
Yelena purses her lips, “And for Kate.”
“It could mean two things. I can't decide for you. It might mean more distance, more silence, more lies.”
“Or?” She probes.
“More danger, more protection, and more honesty. You're the one that gets to decide if she's safer by your side or away from you.”
Yelena’s head bobs up and down. “I will do this, but I want to hear it.”
Wanda looks at Yelena, “Really?”
Yelena smiles, “Yep.”
“Yelena, I need you to be my consigliere.”
The blonde smiles, extending her hand, “I accept Don Maximoff.”
Things only become more complicated from this day on. To move forward is to expose fragile things to the dangers of reality. Wanda has to tell Natasha about her sister. Natasha has to start preparing you for the stand. They both must tell you about your father.
There is much to be done and the pressure leaves this pit of dread in everyone.
“Why didn't you tell me about Yelena?”
It's been nearly two weeks since Wanda killed Jarvis. She's in her office going through files about Tony Stark and the Industry family. She doesn't look up as she speaks, “Slipped my mind.”
Natasha covers the files with her hand. Wanda still refuses to meet her wife’s eyes.
“Slipped your mind? Be real with me Wanda. You know this isn't-”
Wanda groans, “Yes, I know. This isn't what you want for her. I didn’t have a choice. With Pietro in rehab and a target on my back, I can't afford not to have a second in command Natasha.”
“Why not Bucky? Clint? Hell Wanda, even me.”
Wanda’s gaze could cut through titanium when it finally hits the lawyer, “It's not about loyalty. It's about leadership, Natasha.”
“You don't think I can lead?”
“I know you don't want to. She's an adult, she agreed to this. That's the end of it.”
Natasha doesn't back down, “You haven't been yourself since you shot him in the head. I don't know what makes him so special, but I don't like what it's doing to you.”
Wanda slowly rises from her seat. For a moment she towers over her wife. Natasha follows her movements unflinching.
“You want to talk about this now. Fine. Let's talk. He told me that Stark was coming for my empire, that he would use Y/n to get it. He also told me that I'm dead where I stand because Stark knows I'm fucking his daughter. Everything is in danger: the business, my life, you, Y/n, everyone! I can't afford to be unprepared, I refuse to lose this.”
Natasha sees it plainly on the brunette's face. An emotion she has not seen in her wife for the better part of a decade. Wanda is scared, she might even be terrified. Which means this isn't something that any one involved can take lightly.
“What do you need?”
Wanda’s eyes darken, “I need to find him. I need to get to him before he gets to us.”
“Any leads?"
Wanda’s jaw clenches, “It's hard to find a dead man. I have Darcy and Clint working on it.”
“We have court in a month and a half.”
The Don rubs her forehead, “I know.”
Natasha hesitates briefly, “We still haven't told her about her father.”
Wanda softens, “She keeps saying she's not ready. I don't know what to do.”
“We have to tell her, together. It's for her own good,” Natasha insists. “She'll need to know for court anyway.”
“Okay,” Wanda mumbles.
Natasha caresses her wife’s face, “It's going to work out.”
Wanda leans into the touch, “I- I'm-”
The Don can't even bring herself to say it.
“I know, I know and I'm here.” Natasha drops her hand, only to pull Wanda into her embrace.
Wanda leans into the hug, holding on as tightly as she can. “I'm sorry, I should've told you about Yelena. I just- I didn't know if I could handle you being upset with me right now.”
Natasha kisses the top of Wanda's head. “I will hold you even when I'm upset; I will still dry your tears, I will kiss your hands, and I won't let you get lost to this lifestyle. I love you too much.”
There's a small knock on the door before it opens. You step into the room. Since the incident at the museum you've been clingy. Not in an overt way, but you did not want to be alone. That much was clear.
“Peter went out. Kate and Yelena too, I think,” you look at the scene in front of you. You can see the remnants of distress in Wanda’s features. “Is everything okay?”
The pause before either of them speaks tells you the answer. Natasha is the one who verbalizes it, “No.”
