cause my head is full of poison

Before you, Natasha Romanoff’s mornings were usually going on by routine. The Russian was already up before dawn, swallowing down a glass of water then going for a ten miles run. At her return, she'd shred a heavy bag in the compound gym, shower, and drink her black coffee in silence. She was a creature of early dawn and quiet efficiency.

Then, she fell in love with you.

And suddenly, the fearsome Black Widow discovered a brand-new, highly formidable weakness: the warmth of your arms.

. . . . . .

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft seven forty-two am. The sun was already filtering through the gaps in the blinds — casting lazy, golden stripes across the duvet.

You shifted, gently trying to untangle your legs from the heavy warmth of the sheets, intending to slip out of bed and put the kettle on. But the moment your hips moved more than two inches away, the iron-clad grip around your waist tightened.

A protesting, sleep-heavy groan rumbled against the bare skin of your shoulder blade.

“Where are you going?” Natasha’s voice was a low, raspy purr thick with sleep and heavily laced with her slight Russian accent that only came out in moments like these—a side of her she only let guard down for you.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered, turning your head to smile at her. “I was going to make coffee. And maybe get a head start on the day.”

Instead of letting you go, she buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The redhead's nose was cold against your skin, making you shiver, but her body was like a furnace pressed against your back. She threw a shapely leg over yours, completely pinning you to the mattress.

“No,” she mumbled, her lips brushing your collarbone as she spoke. “Five more minutes.”

You let out a soft laugh, reaching up to run your fingers through her tangled red hair. “Nat, It’s almost eight.”

“Then I need ten more minutes.”

“That's not how bargaining works, Romanoff.”

“I am a master negotiator, I dictate the terms,” she murmured, tightening her arms around you until there was absolutely no space left between you. She was incredibly clingy in the mornings, a sweet, needy contrast to her sharp daytime persona.

She liked to be wrapped around you like ivy, anchoring herself to your warmth.

“What happened to the woman who used to be up and about by dawn?” you teased gently, tracing the line of her jaw. “The one who told me sleeping past six was a waste of valuable training hours?”

Natasha opened one eye, looking up at you through a fan of thick eyelashes. A lazy, incredibly fond smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“She realized that training doesn't hug back,” she replied softly.

“And your morning run?”

“I rescheduled,” she shrugged, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “I do night runs now. The pavement is cooler, the compound is empty, and...” She paused, trailing her fingers lightly down your arm, interlocking her fingers with yours. “..it means I don't have to miss a single second of this.”

Your heart melted a little.

It was still hard to grasp sometimes—how a woman who had spent her entire life running, fighting, and surviving now fought so hard just to stay still with you. The fact that she had completely restructured her rigid, lifelong routine just to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning was a testament to how deeply she loved you.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your skin. “I am a hostage to this bed. You'll have to stay and keep me company.”

“Well, if it's a hostage situation, I suppose I have no choice,” you smiled, wrapping your arms around her neck and pulling her close.

The Russian let out a contented sigh, burying her face back into your chest, her hand gently tracing soothing circles on your lower back. Within seconds, her breathing evened out into a calm, steady rhythm.

The coffee could wait. The world could wait.

"What about Bruce?" you ask, a bit of disdain in your tone

"He uh, he left" Clint tells you, "They talked, it didn't go well."

"How bad?"

"She opened up about the Red Room and he left." he explains

"What a bastard"

"Yeah, but lets be honest here Y/n, whatever she had with him, it wasn't real. Not like you and her. It was just a distraction, a way to shove the pain she felt about leaving you into the back of her mind and heart"

"You don't know that" you tell him, trying hard not to think about what once was

"I'm her best friend, you really think she didn't confide in me? You think I haven't heard her pain and regret for what she did? You think I haven't held her as she cried about her mistake, you think I haven't urged her to fix it?" he asks, not really wanting you to answer, "But you know her, she's stubborn and she doesn't think she deserves anything good. So she settled for Bruce"

"She still chose him instead of me" you mumble, "So there must've been something there, some feelings"

"Yeah, self hatred and pity. There's no love between them. Bruce is infatuated and Nat is just there to not think about what she did to you" he explains, "Now, she's upstairs. Third door on the right"

You take a deep breath and head inside. As you walk up the stairs you try to calm your racing thoughts and racing pulse. Finally you come to the door and give a gentle knock

"I'm not up for company" she mumbles through the door

You swallow thickly before managing a reply, "That's not what I heard"

The door opens so fast its a miracle it wasn't ripped off it's hinges, and Natasha stands there looking like she's seen a ghost. She just stands there, chest heaving as she looks at you. It's almost like she's afraid you'll disappear if she stops looking at you

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she speaks, "Y/n?"

