I Love Cats

Natasha romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Two black widows, top of the list, second to no one. Except each other. In a place built to strip you of anything soft and craft you into obedient weapons, something grows anyway. It could get you killed. You know that. Still, you can't stop.

Warnings: Obsession, rivalry, violence, blood, sexual tension, mature themes, angst, red room, aged up characters, graphic fight scenes, fluff

Wordcount: 6347

Part 1, Part 2/2

The days after that blurred together. You still trained, still fought, the daily routine kept flowing. Only now you lay awake at night thinking of what had happened. How her hand had moved closer to yours instead of away, filling your own with warmth. How your bodies almost touched. Her shaky breath. The steps. You covered your eyes with your arm and let out a quiet sigh.

The mess hall was quiet, the only sound being cutlery. The porridge sat in front of you, bland and watery with a piece of stale bread and a cup of water, cold and metallic. You ate quickly anyway. You sat at your assigned spot by yourself, like every other girl. All of you eating desperately. 

You lift your spoon, moving to take the last bite. You swallow the flavourless mixture and stand up to return your tray and leave. You cautiously glanced around the room, Natasha wasn’t here. You returned your tray and exited the space.

Walking down the quiet empty hall, you heard footsteps approaching, the sound bouncing off the walls. You round the corner. 

Natasha. 

And two other girls.

They walked quietly. On their way to the marksmanship and firearms drills. Next thing on your schedule would be pain tolerance tests, an extra session added after your slip up during gymnastics last week. 

Guess you wouldn’t see her much today.

You keep walking, eyes forward, square shoulders, until you pass her.

Your breath stalled. For just a moment.

It could have been an accident. You did pass each other after all. 

Her pinky had brushed yours. 

No. It couldn't have been accidental. 

Your whole lives you are trained to have complete control of yourselves. Emotionally and physically. Every movement controlled, every action calculated. Every body part moved by the will of your mind, always intentional. 

You clasp your pinky with your other hand, as if her touch would escape.

Yeah, that wasn’t accidental. 

———————————————————

It kept happening. The pinky brushes. In the hall on the way to drills. Leaving the mess hall. Even during formations, her hand had brushed yours. Once, inexplicably, after the pain tolerance drills, her hand found yours for a split second, before pulling away. As if to make sure you were okay. 

The glances too, kept occurring. Short, cautious. Her eyes always landing on you after a dangerous drill. Your gaze always ending up on her lips. Your eyes sought her out in every area. Every single moment of every day. 

Once you had seen her leave a room after sparring. Her jaw was tense, breath heavy. A fresh bruise blooming on the side of her jaw. You couldn’t look away from it. You hadn’t been there. Madam B had you demonstrate some moves for new recruits. Of all times she could’ve gotten hurt. It was the one day you weren’t there. Who was it? Darya? You had made a mental note. She would regret it.

Another day you had caught Natasha leaving a room, book in hand. You had read many books from the limited collection the facility had. And when you did, it was either supervised or assigned. On rare occasions you were even allowed to choose. You were certain Natasha got to choose this time. 

Your sight had zoned in on the book in her hand. The Art of the Dangle. A KGB secret manual. One week later you entered that same room. There was no library in the red room. There was only the box. A heavy steel cabinet bolted behind a narrow metal counter. You went directly to the Archivist and submitted your request on a scrap of paper. His eyes had narrowed slightly, looking you up and down. Disdain evident on his face. 

“And why would I give it to you?” He had asked. His glare leaving your face and landing back to the book he had been reading in his hands. 

“Because I want to read it.” You simply answered.

A faint condescending smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth, and he chuckled. 

“Wow, looks like I’ve got Nikola fucking Tesla in front of me.” He sneers. He lifts off his chair and sticks his head out. 

His breath hitting you like one of Natasha’s elbows. “No shit you want to read it. What makes you think I would give it to y-”

He abruptly stopped, his eyes narrowing in on you. “Wait. How do you even know we have this book?”

You held his glare, starting to become irritated. “It’s behind you, on the shelf, sir.” Your sight shifted to the book, only a few feet between you. Your patience was running thin. 

Huh?” His brows furrowed. He turned his head to the book. “Huh.” His hand lifts to scratch the back of his head. He looks back to you and opens his mouth. 

“I perform well, sir, please let me borrow it.” You quickly said before he could start jabbering. Resorting to a polite restrained smile, that didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

He redirects his eyes to the side of the wall behind the counter, scanning something. Presumably the list, hanging there. His eyes switch to you, then back to the list. He knew who you were. He clicks his tongue before grabbing the book and tossing it on the desk. 

“One week.” He spits. 

You waste no time, taking the book and leaving. A heavy exhale exiting your mouth.

That day you had spent the entire night reading it, searching. 

What had caught Natasha’s attention? What did she like? Dislike? What made her stop on some pages longer than others? 

With every page turned and every word absorbed, espionage techniques and cold war tactics, you kept imagining Natasha’s reaction. 

You wondered if your fingers were in the same place as Natasha’s had been.

——————————————————————

The final sparring exam was nearing, only a week left. It had almost been a month since the last, the one Natasha had beat you in and placed first on the list, again. 

You made your way to the sparring division. The girls follow behind in formations according to their rank. Natasha walked in front of you, leading the group. 

One by one you entered the training facility, the smell of sweat entered your nostrils, never really leaving the walls. Handler Antonov is standing to the side, accustomed guards behind him. His hands clasped behind back, head slightly tilted backward and face lacking expression. 

You all moved to stand in front of him, eyes forward and shoulders squared, waiting for him to speak. 

“Today we’re doing demonstrations.” He announced. “Y/N, Mila. Get ready on the mat.” 

Natasha’s head slightly snapped to his direction for a split second, before snapping back to place. 