You cross the room to stand with them. One hand slips into Natasha’s and the other rests against Wanda’s cheek.
“What's wrong?”
The couple share a look.
“I hate it when you do that,” you murmur.
“Do what?” Wanda questions.
You meet her gaze, “When you guys talk about me with your eyes. I can still hear it, even when you aren't speaking. You've been doing it for the last two weeks.”
The Don drops her head, “We're sorry. There's just a lot going on. Things you need to know, but we don't want to push.”
You avert your gaze, “My father.”
The lawyer's thumb glides against the back of your hand. “Yeah him.”
You take a deep breath, “Okay, let's just get it over with.”
“Are you sure?” Wanda presses.
You shake your head lightly, “We don't have time for me to be uncertain. I can handle it.”
You all sit around Wanda’s desk. They start slow, with basic facts. His name, he's alive, he is the head of a family. Things that are not speculation. They tell you that Arno was his brother, technically your uncle.
“So he did send that man after me?”
Natasha confirms it, “Yes.”
“Why?”
Wanda’s features harden, “According to Jarvis, Tony wants my empire. He thinks he's going to get it by using you.”
The same questions that they asked him run through your head. If he was alive and powerful, why hadn't he got you out of prison? Did he have your mother killed? Your fath- uncle too?
“We won't let him get anywhere near you. You'll be safe,” Natasha tries to reassure you.
“You can't promise me that,” you say honestly.
They stay quiet.
Natasha pivots, “We need to focus on getting your freedom first and foremost.”
You scoff, “My freedom? Prison seems like the least of my problems. If you're both worried that means he's a real threat.”
Wanda’s leg begins to bounce, “I won't let him-”
“How! What is your plan? I went outside one time and that man was right there waiting. He probably knows where I am, it's only a matter of time.”
Wanda stands her ground, “It's been two weeks. If he wanted to get you here, he would've done it already.”
You cross your arms, “How comforting?”
Natasha stays soft. “Don't be like that.”
You glare at her, “Like what? I'm being realistic. I'm asking important questions. I know you both like the idea of me needing this, needing you. Maybe I did, but if my life is in danger, I might've been better off in prison.”
Wanda slams her hands on the desk, standing violently. “Don't say that!”
“Wanda-”
The Don ignores her wife. “No, I'm not going to relax or calm down or any of that. Did you hear her? Prison better than this? Better than being with us? Don't make me fucking laugh Y/n.”
You steel your gaze, refusing to be pressured into standing. “He wouldn't be trying to use me as a pawn if I just stayed in prison.”
That does it. Wanda actually laughs. “You want to go back? No more Peter, no more Kate. You want to throw away your friendship? You want to forget about us and pretend like it never happened?”
“Well at least you'd be safe then!” You snap at her. “You would all be safer without me here. All I do is bring a path of fucking sorrow behind me. My friends have put enough of their life on hold for me. You are at risk of losing this entire thing you built because of me. My mother is dead. All of it is because of me. I'm this cursed thing and at least in prison it was only my problem.”
Wanda’s anger evaporates immediately. You won't look at her, but she won't take her eyes off of you.
“You are not cursed,” Natasha says with no room for argument. “Y/n you are innocent in all of this. You shouldn't have ever been in prison in the first place. You've got to understand that.”
Wanda’s nails press into her palm. She's trembling much like she had been two weeks ago. She takes a deep breath and then speaks.
“It would hurt if I lost my empire, but I could rebuild. I could start over. Losing you would destroy me, malyshka. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you. Fuck Y/n, I killed Jarvis for what he put you through. I would do it again, over, and over again if it helped keep you safe.”
“What about Tony?”
Wanda stops shaking, it's only for a split second. “I'm not scared because I think he'll take this from me. I'm scared of what I will have to do to stop him. I will do whatever it takes to keep him from getting to you.”
Natasha gets up to stand by your side, her hand hooks under your chin. She makes you look into her eyes. There are tears built up behind them, but there's also a roaring fire.