"Hi Tasha" you greet with a soft smile

She practically launches herself at you and wraps her arms around you so tightly that you feel the air get squeezed out of your lungs. She nuzzles her face against your neck and you can feel her warm tears against your skin. You don't hesitate to wrap your arms around her and keep her close

"Tell me you're really here, tell me this is real." she whispers so softly that you hardly catch it

"It's real Tasha. I'm here" you assure her, "I've got you"

She lets out a small choked sob and her fingers clutch at your shirt. You can tell she's in need of actually feeling her emotions for once so you gently lead her back into the room and over to the bed. You sit her on the edge and tuck some hair behind her ear. She looks up at you with tear filled eyes and you feel your heart tug at the sight

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" You ask, thinking the answer would be what it always was. But to your surprise it wasn't

"We ran into an individual with powers. She can get into people's minds, make them see things. She got all of us. I don't know what the others saw but I know it was nothing good"

"What did you see?" You gently ask

She's quiet for long enough that you think she won't answer but finally she speaks, "The Red Room. My training, the graduation ceremony….it's like I was there all over again"

"Oh Tasha" you coo sympathetically. You reach up and cup her face, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. And I'm sorry Bruce left you to deal with it alone"

Her breath catches in her throat and she lets out a small whimper, "I don't care about him. He was just a distraction, a way to forget how I hurt you. I never loved him"

You can't believe she's actually admitting that to you, "What?"

"I'm so sorry Y/n. I'm so damn sorry" she sobs as tears stream down her face, "Breaking us up was the worst fucking mistake of my life, I regret it everyday. I'm so sorry"

You pull her into your embrace and let her fall apart in your arms. One of your hands rubs her back while the other cards through her hair. She shakes in your hold and cries, actually cries, and you just keep holding her

Eventually she calms down, though her breathing is still ragged and tears are still rolling down her cheeks, she's at least not hyperventilating or sobbing uncontrollably anymore. You continue to hold her and rub her, trying to soothe her in whatever way you could

"I never stopped loving you" she whimpers against your skin, "Never stopped wanting you"

Your heart thumps against your chest and you take in a deep breath, "Tasha…."

"It's okay" she sniffles, "Its okay if you moved on, if I'm too late in telling you all this. I just….I needed you to know that despite my actions my love never faded"

You shake your head and are silent for a moment before you admit to her, "I never moved on. I could never move on, you were it for me Tasha"

"I still could be" she whispers, "I know I hurt you, but god Y/n, I miss you so much and I regret hurting you and breaking us up every damn day. I miss you so much it hurts and I'm so tired of pretending otherwise."

You simply stare at her, both due to the surprise of her statement and the fact that you currently have no idea what to choose, what to say. And though it makes sense that you'd take your time to answer her, it still makes her nervous

"Please Detka(baby), please give me another chance. Please let me make this, make us right" she pleads as she grasps onto one of your hands, "Please"

You don't answer her with words. Instead you cup her face, letting your thumbs brush over the apples of her cheeks. She lets out a shaky breath as you lean in, and then you press your lips against hers. She melts into the kiss and her fingers thread through the hair at the nape of your neck to pull you impossibly closer. She opens her mouth, letting you deepen the kiss and her free hand moves to untie her robe

"Whoa, slow down Tasha" you mumble against her lips, "You've just been through something traumatic"

"Which is exactly why I need this, need you." she explains, "I need to feel you, need to be with you. Please"

The look in her eyes, one of a desperate and pure need has you giving in immediately, "Okay baby, okay"

She lets the front of her robe slide open, revealing her creamy skin and breasts to your hungry gaze. You eagerly let your hands trail over her skin, re-familiarizing yourself with her body then you let them grope the swell of her breasts. She lets out a soft moan and pushes her chest further into your touch

"I've missed you Detka(baby), I've missed you so much" she softly admits

"I've missed you too Tasha" you tell her as you let your thumbs brush over her nipples.

She shudders at the contact, "Don't tease. Not today, I need you so bad"

Instead of continuing to tease her you position yourself behind her on the bed, pressing your front against her back and trail a few kisses against the side of her neck, "Spread your legs for me"

She listens without hesitation and opens her thighs wider, "Please Y/n"

You reach around her and trail your fingers against her core, "You're so wet already"

"Can't help it" she whimpers, "I need you"

"I know, and I need you too Tasha" you tell her as you push two of your fingers inside her already dripping heat

She lets out another small moan as her walls clench down around your digits and she clutches onto your arm to anchor herself. You start thrusting your fingers in slow deep strokes and curl them just right against her most sensitive spot

"Oh god, yes" she moans, letting her head lean back against your shoulder, "Just like that, please don't stop"