Your brows furrowed slightly as you moved, instantly following his order. He had paired you with Mila? Usually you do demonstrations with Natasha for the whole group. You watch Mila, her eyes wide and breaths uneven. She looks nervous. This was the first time Handler Antonov hand picked her for demonstrations. Maybe he was giving her a chance to redeem herself? 

The girls all moved and sat on their knees surrounding you in a large circle. Natasha sat down, her eyes trained on Mila, jaw shifting. Why would Handler Antonov pair you with Mila and not her? That made no sense, Mila didn’t match you, she wasn’t your competition. Natasha is. And will always be.

They had to pair you two together.

You stood on the mat, stretching your arms briefly before going into position, fists up. Mila looked focused and determined. It was her chance at reclaiming her rank as 3rd, but if she beat you now, then she’d be 2nd. Even if this wasn’t the final sparring exam. 

You wait for Handler Antonov’s call. You wondered what he wanted you to demonstrate.

The girls were all watching attentively, eyes narrow and focused, holding their breaths.

"Knockout." Handler Antonov orders. “Begin!” 

You leap forward, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You snap a quick jab at her face, she dodges and counters with a kick to your thigh. You catch it with your hands and move to sweep her other leg. 

She falls to the floor landing on her back with a grunt. You swiftly straddle her, the leather of your tactical suits rubbing against the others. You lift your fist and land a punch to her face, two, three. She absorbs all of them. She brings her arms up to guard herself, shielding her face.

She lets out a heavy and long grunt, her teeth gritting and suddenly lowers her arms, leaving her face vulnerable to your fists. She grabs your suit just beneath the armpits and pushes her groin up, hauling you off of her. 

You fall to the side rolling to a stop. You quickly stand up only to see her already on her feet and a fist in front of your face.

Your head snaps to the side, pain flaring on your jaw and blood flying out of your mouth, before having the air forced out of your lungs in a powerful kick to your stomach. You land on your back, wheezing. 

You hear a gasp from the crowd. Natasha flinches, her gaze stuck on your bloody face. 

Handler Antonov is circling the two of you behind the sitting girls.

You feel the sweat run down your temple, blood trickling down your lips. You gasp for air, eyes directed toward the ceiling. Mila’s face comes into view, standing over you, ready to claim victory.

You slowly turn your head, and see a glimpse of red hair.

Get the fuck up.

You turn your head back, your eyes widen as you see a foot descending quickly toward your face. 

In a split second you roll to the side, Mila’s foot stomps the mat instead.

Shit. Does she have it out for you?

Mila took big strides, her steps heavy, approaching you. Eyes narrowed and brows creased. Sweat covers her face. She looked angry, like an animal hunting its prey. 

You almost felt disrespected.

You stand up. Mila wastes no time and swings a powerful hook, her arm extended.

You hold your breath and swiftly spin your body. You lift your leg, stretching it high up in the air. Every muscle in your body flexes.

Your heel crashes onto her face. 

Blood spurts instantly from her freshly split lip. Her head whips to the side and her whole body crashes to the floor. Heavy and motionless. 

You don’t hear any gasps this time for some reason. 

You spin to a stop, catching your breath, fists in the air looking at her motionless body.

A knockout.

Mila is strong, her fists iron tight. She’s durable too, eats punches to pass time. Anyone would lose to her in a fight of pure strength.

But she lacked in the acrobatics and gymnastics department.

Handler Antonov called your name as the winner. 

You drop your arms and take a quick sweep of the room. No. Not really. 

You just glance at Natasha, wanting to see her reaction. 

She caught your eye, her red hair captured the light, she didn’t look shocked. The corner of her mouth lifted. Did she like your performance? Was she proud of you? 

Her eyes let go first, and lock on something behind you. They expand rapidly, her mouth slightly gapes. Her hands plant on the ground, as if to warn you. 

Huh? Did she not like your spar? Should you have gone harder? You follow her eyes, your body turning.

Suddenly, a white hot flash of pain engulfs your body and your legs give out. Your knees hit the floor first, followed by your torso. Your air is completely cut off and your stomach violently turns. Your hands clasp your right side, right on your liver. Sharp and stabbing pain spreads across your body in waves.

You can’t move. You can’t breathe. 

Every inhale stabbing you over and over again. You curl inwards, tears well in your eyes and your ears ring, your body betraying you.

A sound escapes you, raw and loud and without your permission. Groans of pain you’ve never let out. Sounds Natasha has never heard before. 

Mila had come to, her sight sweeping the room before zoning in on you. She had tears running down her face, her brows furrowed and teeth clenched. She charged at you, bringing her knee up and ramming it onto your liver. 

Natasha's breath faltered, her eyes watching in fear. Her body recoiled at the point of contact, watching as you folded to the ground, pain coated your face. Her body froze, her hands clasped the material of her suit over her knees, nails digging into her palms. Her body shook in restraint. Should she get up and do something? She would snap Mila’s neck then and there. After checking on you. 

No.

That would signal attachment between you. Which was dangerous.

So she stayed put on the floor like all the other girls, watching in horror. Teeth gritting and jaw tense. Hot uneven breaths leave her nose. Mila is going to pay for this, she would make sure of it.

Handler Antonov marches toward Mila and grabs her by the hair, muttering something about discipline as he drags her away. Mila screams and thrashes, tears running down her face as her hands fist in her own hair, trying to pull it off the handlers grip.

He throws her to the guards. 

“Isolation.” He orders. 

The guards silently move and take hold of Mila’s arms and legs, exiting the room. Her screams fading.

The space was silent, except for the sounds of your gasps. You are now on your hands and knees, slowly regaining control of your body. You whimper as you try to stand up, falling back on your face with a groan. Natasha’s gaze is still stuck on you. She had ignored Mila’s screams.