“You are never going back to prison. It wouldn't improve any of our lives. Kate and Peter haven't been putting their life on hold; they simply cannot enjoy it the same without you. Wanda and I, we don't want to go back to life without you. We need you detka.”
Your eyes begin to well with tears. You want to fight back, to tell her they could find other people. However deep down you know you need them just as bad as they need you. You don't want to go back to prison, but the thought of putting everyone in danger feels wrong.
“I am not worth the trouble,” it tumbles weakly out of your lips.
Wanda pulls your attention from Natasha. She presses her forehead against yours, eyes shutting. Her hand has a fistful of your shirt. Almost as she realizes her grip is too tight, she loosens it.
“How can you say something like that?” You see a single tear slip down her cheek. Her eyes open; deep, green, and full of pain. “You are worth everything.”
The conviction of her tone steals your breath away. All of your protests are lost elsewhere. You have never felt care this intense in your life.
“We love you.”
You whip your head quickly to Natasha. The stutter comes after, “Y-you don't.”
“We do,” Wanda says simply.
Now you're standing up. You look between the two women; Natasha on your left, Wanda on your right.
“You can't,” you whisper.
“Why not?”
You begin to hyperventilate. “I'm not- you're both.”
Natasha approaches first, slowly and carefully, not wanting to startle you anymore. “Breathe baby.”
“I'm just-”
“Perfect,” Wanda finishes. “You're perfect just this way.”
You still manage to give her a dirty look as you struggle with your breathing.
“There it is. So stubborn, so strong, so brave,” Wanda begins to approach you as well.
Her words make a heat spread on the back of your neck.
Natasha picks up where Wanda leaves off, “You're good under pressure, you're smart, and you're soft when you need to be.”
Your breathing begins to return to normal. “Do you mean it?”
Natasha nods softly, “I love you.”
You look at the Don. She gets down on her knees, devotion swirling in her eyes. She takes your hand, lips pressing firmly against the back of it.
“I love you.”
Your heart thuds against your chest. It's the loudest sound in your ear. “I love you too.”
Wanda moves first, getting to her feet. Her lips smash against yours. You don't try to fight for dominance, you let her lead. You attempt to take a step back but Natasha’s behind you. She holds firm on the dips of your hips.
Her lips climb up the back of your neck. As she places kisses there you hear her repeating, “I love you,” with each touch of her lips.
You reach behind you pulling her closer. Wanda releases your lips only to help you turn your head towards Natasha.
The red head’s lips are on yours. Less greedy than Wanda’s, but still so demanding. Her tongue is begging for entrance into your mouth. You allow it.
You allow yourself to get consumed by the feeling of these two women. The heat of it all, the passion behind it, now having a name. Love.
Wanda explores your body while you're occupied kissing Natasha. Her hands on every bit of exposed skin you have. Soon it's not enough and she finds herself on her knees again. She's pulling down your pants and you have no need to stop her.
When Natasha finally releases your lips you groan. Both you and the red head are greeted with the view of a topless Wanda on her knees staring at your hard cock.
“Fuck,” it comes from the lawyer, but it's exactly how you feel too.
Wanda makes eye contact first with the red head and then with you. Natasha takes the initiative to remove your shirt.
Her hand slides down your chest possessively and you whimper.
“You want my mouth, Detka?”
Wanda is already stroking you before you can answer. Natasha is leaning further over your shoulder. She lets a glob of spit fall from her mouth onto your dick.
“Stroke it a little longer,” the lawyer commands.
Wanda massages Natasha's saliva around you. You're so preoccupied by the thought of what you just witnessed, you don't realize Natasha’s guiding your hand into her pants.
You don't notice until you can feel her wetness on your fingers. You look back at her, “For me?”
She nods feigning innocence, “For you.”
Your hand removes itself from between her legs. She pouts and it makes your cock twitch in Wanda’s hands.
“It only makes sense for you to fill your mouth too,” you breathe out the sentence, shoving your fingers into Natasha’s mouth.
She sucks them obediently. You look down at Wanda. “Please.”
She takes you into her mouth and your body tries to lurch forward. Natasha's hand around your waist keeps you in place.
