BEGGED | natasha romanoff (part 1)
what a shame you’re not here. here to witness my devotion, and my endless well of needs. i’m an anchor in the ocean, you know i could never leave.
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main m. list || whispers of heartache m. list || you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love m. list
everybody loved natasha romanoff.
and honestly? y/n couldn’t blame them.
because natasha made it so easy.
she was charming without trying.
attentive when people were watching.
funny when conversations became awkward.
gentle when someone needs comfort.
the type of person who remembered birthdays.
favorite flowers. coffee orders. anniversaries. names. stories.
tiny details most people forgot.
and y/n used to adore that about her too.
"seriously, y/n." wanda leaned back in her chair, wine glass in hand, "if you ever let natasha go, i’ll personally fight you."
the entire table erupted into laughter.
"that’s dramatic." tony chimed in.
y/n smiled. the practiced smile.
the one she’d perfected over the years.
"no, she’s right." sam pointed his fork toward natasha, "romanoff literally worships the ground you walk on."
"oh my..." yelena groaned, "you people are insufferable."
"they are." kate agreed, "but they’re cute."
"cute?" clint barked out a laugh, "they’re disgusting."
then natasha did what she always did.
the thing that made everybody melt.
the thing that made y/n’s chest hurt.
she reached across the table, took y/n’s hand, brought her knuckles to her lips, and kissed them.
the entire table immediately lost their minds.
"see!?" sam shouted, "that’s exactly what i’m talking about!"
"i’m gonna throw up." kate groaned.
"you’re so dramatic." natasha laughed.
her thumb brushed across y/n’s knuckles.
and for a second — just one second — y/n almost forgot.
the last message she’d sent natasha remained unopened.
will you be home tonight?
we’re still on for dinner, right? <3
yet somehow — here natasha was.
looking at her like she hung the moon.
the perfect fucking girlfriend.
and y/n hated herself for wondering: why is it always easier for her when people are watching?
the rest of dinner passed the same way.
stories. laughter. conversations.
and natasha was involved in every single one.
she listened. she remembered details. she asked questions.
not enough where it mattered.
"natasha." steve laughed, "you remembered that?"
"of course." natasha shrugged, "you told me three months ago."
because last week natasha forgot the movie night she’d planned for them.
natasha remembered steve mentioning a restaurant three months ago.
but she forgot y/n sitting beside her asking: "can we spend friday together?"
only when it involved y/n.
everyone was looking at her.
natasha immediately squeezed her hand.
the nickname nearly broke her.
because natasha always sounded sincere.
because she wasn’t tired. she was lonely.
and somehow that felt worse.
the drive home was quiet.
not uncomfortable. just familiar.
the kind of silence that happens when two people stop trying.
or maybe when only one person is still trying.
one hand on the wheel, the other resting on y/n’s thigh.
the city lights blurred outside the window.
y/n stared at them. thinking.
maybe this was her fault.
maybe she expected too much.
maybe natasha was trying.
"no." the word escaped before she could stop it.
natasha glanced over, "what?"
y/n blinked, "i didn’t say anything."
"you did." natasha smiled slightly, "you said ‘no.’"
natasha accepted that answer immediately.
and somehow — that hurt too.
because if the roles were reversed — if natasha sounded upset — y/n would’ve asked again.
natasha didn’t. she never did.
the moment they walked inside the apartment — the illusion disappeared.
not intentionally. that’s what made it worse.
natasha wasn’t pretending.
like y/n stopped being the center of her attention once nobody else was around to see.
not — "how was your day?"
y/n watched from the kitchen.
watched natasha scroll through emails.
messages. reports. mission updates.
anything. everything. everyone.
the thought appeared before she could stop it.
because it made her feel pathetic.
like a child begging for attention.
like someone impossible to love.
y/n smiled. the smile felt painful.
natasha looked up, "what is?"
the words almost came out.
the fact that i miss you even when you’re standing right in front of me.
the fact that i’m lonely.
the fact that i’m tired of begging.
natasha nodded. then looked back down.
and y/n felt something inside her crack.
not enough to break. just enough to hurt.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ THREE YEARS EARLIER
the first time natasha promised something, and didn’t show up.
"i’ll be there." natasha smiled.
y/n pointed a finger at her, "you better."
"i swear." natasha kissed her forehead, "i promise."
such a dangerous word. but y/n didn’t know that yet.
back then — she believed natasha.
back then — she believed promises meant something.
the reservation was under natasha’s name.
y/n kept checking the door.
smiling every time it opened.
the waiter stopped pretending.
"would you like me to keep the table?"
y/n laughed softly. embarrassed.
because natasha was coming.
at 8:12 — her phone lit up.
at the empty chair. the birthday cake. the candle already melted. the untouched food. the pity in the waiter’s eyes.
and suddenly — she felt stupid.
because she’d spent the entire day excited.
"it’s okay." she replied immediately.
then another message. one natasha never answered.
“i really wanted you here.”
natasha sat six feet away.
yet somehow — y/n missed her.
and maybe that was the saddest thing of all.
to miss someone who hadn’t actually left.
to feel abandoned by a person sitting in the same room.
to spend years convincing yourself: she’s trying. she’s busy. she loves me.
and wonder — late at night —
when the apartment is silent,
when natasha is answering another email,
when another promise is forgotten,
when another date gets canceled,
when another apology arrives,
— whether love is supposed to feel this lonely, or if she’s simply gotten so used to begging...
that she doesn’t remember what being chosen feels like anymore.
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