That bitch. 

Handler Antonov returns and pairs the remaining girls with each other. They get up and move to their respective mats leaving Natasha by herself. She looks at him waiting for his order. He looks at Natasha and then at you, you were still on all fours, heaving. He clicks his tongue. You wouldn’t be able to fight Natasha in this state.

He sighs. “Take her to the infirmary.” He orders Natasha with a wave of his wrist.

Within a split second Natasha is by your side, lifting your arm up and around her shoulder, holding it. Her other hand is placed on your hip. She rises, holding you and drags you to the infirmary. 

You squint your eyes and lower your head as you enter the infirmary, trying to evade the bright fluorescent lights that hang above. The smell of antiseptics, sharp and chemical forces its way into your nose accompanied with a hint of bleach underneath everything in the sterile room. 

Doctor Sasha’s back greets you as you enter, standing near a counter sorting vials of medicine. She wears a white lab coat with a pair of blue plastic gloves. 

“Yes, what is it?” She asks as soon as you enter the room, back still to you. 

“Uh, Doctor? We need your help.” Natasha replies. Voice almost pleading.

Dr. Sasha’s movements falter as she hears Natasha’s voice. She turns around, vials still in hand and dips her head forward staring out of the top of her glasses that are perched low on her nose. She looks at Natasha and then at you, hanging off of her like a sloth. Her eyebrow rises. 

“Huh? The two best widows need my help? How come?” Dr. Sasha asks. 

“Um well, It’s not me who needs help.” Natasha says, looking at you.

“Yes I can see that. Put her on the table.” Dr. Sasha replies, abandoning her own work and moves to assist Natasha. 

“Did you go too hard on her this time?” The doctor asks Natasha as they set you down on the metal table. You hold your breath, releasing it through a grunt as you sit. The paper sheets crinkling beneath you. 

“It wasn’t me.” Natasha answers. Dr. Sasha’s eyes snap to her direction, brows furrowed. 

“Wasn’t you? If not you then who?” Dr. Sasha asks. 

“One of the girls got angry after losing to Y/N in a sparring session. A demonstration. She kneed her liver while she wasn’t looking.” Natasha clarifies. 

“Ah well, that explains it.” The doctor finally understands. She quickly wipes away the blood on your mouth with a piece of paper.

“Okay, Y/N tell me where it hurts.” She continues, carefully shifting to touch you with her index finger over your suit. 

You lean back on your hands giving her access. You hold your breath as her finger taps multiple spots around your liver area. 

“Ow, shit.” You hiss. Your body recoils with every touch. “It hurts everywhere.” You quickly say. Voice strained.

Dr. Sasha stops her movements, gets up and walks over to the cabinets, rummaging through them. She picks something up and returns. “Here, apply this ointment twice a day, once in the morning and before bed. It should heal within a week.” 

“A week?” You ask, bewildered.

“The less you know the better.” She responds casually as she turns around and goes back to her work.

You take it and thank her before Natasha helps you down from the table. You both exit the infirmary and start to make your way back to the dormitory. You were able to walk by yourself now, albeit slowly, and with a limp. Every step you take a pulse would radiate from your side. Natasha walks beside you, matching your pace.

All of a sudden, she takes your hand and drags you into a room, quickly shutting the door behind you. 

“What are you doing?” You hissed at her, eyes wide. “They’ll come after u-” 

“No they won’t.” Natasha said confidently, cutting you off. 

“There is only one camera around this corner and it is not fully functioning.” She continues. “It stops moving after lunch, completely missing this spot.”

“…Oh.” You say, voice low and tired. You missed lunch. Your eyes sweep the room, various items stand on shelves and a few wooden crates fill the space. A storage room, with a single dim lamp. 

It was small, Natasha just a step away. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, her voice softened. You catch her eyes and she averts her gaze to your hand instead. “Give me that.” She stretches her arm and takes the ointment before you could move.

“What are you doing?” You ask, watching her lift the lid of the metal tin. 

“Take off your suit.” 

“What?” 

“Just do what I say.” She presses. 

You sigh in surrender and shift to grip the zipper of your suit, your fingers pull it down slowly. Your cheeks heat up as Natasha silently watches you, skin exposing with every inch you unzip.

You stop as you reach your midsection and remove your left arm out of the suit, grunting as you try and fail to remove the other.

Natasha takes a step closer and wordlessly helps you by pulling on the sleeve and freeing your arm. Your suit hangs just above your groin. 

Natasha’s brows furrow as her eyes lock on the big bruise blooming across your side. You look down, your eyes widen. The bruise is large enough to cover your whole side. Deep purple bleeding into green at the edges. The skin is raised and tender. 

Ugly. 

You lean against a few crates stacked behind you. Your hands grip each side. 

“Shit. Ugly isn’t it? Guess I should be more careful next time.” You chuckle, your lips curve up in a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Natasha glares at you. “Shut up, it’s not funny.” She bites and moves closer, crouching on one knee. 

She dips her fingers into the ointment and scoops a hefty amount. You stay quiet, eyes following her movements.

“You did nothing wrong either. She lost control.” Natasha says. “Fucking idiot, doesn’t know how to control her emotions.” She mutters. 

You hiss as her fingers carefully touch your skin, the bruise is sore, but the cold ointment alleviates the pain slightly.

Natasha spreads the cream, trying to cover every inch. Her head was close to your skin. You watched as her fingers brushed right under your sports bra. 

You held your breath. 

Your gaze shifts to her face. Her forest green eyes are narrow, her plum bottom lip bitten between her teeth in focus. 

“And it’s not ugly.” Natasha mutters.

“What?” 

“The bruise. It’s not ugly, Y/N.” She finishes applying the ointment and stands. Placing the tin on the crate behind you.