"I won't stop baby" you assure her, continuing at the same pace

It isn't long before her legs start to tremble and her chest starts to heave. It's clear she's close, and you fully intend to push her over the edge. You continue thrusting your fingers and bring your thumb to rub tight circles against her clit. Her body seizes up and she cums hard, muffling her moan by pressing her face against your neck

"That's it, that's my girl" you coo as you gentle your movements to help her come down

"Yes, yours" she whimpers, "I'm yours Detka(baby)"

After helping her clean up you cuddle with her in bed, holding her close as she drifts off to sleep. You gently rub her back and watch with a fond smile as her eyelids struggle to stay open

"Rest baby, I'm here"

"You'll stay, right?" she mumbles sleepily

You lean in and press a kiss against her forehead, "Of course I will"

She relaxes further into the mattress and snuggles closer, "I love you Y/n, thank you for coming, thank you for taking care of me"

"I love you too" you tell her honestly, "But we have a lot of work to do before forgiveness is earned"

"I know, and I'm willing to put in the work"

You nod, "Rest now, we can talk about it later"

She drifts off to sleep, a soft smile on her face as she finally feels like shes started to right one of the worst mistakes of her life. And shes beyond grateful you're giving her that chance

That's a lie. You've just gotten better at saying it.

Loneliness doesn't arrive all at once. It moves in quietly, takes up space, rearranges things while you're sleeping. By the time you notice, it's already everywhere—in the way you answer I'm fine before anyone finishes asking, in the way you've stopped expecting the phone to ring for you.

You know what you are to people. The one who holds things. The one who doesn't spill.

What they don't see: the nights you sat on the bathroom floor and wanted, with your whole body, to just stop. Not dramatically. Just—stop. The wanting so sharp it had a taste.

You got up. You always get up.

You're still not sure if that's strength or just another thing you do to survive.

---

Three years ago, someone left.

You deleted her contact instead of blocking her. That was your first mistake—or maybe your oldest one, the habit of leaving doors open that should stay closed.

When the message came in, your fingers hovered. A string of digits where a name used to be. You put the phone down. Picked it up again. You already knew.

Hey, how are you?

Four words. And still, everything you'd spent three years building—the distance, the quiet, the being okay—went thin as paper.

You stared at it for twelve minutes. You know because you watched the clock, waiting to feel nothing. It didn't work.

I'm fine. Is something wrong?

Safe. Neutral. A door left open just wide enough.

Her reply came fast—too fast, like she'd been holding it.

Can we talk?

You knew what that meant. You'd always known what that meant. It meant: I need something. It meant: you'll give it to me. It meant: I already know you'll say yes.

You took a breath. Two. Three.

Yeah.

One word. And with it, three years of distance folded up like it had never existed.

The phone rang before you'd put it down. She called. You answered on the second ring. That distinction matters, somehow.

Her voice was the same. That was the first thing. Three years, and it was exactly the same—a little unsteady at the edges, the way it got when she was trying not to cry.

She told you everything. He left. It didn't work out. She was lonely.

You lay back on the bed and closed your eyes and listened. You asked the right questions. You said that sounds really hard and you didn't deserve that and you're going to be okay. All of it true. All of it costing you something you couldn't name.

At some point she exhaled—long, slow, the sound of someone setting down something heavy.

"I feel better," she said. "I always forget how easy it is to talk to you."

Easy.

You held the word in your mouth for a moment. Turned it over.

Easy. Not: you matter to me. Not: I missed you. Easy—like a chair that's always in the same place. Like a door that never locks.

You wanted, just once, to be difficult. To cost something. To be the kind of person someone has to work to keep.

"I'm glad," you said.

Your voice came out steady. It always does.

That's the thing about swallowing things whole: after a while, you stop tasting them. You just feel the weight, sitting somewhere below your ribs, and you learn to breathe around it.

---

The call ended at 11:47 p.m.

You know because you looked. Some part of you needed to account for it—the time spent, the exact cost.

And now it was in you. And there was nowhere to put it.

You got up. Found the cigarette you'd told yourself was your last one. Lit it by the window, not quite outside, not quite in.

The first time had been curiosity, mostly. Someone had left a pack on the table and you picked it up the way you pick up anything that might explain something about the people who need it. It tasted like burning. Obviously. But behind that, something else—a kind of weight in the chest that was almost, almost like having something to hold onto.

Afterward your throat felt raw for two days. You coughed into a tissue and there was blood in it. Not much. Enough. You told yourself it was a one-time thing. It wasn't.

Tonight, years later, was one of those nights. You coughed until your eyes watered. Held the cigarette anyway.

The smoke drifted out past the sill. You stayed there longer than you meant to. Outside, the city kept going.

---

Ten names in your contacts. A routine that held. Mornings that were just mornings.