Natasha's slobber has efficiently covered your fingers. You pull them from her mouth. You're shaking but your fingers find their way back between her folds.
“Be rough with her, she won't break.” Again reaching over you, Natasha's hand finds the back of Wanda's head forcing her all the way down on your cock. “Look at her Y/n, watch her choke on your cock.”
Two fingers slide into Natasha. It's almost like a reward for showing you what to do. You pump in and out of her at a medium pace. You can tell she wants more as she begins awkwardly bouncing on your fingers.
Your thumb stretches to rub circles on her clit. Her head falls forward resting on your shoulder. She growls against you. “Like that detka, don't stop.”
Natasha’s hand releases Wanda’s head and she comes all the way off of your cock. Drool slides down her chin as she attempts to catch her breath. The loss of her warm mouth has you frowning.
You reach for her head just like Natasha had. Your hands tangle in her hair, dragging her back onto your cock. You can't help thrusting into her mouth.
“I need your mouth Wanda,” it falls desperately from your lips.
She looks up at you and you could've cum from that image alone. Her mouth pops off of you once again. She begins licking the base, teasingly.
“Natty come here.”
Your fingers fall out of the red head. She comes around to the front of you, slowly dropping to her knees next to Wanda.
Now you stand tall above two of the most powerful women you've ever met. One, whose face is covered in spit from sucking your cock, and the other, who probably feels empty without your fingers inside of her.
You stare wide eyed, and unknowing.
Wanda pulls Natasha into a sloppy kiss. You can see the moment Natasha's tongue darts into Wanda's mouth, almost lapping trying to taste you.
The red head’s hand wanders over to your cock. She strokes you lazily as she makes out with her wife. The image of the two of them together has your entire body on fire.
“Fuck, I need to taste it.” Natasha laments against her wife’s lips.
The lawyer pumps you while her mouth hovers around your tip. Her cheeks hollow when she starts to suck you off. Her tongue swirls around the head making you close your eyes.
Just like the red head had done to her, Wanda’s hand rests on the back of Natasha's head. She begins to guide her mercilessly.
“Wait, wait,” you try to get Wanda to ease her pace.
“What you don't want to cum in her mouth? You had no problem coming in mine,” she muses.
“Need to be inside,” your eyes are glossy as you beg.
Wanda stops her movements, your dick pops out of Natasha's mouth. They both look up at you, gluttony in their eyes.
The Don stands first, moving quickly to her desk. With one strong swipe of her arm across the mahogany wood, everything falls to the floor.
Natasha chuckles, “Someone's eager.”
Wanda gets on top of the table and spreads her legs wide open. You feel your mouth begin to salivate.
“I've never…” You say eyes zeroed in on Wanda’s dripping cunt.
“Oh detka, I'll show you,” Natasha’s voice is drowning in lust.
She takes you by the cock directing you towards Wanda's. A pitiful sound spills from your lips at the rough contact.
Natasha uses you to brush between Wanda’s folds. You whine when she pushes the tip playfully against her fervid hole.
“Don't I need a condom?”
Wanda grabs your chin, pulling you down further into her. “I don't want anything between us. I want you to fuck me until you fill my pussy with your cum.”
Natasha takes that as a sign to help you to go deeper into the woman. Wanda presses her lips against yours, a rich moan vibrating into your mouth.
“Oh my god.” Your head falls into her shoulder and you grunt. You bite into the exposed flesh.
“Fuck, you're stretching me so good, detka.”
Your eyes are closed. You whisper, it sounds like a cry, “So tight. You're so tight.”
You can feel Natasha's hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Now you have to move.”
The lawyer's grip travels to your hips. She slowly pulls you out of her wife and then pushes you back in. The first few times it's testing and you think you'll genuinely cry.
“So good. You're sucking me in,” you still haven't lifted your head.
“I need you Y/n. I need you to look at me while you fuck me,” her tongue grazes the bottom of your ear lobe.
With much effort you lift your head. Your hands are planted firmly on the wooden desk. Wanda reaches her hand to wipe the tears that are falling out of your eyes.