Your head follows her as she rises, eyes stuck on her, your lips slightly parted. Of course she wouldn’t think it’s ugly. She could be lying? No. Natasha wouldn’t lie to you. Not after dragging your entire weight all the way to the infirmary. Not after risking everything and pulling you in here and applying the cream herself. 

Not after the pinky brushes. 

She’s so good to you. 

Even claiming that the bruise that was so clearly ugly, wasn’t. 

“Hey.” Natasha suddenly says, snapping you out of your trance. She is avoiding eye contact, her cheeks slightly red. “You’re staring.”

“Sorry.” You apologise and look away as if you had truly hurt her feelings. 

“What were you thinking about?” She murmurs.

Silence fills the room for a moment. 

“Nevermi-” 

“You.” The word escapes you before you can stop yourself.

The silence spreads again. 

Natasha stares at you, her eyebrows slightly creased. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. 

“I was thinking about you.” You start. Your voice is shaky and uneven. Your heart beating in your chest, like a trapped animal throwing itself against your ribs. 

“I- Natasha, I-” You stop. Start again. “Ever since the washroom. I can’t-” You falter again. As if rocks have jammed your throat. 

Shit.

You exhale sharply, your jaw tensing. You will your mouth open again, voice low and trembling. Hands fisting at your sides. The words scrape your throat as they exit your mouth.

“I want you and I know I shouldn't and I know it’s dangerous but I can’t hold it in anymore Nata-”

Your head suddenly snaps back. 

A pair of lips, soft and smooth crash against yours. 

Natasha’s hands find your hair and pull your head against hers, kissing you like she’s making up for lost time. Her body presses against yours, but not too hard. You close your eyes, quickly catching up, your hands move to her waist and you pull her impossibly closer, your fingers gripping her as you reciprocate the kiss.

Natasha exhales through her nose, her hands slide slowly down your hair to your throat, and stop at your collarbones before she steadily pulls her lips away. 

You let out a breath, forehead against hers, eyes still closed. 

She takes a step back, untangling herself from you. You open your eyes and catch her green ones. Her bottom lip is stuck between her teeth again.

“Why did you stop?” You whisper. 

“We should head back.” Natasha murmurs.

You push your body off the crates, a low grunt escaping you. You take a step forward, your hands catch her waist and you push your own body against hers, pressing her against the wall. 

She shifts her head, not allowing you to reach her as you lean in for a kiss, chasing her lips. Instead, her hands cup your cheeks, and hold your head still. Your face is hot to the touch.

You close your eyes, surrendering control. Her thumbs brush your bottom lip, flicking it. 

Gently, she leans in, her teeth catch your bottom lip, in a slow pull, before softly releasing it. Her breath fans your mouth. Your stomach tingles. 

She parts her lips, her tongue rests inside. You open your own mouth and she leans in. Her tongue brushes your own, your breaths mix and spit combines, your tongues dance, slow and heated. Sliding and circling each other before you finish in a kiss, the small sound of lips parting fills the room. 

Natasha exhales heavily, her cheeks flushed, lips red and swollen. Your hands squeeze her waist and you swiftly lean in once more, your lips crash with her own. Deeper. Rougher. 

She whimpers, her back arches and chest presses into yours as her fingers move to your hair once again, gripping it harsher, pulling you closer. Your lips move in a hungry dance. You shift your head, your tongue catching hers again, bold and seeking. You explored each other with a growing hunger. Lips barely separating. Lungs, empty of air.

A gentle suck to her tongue drew a low moan from her throat. 

Natasha suddenly snaps out of the haze she’s been trapped in. She swiftly shifts her hands out of your hair and holds your jaw instead. Thumb and fingers squeezing on each side of your mouth as she gently pulls your lips away from hers, breaking a string of spit.

Natasha’s chest rises and falls, desperately trying to catch her breath. You open your eyes, sight locking on her wet lips. 

“We have to stop.” Natasha says out of breath. 

“...Yeah.” You agree, hands squeezing her waist again, and eyes darkening further.

Natasha's fingers push your head back firmly this time, thumb moving to wipe away her spit off your lip, before lowering to a stop at your chest, pressing against it. 

“Stop. We have to leave, they'll be expecting us soon.”

You give in and back off of her. Natasha’s hand glides off your chest. Her eyes stuck on your exposed skin, the suit still hanging around your hips.

You lift your suit, placing your left arm inside its sleeve. Natasha instantly moves to your other side, and takes over. You grunt as she helps insert your right arm into the other sleeve. She lifts your collar around your neck, stretching the material, and pulls on it a few times, making sure it sits the right way. 

She grabs the zipper and slowly lifts her hand, your suit closes inch by inch, hugging your body. 

You stand still, watching her.

Her movements are careful and gentle, not to cause you any pain. 

So considerate. So thoughtful.

So good to you.

“I love you.” You blurt.

Your hand moves to the back of your head, gripping the roots of your hair. Tugging.

Natasha reaches the top and stops, her fingers not letting go. Her other hand is placed on your hip and her eyes meet your soft ones, admiring her. You watch as her lips curve up in a soft smile, still swollen.

Suddenly her sight shifts to something behind you, her brows furrowing and head slightly directed at the door. That pretty smile leaving her lips.

“Hey,” You quickly lower your hand, grabbing her chin with your thumb and index, and move her head back to face you. “Everything is going to be fine. Okay?” Her eyes meet yours and she nods, slowly releasing a breath of air.

“Don’t worry about anything.” You continue, reassuring her. Your thumb glides over her chin before letting go. “Come on, they’ll be expecting you before me.” 

Natasha lets go of you and heads toward the door. You grab your ointment and turn around, moving to sit on a crate, facing her. 

She grips the handle and falters. “Hey,” She calls, head turned to you. You meet her gaze.