You almost believed it was enough.

You'd kept going to the knitting circle. It gave you somewhere to be on the third Thursday of the month, and you'd stopped needing more reason than that.

Wanda Maximoff hadn't been. A few months, then more—her chair stayed empty. You didn't ask where she'd gone. You knew—and had decided, somewhere along the way, that knowing was enough. That you didn't need to think about it more than that.

You were used to that.

Then one Thursday, the door opened late—it was always late—and there she was.

She looked different. The clothes were quieter, more settled, like she'd stopped trying to dress for an evening that hadn't happened yet. But everything else was exactly the same. She was already mid-sentence before she'd fully walked in. She laughed at something before she'd finished saying it. The room tilted toward her without meaning to.

You watched the room do what it always did.

Some things don't change. You'd forgotten that could feel like relief.

She spotted you across the room and smiled—the kind that lands before you're ready for it.

"You're still here," she said.

"I'm always here," you said.

Neither of you said anything else. But she sat down in the chair closest to yours.

Eleven names in your contacts again. You noticed the number and didn't know what to do with it—whether to feel relieved, or careful, or something you couldn't name yet.

---

It wasn't a decision, exactly. More like something that happened while you weren't paying close attention.

Someone from outside the circle. You'd met at a mutual friend's thing—the kind of gathering you usually leave early. This time you didn't. They laughed at something you said, the real kind of laugh, and you thought: maybe.

So you tried.

It was fine, for a while. Good, even, in the way new things can be good before they become real. They texted first. They made plans. You let yourself get used to it—carefully, the way you do anything that might not last.

Six months. Give or take.

You found out the way you find out about these things—not directly, never directly. A name that appeared too often. An explanation that arrived a little too prepared. You didn't ask. You already knew, before the words came, before the conversation happened.

When it ended, you said I understand. You said it's okay. Steady, the way you always are.

---

You didn't tell anyone. Not because there was no one—but because saying it out loud would make it a thing that happened to you, and you weren't ready for that. So you filed it away, next to everything else, and kept going.

The third Thursday came around. You showed up the way you always did—a few minutes early, coat already off by the time others arrived. Wanda was late—she always was. She dropped into the chair beside yours and picked up where she'd left off the week before, mid-sentence, like no time had passed.

You listened. You said the right things. The evening moved as it always did.

It was almost over when someone across the circle looked up and said it casually, the way people say things they don't know are loaded:

"Hey, I heard you guys broke up. Are you doing okay?"

The room didn't stop. But something in it shifted.

You felt Wanda go still beside you.

"Yeah," you said. "I'm fine."

Steady. Easy. The voice of someone who is always okay.

The conversation moved on. Someone said something about a pattern. Someone laughed. The evening kept going.

You didn't look at Wanda.

But you felt it—the weight of her attention, different from usual. Somewhere between warm and cold, with no name for it.

Later, at the door, she touched your arm.

"You didn't tell me," she said.

"There wasn't much to tell."

She looked at you for a moment longer than usual. That unreadable expression—the one you'd never quite learned to translate.

Then she nodded. Let it go.

You walked home alone. The city was the same city it always was.

---

Another Thursday.

You noticed it the way you always noticed things—quietly, from a slight distance, like watching weather change through a window. A different quality to her texts. A distraction behind her eyes when she talked. The way she'd pause mid-sentence, catch herself, and smile at nothing in particular.

You knew that look. She hadn't said anything yet. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Maybe she didn't think it needed saying.

It didn't, really. You already knew.

Wanda showed up late—she always did—and sat beside you and talked about a project she hadn't finished, and laughed at her own joke before the punchline, and the room tilted toward her the way it always did.

You watched this happen.

And there it was. That feeling you didn't have a name for anymore—not quite grief, not quite anger. Something older than both. The specific exhaustion of a person who has been here before and knows, with their whole body, exactly how it ends.

You tried. Carefully, imperfectly, but genuinely. You texted back. You showed up. Things were allowed to matter. And every time, it ended the same way—quietly, without explanation, without anything useful to take with you. Just the same door closing softly, and you on the same side of it, with nothing to correct and no idea where to start.

Maybe some people are just built for this, and you are not. That might just be a fact. One you're still working on accepting.

Some things don't change.

You used to find that comforting.

Didn't you stay exactly where you were, the whole time, acting like that treatment was just normal? Didn't you keep showing up, keep holding things, keep saying I'm fine before anyone finished asking—practically steering things toward this outcome yourself?

Maybe.

But knowing that doesn't move you. It just sits there, below the ribs, with everything else.

And maybe that's just what this is. Not a problem to fix. Not a phase to get through. Just—the shape of your life, for now. Maybe for longer than that.

You're tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.