“I need you to cum all over my cock,” you say it like it will break you if she doesn't. Your voice is light, raspy, and carrying an aching plea.
Her nail traces the outline of your jaw. Her eyes bore into yours like a challenge,“The fuck me hard.”
That's when it clicks for you. Your hips begin to slam into her, no guidance needed. You start with your palms on the desk, but end up switching to your forearms for leverage.
“It's like running malyshka, all about the stamina,” Natasha kisses the side of your head.
You turn to capture her lips. Wanda gets wetter at the sight of it.
There's a horribly lewd sound bouncing off the walls. It's Wanda's bottomless cunt being rearranged by you. The sound is like music to your ears. Being able to hear how swamped her pussy is, only turns you on more.
You stand straight creating more space than the Don would like between you two. Her hands reach out to attempt to pull you closer. She pinches one of your nipples, sweat pooling at her forehead.
You take her hand in yours, kissing it gently. You look at Natasha, “Can you get on top of her?”
Natasha’s eyes light up with mischief, “How do you want me?”
“I need to taste you.”
She can tell you're starving by the blown nature of your eyes. With little caution Natasha climbs onto the desk. She sits in a similar position on top of Wanda. The Don circles an arm around her waist, signaling that she could support the both of them.
Instead of Natasha's legs going down Wanda’s they get perched on your shoulder so they're angled u
p higher.
You hold her steady, testing the unconventional position. “I've got you,” you tell her, as your head dips down.
One taste of Natasha and you feel drunk. You make the decision not to come up at all. Your next breath would be laced with her essence leaking into your mouth.
You keep thrusting into the Don. Your pace only quickening as you become more encouraged by the sounds pouring out of the women.
“Holy shit,” Natasha grabs a fistful of your hair, which has you whining against her pussy.
Meanwhile Wanda has begun speaking fully in her native language. You hear the airy curses on her breath as you continue to fuck her.
Her pussy is devoted to taking you in, you can feel her clench around you. It makes your hips stutter as well as your breath.
Natasha yanks your head away from her pussy, “You're going to cum, detka?”
You nod wordlessly, feeling yourself build up.
“Her cunt is clenching you isn't it? You're not going to be able to stand it much longer. Just cum in her, baby. It's okay.”
Natasha's permission has you nearly collapsing as you shoot your load into Wanda. The Don shakes violently, feeling her own release happen at the same time.
Your head drops right above Natasha's pussy. You hadn't forgotten her. Before the euphoria can wear off, your fingers find her clit. It takes her by surprise as you start assaulting her clit with tight circles around the bud.
Her body jerks at the speed and she attempts to raise up, but Wanda’s arm still holds her in place.
Natasha cums with a cry, her juices squirting all over your face. You blink wildly feeling the liquid leaking onto your chest and abdomen.
She's still convulsing when you place a delicate kiss below her belly button. With help from Wanda she maneuvers to be next to the Don rather than on top of her.
You feel your legs buckle when you attempt to stand. Wanda sees this and pulls you back down on top of her. Your head rests against her chest. You listen as her heart rate returns back to normal.
Natasha’s hand runs through your hair and Wanda traces patterns absentmindedly on your arms.
“Do you want me to pull out?” You look up at her.
Natasha answers for the Don, “Leave it, just take a few minutes to regulate everything.”
You nod as best as you can without lifting your head up. “So how was that?”
They both chuckle.
“No notes,” Wanda says, kissing your forehead.
“Perfect,” Natasha leaves a kiss on the back of your shoulder.
You all lay there fucked out on Wanda’s desk. As soon as they told you they loved you, doubt left your mind. All of the uncertainties and what ifs morphed into something different. It is no longer about if you could survive this, but how you would do it. No one involved is willing to lose. Together you are stronger, together you can win.
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Thoughts on a Reader who wants to become an Avenger but is rejected by Sam's team, instead joining the "New Avengers".
Obviously Yelena doesn't like Reader because of this team being their second choice. Until idk... she actually does like her because this would be a Yelena x Reader.