Natasha opens her mouth, the words come out cautiously.

“I…love you too.” She says with a tiny smile. 

She opens the door and leaves, softly closing it behind her.

Your own lips curve up in a smile, gaze stuck on where she had stood. 

You wait exactly three minutes before leaving.

——————————————————————

The girls sat around you in a large circle, breaths held and eyes sharp. Calculating. The room was humid and smelled like sweat. Some of the girls sitting are still catching their breaths after their own sparring exam. 

They had all already fought. Each one striving to win and up their rank for the next month, bleeding and struggling, while the rest of you sat and watched, waiting for your turn. 

Except for Mila. She wasn’t here.

Madam B and Handler Antonov stood to the side, multiple guards behind them.

Natasha stood opposite you on the mat, arms raised and expression fixed. Your own fists are in the air, mind blank and eyes locked on her. Your ears are sharp, waiting for the call to begin.

Your bruise had already healed. You didn’t question how. 

“Begin!” 

You charge at Natasha, fist aimed straight for her face. She steps to the side and dodges. 

She swiftly moves behind you, aims low and kicks the back of your knee. 

You drop to one leg with a grunt. Natasha instantly raises her elbow from the side and in one fluid motion lands a devastating strike to your jaw.

Your head violently whips to the side, pain engulfs your face as the inside of your cheek splits and blood trickles out of your mouth.

Without hesitation she shifts in front of you and swings her fist, aiming to strike an additional punch to your other cheek. 

You swiftly duck and dodge her flying fist. You move immediately and land a punch to her stomach. Cutting her airflow. 

You don’t pause. You quickly stand and lift your leg, extending it all the way as you deliver a powerful kick to her chest. Disrupting her rhythm.

Pain erupts across Natasha’s body as she flings through the air and lands on her back near the girls, with a heavy thud. They quickly squirm out of the way.

Loud grunts leave Natasha’s mouth. Her hand comes up to her chest, as if more air would enter her lungs.

You march toward her, grab her ankles and harshly pull her closer. The girls release a breath as Natasha slides away from them.

You drop to your knees between her legs and pull her even closer by the hips. Your bodies glued to each other. 

Your eyes lock with Natasha’s, her face is flushed, a deep red spreading to her ears. Her breath is quick and uneven. The corner of your mouth lifts up in a faint smirk that only she can see.

Natasha’s jaw shifts and she swings a fist at your face. You catch it and pin it above her head. You strike two consecutive blows to her body. 

A moan involuntarily escapes her lips as pain flares through her side. She swings her other fist at your face. 

It painfully hits your split cheek causing more blood to flow out of your mouth. You catch her wrist before she can land another strike and pair it with her other arm, above her head. 

You hold her wrists with one hand as she squirms trying to free herself. You shove your forearm on her throat, leaning your whole body weight against her. 

Your chests press together, you lean your head down toward hers. Your noses are close, almost touching. Your breaths mingle as you hold eye contact. 

Natasha felt your breath on her lips, her mind flashed to the storage room. 

You let your blood trickle out of your mouth and drip into hers. Still smirking.

She swallows.

You falter, eyes widening.

That’s all she needs.

She plants one foot on the mat, the other on your hip and pushes her hips upward, explosively kicking you off of her. 

A short fierce sound ripped out of her as she broke free. Her arms aching as they lower. 

You land on your side, and move to get up. 

She acts before anyone else has processed what happened and delivers a kick to your stomach.

A sound between a grunt and a gasp escapes you, your face planted on the mat. She quickly rolls you over and straddles you. 

One hand grips the collar of your suit and the other soars through the air in a tight fist. 

Your head snaps to the side, again. Blood splattering across the mat. She repeats the same action and lands another hit to your face. And another.

Pain radiates through your face in waves. Like the pulse of a heartbeat. 

Shit.

How long has this fight been going on now? Ten minutes? Twenty? 

The pain is immense and your body ached all over. Maybe you should yield and try your luck next time. You’d place second again. 

Wait. 

You wouldn’t get another chance for another full month. 

And placing second? Again?

Fuck no.

Your eyes widened as if you had woken from a slumber. The smell of sweat and iron enter your nostrils. Red hair fills your vision. You blink a few times, clearing your eyesight. 

Natasha. 

Her fist in the air, rapidly approaching your face. A knockout blow. If it lands.

Your body acts before your mind catches up.

You spit. 

Your blood hurls through the air. Natasha flinches as it harshly coats her face, blurring her vision.

She doesn’t wipe it away.

You waste no time as you grip her locks with your fingers, drag her head and push your hips up, harshly flinging her off of you. 

She lets out a grunt as she rolls to a stop and swiftly stands, her scalp burning. 

You immediately stand and shift behind her. You lock your arms around her torso and push your hips up, flexing your legs as you lift her off the ground and arch backward, slamming her to the mat.

Gasps erupt.

Natasha’s whole body crashes onto the mat, her mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes shutting in pain, gasping as the air completely escapes her body.

In one fluid motion, you wrap your arm around her neck, bicep flexing as your hand latches onto your other arm behind her head. Your legs wrap around her torso and you lock your feet, trapping her.

You arch your back and squeeze your bicep, cutting off her air and blood supply.

You breathe rapidly, urgently trying to catch your own breath. Sweat coated your skin, gluing the suit to your body. Spit and blood mixed in and around your mouth.

Natasha felt your breaths whisk past her ear, your chest pressing into her from behind. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, blood, spit and sweat mixing. 

She thrashes as her hands grip your arm, nails dig into your skin as she tries and fails to remove it. She opens her mouth gasping, trying to force air into her lungs. Each breath came up short. It was as if her suit too, was squeezing her.

Natasha’s sight starts to blur, body slowly giving in. She squeezes her eyes shut, teeth gritting in frustration. 

She taps your arm.

You instantly let go of her. 

She hastily gasps as air finally fills her lungs and blood continues its flow. Sweat trickles down her temples. Her sight comes back as she lays on her side supported by her elbow, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Behind her, you were catching your own breath, feet planted on the mat as you sat, your hands behind you, supporting your weight. Your head tips back, and you let out a heavy exhale, closing your eyes. 

Finally.

You move your head, eyes searching for Natasha. Is she okay? Did you go too hard? 

You faintly hear your name and “Winner” called somewhere in the background.

Your sight locks in on her, eyes scanning. She’s on her hands and knees, still catching her breath. She slowly lifts her head. 

Your eyes make contact. The sweat gleams on her face, blood dripping down her cheeks. 

Your blood. 

Your eyes soften as you watch her. Her green eyes caught the light, shining brightly, despite how tired they looked. You take her in, gaze tracing the slope of her jaw, shifting up to her red lips, curved up into a weak smile. Directed at you. Before moving to her prominent nose, and finally returning to her forest green eyes. You drink her in, carving the image of her into your mind.

Suddenly, the girls around you stand and run off, muttering something about the list and their ranks. 

You stay put. 

——————————————————————

The space is dim and cramped. She stands close, but that's not an issue anymore. 

Your arms are draped around her shoulders, holding her close to you. 

Her hands are locked around your waist, pressing your bodies together. Looking into your eyes.

“We have to be careful.” Natasha mutters, her lips brushing yours as she speaks. 

“I know.” 

“We can’t let them find out, Y/N. If they do then-”

“I know, Tasha. I know.” You reply and cup her cheeks. “Don’t worry. They won’t find out about anything.” Your thumbs slide back and forth. 

“What if they do?”

“They won’t.” 

“You don’t know that.” Natasha says, looking into your eyes. Her own conflicted.

Your movements falter. 

“You’re right, I don’t.” You sigh. “We’ll be careful, just like you said.” You plant a kiss on her lips.

“...And I mean, so far so good.” You add, snickering. 

“It’s not funny, Y/N.” Natasha responds, unamused. You nudge her nose with yours as an apology.

She quietens, her gaze shifts between your eyes and lips. 

“Would you stop?” She utters.

“What?” 

“If they found out. Would you stop?” 

You still and look into her eyes. 

“No.” You answer firmly. “And if they took you away from me-” You pause, the words sickening and unthinkable. 

You open your mouth again.

“If they took you away from me, I’d kill them.” You finish.

Natasha’s eyes search yours for a moment. You hold her gaze steadily.

Slowly, she leans in, capturing your lips between her own in a soft, gentle kiss. A light exhale leaves her nose, before parting your lips.

“Somehow I don’t doubt that.” Natasha says, faintly smiling.

“Yeah well, being ranked first certainly helps.” You respond in a teasing manner.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Funny. Don’t get too comfortable.” She says amused, with a sharp glint in her eyes.

A light laugh releases your mouth.

“Oh trust me, I’m not.” You answer truthfully.

Part 2/2

Hello!

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Two black widows, top of the list second to no one. Except each other. In a place built to strip you of anything soft and craft you into obedient weapons, something grows anyway. It could get you killed. You know that. Still, you can't stop.

Warnings: Obsession, rivalry, violence, blood, sexual tension, mature themes, angst, red room, aged up characters, graphic fight scenes, fluff

Wordcount: 3105

Part 1, Part 2

Every girl in the room rushed to look for her name on the list, pushing each other in panic. As they held their breaths, scanning for their names, they did not look at the top of the list, already knowing who owned the highest ranks. 

The top two spots had been occupied by the same two widows since their enrollment began. Sometimes their ranks would switch with one another, but never would they drop lower than that. Never lose to anyone except each other.

Some of the girls turned away smirking after having read their names, feeling accomplished in rising a rank. Others exhaled sharply, angry at their drop.

Many looked at the top two names in disdain, their gaze stuck there a few seconds too long.

The list stood for one thing. Who was closest to perfection. It existed to make each girl believe she could get there. Be untouchable.

It also pinned them against each other.

You walk up to the list once the room has thinned, curious to see which rank you’ve landed on this month. Your eyes move to the top of the list immediately. 

You had placed second. Again. 

Second to Natasha Romanoff. 

Your rival.

You sighed in disappointment, crossing your arms. You think back to the move she pulled earlier, replaying it behind your eyes. You hadn’t seen it coming. But you still performed well in all the other departments. You had beat her in the marksmanship and firearms drills, having assembled a rifle exactly one second before her and hit your targets with more precision.

You had even beat her in the gymnastics proficiency test, something that Natasha Romanoff particularly excelled at. 

No.

All of that was preparation. The final sparring exam is the verdict.

One of the girls turned around to leave after checking her rank, bumping your shoulder on the way out, ripping you out of your thought process. You look back to see who it was. Mila. She bumped you harder than necessary. You scan for her name on the list.

She placed 4th.

She had dropped a rank.

She had been 3rd for quite some time, striving to rise in rank even further. But her chance at rising had come and gone. 

You feel a nudge to your shoulder, looking to your side you realize Natasha was standing there. Close. Her side brushing yours.

“Still second? I’m starting to think you’ve lost your edge.” Natasha says, looking at the list

“Funny, Romanoff. Don’t get too comfortable.” You answer, dryly.

The corner of Natasha’s mouth slightly lifts. “But seriously, if you stay in the same rank for long, the others might think they have a real shot at beating you.” She says, eyeing you from the side. 

“And what? Replace me? Not gonna happen.” You quickly replied. 

“You sure about that?” Natasha presses further. “Mila looked quite angry on her way out of here, she’ll only fight harder now.” 

You slightly furrow your brows. “Well she can try as much as she wants, she’s not my competition.” You answered, your tone carrying a hint of annoyance. What was she even playing at? Trying to rile you up? 

Natasha scans your face for a few seconds.

 “...Good.” She replies, satisfied with your answer.

You stand in silence for a moment, shoulders brushing. Neither of you move away.

“That new move you pulled, you never used it before the final sparring exam.” You stated. An observation. You and Natasha have sparred countless times before the final sparring exam, and not once had she used it.

“Yes.” Natasha replied.

“You waited until the final sparring exam to use it on me.” You said, hands squeezing your arms.

"That's right.” Natasha replied, lips slightly curved up, still looking at her name on the top of the list. Your gaze also stuck on her name. 

“It won’t work again.” You said, already coming up with various ways of countering her move.

“I know.” Natasha simply answers, the slight upward curve of her lips remaining. 

She turns to leave, the space beside you feels colder than it should. 

You turn your head, eyes following her. You don’t know why.

——————————————————————

The days following the list were like any other. Drills at dawn, meals in silence, formations until your body moved without thought. The routine never changed.

Neither did she.

Natasha was always there. Two steps ahead in formations, across the mat during drills, at the opposite end of the mess hall. Close enough that you always knew exactly where she was without looking. You told yourself it was instinct. Tactical awareness. You were trained to know the position of every person in a room.

That’s all it was.

You almost believed it.

So when Natasha hadn’t shown up at lunch, you noticed. Before you’d even finished scanning the room. Before you had even sat down. 

She wouldn’t get to eat until supper.

You got up, returned your tray and went looking for her. You didn’t know why. You told yourself it was because she was your only competition. The only person who could match you. Because if she wasn’t there, then who would you fight? 

With anyone else there would be no struggle. No point.

So as you walk, steps slightly hurried, eyes sharp. You check every room available, every room you are allowed to enter. You start with the dormitories, maybe she was resting? No, that wasn’t allowed outside your fixed schedules. You still check. Not there.

You move onto the main training hall, your eyes sweep the area quickly. Not there. You direct your feet to the ballet and gymnastics studio. Not there. 

Firing range. Obstacle course. Laboratorium.

Not there. 

You stop and let out a heavy sigh, your brows creasing. That leaves only one place. You start walking again, steps firm and determined. You held your breath as you approached the doors of the infirmary.

If she wasn’t here, then you-

Your steps falter as you open the door. 

Natasha sits inside on one of the beds, alone. Bandages are wrapped around her wrist. 

You release a breath and steadily walk toward her. 

“Hey.” You say, nearing her bed. 

Natasha lifts her head, looking at you. 

“...Hey.” She replies, staring at you, slightly confused. “What are you doing here?” 

“Uh, nothing, I was just- you know, walking past-” You stammer.

Natasha’s eyes narrow at you before cutting you off. “Were you looking for me?”

“No.” You respond quickly. “I was just walking past that's all.” You continue, tone defensive. 

The corner of Natasha’s lips quirks up. She opens her mouth to speak. 

“You weren’t at lunch.” You quickly say before she can speak. “Why?”

Natasha’s smile drops, eyes shifting down to her bandaged hand, jaw tensing. 

“I had a pain tolerance test.” She explains. Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Pain tolerance test? We already had those tests a few days ago?” 

Natasha sighs and moves to hold her bandaged wrist with her other hand. 

“You know how the handlers are, Y/N. They don’t need to have a reason.” She explains.

“Yeah… I know.” You say quietly. You lift your hand and open the zipper of one of your pockets, your fingers move inside to grab something.

“Uh, here, since you missed lunch.” You say, arm extended. Natasha looks up at your hand. 

Her breath stalls for a second, her eyes stare at it. At your hand holding it. 

A piece of bread.

Her sight switches to your face, scanning. Your eyes look off to the side, avoiding eye contact.

“Don’t look at me like that. Just take it.” You murmur, heartbeat quickening.

Natasha lifts her own hand and softly grabs it, your fingers brushing.

“So you were looking for me.” She notes, amused. 

“No I wasn't.” You quickly hiss, face reddening. “I- I was just making sure you would show up to the sparring session later. That’s it.” 

Natasha’s eyes soften. 

“Yeah, sure you were.” She comments. 

“Yeah, I was.” You press, trying to slow your breathing. 

Natasha shifts to look at the piece of bread in her hands. Sitting quietly. You stand there looking at her as the silence spreads. 

“Well, um, see you later I guess.” You back away, moving toward the door. 

“Y/N!” You stop, head turning to look at Natasha. “Thank you.” She says, a faint smile adorning her lips.

You nod your head once and leave.

Natasha lifts the piece of bread to her mouth and takes a bite. Her eyes close, a sigh releasing through her nose.

——————————————————————

The space was large, bare feet against hardwood floors, leotards stretching as bodies moved. It was Wednesday, which meant gymnastics proficiency training. You bend down, hands to your feet, stretching. You lift your head scanning the room for one person. 

Madam B had ordered all of you to stretch before starting formations. You move to sit on the floor, bringing your right leg over your left, and pull it toward your chest. Your eyes found the redhead, stretching in the side of the room.

You follow her movements, gaze stuck on her body. Eyes following the curve of her back, and dropping lower, lingering. You switch legs, stretching the other. Your stare moved down to her bare legs, slim, the light catching them. Your eyes flick to her face, tracing her jaw, drinking in the curve of her lips, her leg rises. 

What?

Your brows furrow, Darya joins her, stretching. She holds up Natasha’s leg, one hand on her thigh and the other on her back, pressing. They were standing close. Your jaw tightens, and you let out a sharp exhale. Darya? Really? You could do that, you should be the one standing there. You are the one who matches Natasha. You. Not her. Never her. You look away, not standing the sight of it anymore. Next time, you will make sur-

“Y/N!” Madam B shouts. 

You snap out of your daze, head sharply turning to her. The girls were all standing in formations, legs straight, postures perfect, faces stoic. You stand up, quickly joining the formation. Stance perfect. 

Madam B saunters your way, her walking stick tapping the floor with each step until she stops right in front of you. She looks you in the eyes.

“Did you not hear what I said?” Madam B asks, calmly. Accent heavy.

“No, Mada-” 

“Why?” She hisses, cutting you off, shifting closer. 

The fluorescent lights above buzzed. No one dared to move. Eyes staring straight ahead at the wall. 

“…I wasn’t focused Madam, I apologise, It won’t happen again.” You say, eyes looking past her, your voice slightly shaky and your heart racing. 

She exhales sharply. You hear her hand squeeze her stick. “Wasn’t focused?!” She snarls, spit landing on your face. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply before loosening her grip on her stick. 

“I will let you off this time,” She says, voice lowering. Doubt it. “Since you beat Natasha in this division.” She finishes and retreats, turning her back to you. 

You let out a breath you had been holding in, your heartbeat slowing. You sneak a glance at Natasha, only to find her already looking at you. Her eyes tense and brows creased, almost looking worried. Expressions only perceivable to the trained eye. You look back at the wall.

Shit, that was close. 

——————————————————————

The room is hot and smells of sweat, tactical suits rubbing against skin and girls moving with lethal efficiency. Grunts sound and bodies grapple each other in a fit to take the other down and claim victory.

Natasha grunts as she swings, aiming straight for your jaw. You quickly dodge and move to kick her feet. She jumps easily. 

You counter fast, holding your breath as your strike flings through the air. Natasha steps to the side like she expected it, and she strikes a punch to your liver, just beneath your extended arm. You grunt, pain flaring where her fist had landed. 

You grit your teeth in frustration and quickly back up, putting some distance between your bodies.

Shit, that was bad. Try again. 

Natasha doesn’t like wasting time, she steps in close for her next swing.

Too close. 

You catch her fist and pull her into your space, nothing but an inch separating you. Your breaths mingle together, her eyes flick to your lips, for just a second. A second too long, and she hesitates. 

You pull her body straight into your knee. Hard. Ruthless. The air is forced out of her lungs, swishing past your ear and she falls to the floor, groaning in pain. You waste no time and quickly straddle her, your arm pressing against her throat.

“Still think I’ve lost my edge?” You say, smirking.

Natasha doesn’t answer you, her chest rises up and down, busy catching her breath.

It’s not until Handler Antonov calls your name as the winner, that you get off her. You don’t get up before the handler calls for it, you can’t. Not with Natasha as your sparring partner. 

She rises soon after and stands close to you, shoulders brushing. Again. You sneak a quick glance at her, any sign of pain on her face had been completely erased without a trace. Replaced by something unreadable.

As expected.

That's what the red room taught you. Don’t lose control. Show no emotion. Follow your orders obediently. It conditioned absolute loyalty to the authority. 

Girls crafted into flawless, obedient weapons.

And the handlers were always watching. 

Most of the girls had already finished their own sessions. The few left had been watching you and Natasha spar, their eyes sharpening on every opening, every mistake. Which was expected, your sessions typically ran longer. 

Each girl got paired with another, every duo having their respective handler overseeing the sparring session. You and Natasha are almost always paired together. 

“Go clean up.” Handler Antonov orders.

You and Natasha quietly make your way to the washroom, one of few places where there isn’t a camera.

Once you step in, you head straight for the sink, Natasha following suit. You both stood in silence washing your hands in the empty space. Two sinks separating you.

The image of her hesitation kept flashing behind your eyes while you scrubbed at your knuckles. You glance sideways, scanning her face. It was unreadable, focused on washing her hands, trying to clean every nook and cranny. You debated if you should even say anything at all.

“What was that back there?” You say, finally breaking the silence.

“...What was what?” Natasha replies after a moment, her voice flat. 

You treaded carefully, moving to wipe your neck with water. 

“During the spar.”

“My punch to your liver?” Natasha quickly asks. “What about it?”

“What? No, not that,” You answer, rolling your eyes. “You got lucky there, by the way.” You add, side eyeing her. 

“Really? Did I-” 

“That’s not the point,” You interrupt her, your voice slightly rising. “I was going to ask about when I took you down.” You say sharply. 

A beat.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Natasha stated.

“Just listen.” You hissed. 

Natasha falters and glares at you.

”Well what were you gonna ask Y/N? Spit it ou-” 

“You hesitated.” You finally said, cutting her off sharply. 

The silence fills the space again, for just a moment.

“No I didn’t.” She answers. The words come out sharper than she intended to. She moves back to the water and wipes her face. 

“Yes, you did.” You doubled down. “Why?” Your tap kept running, forgotten.

Natasha stilled and looked up at the wall, bare of mirrors. Her jaw shifts. She closed the tap and gripped the edge of the sink. You closed your own tap. 

The silence stretched. 

Natasha looks at you, her eyes finding yours like magnets. They flick to your lips, again.

Her mouth opens and closes.

“It was just a mistake.” Natasha answers, voice low. Looking back into your eyes.

Not satisfied with her answer, you take a step closer, and then another. The space between you dwindling.

Natasha shifts, her body now fully facing yours. She keeps her eyes locked on your own, restrained. Not wanting her own gaze to betray her again.

You were standing close, too close. Just like earlier, during the spar.

“A mistake?” You ask. “You don’t make mistakes, Natasha.”  Your voice is just above a whisper.

Natasha gulps, and averts her gaze. Her breaths are short and uneven. Eyebrows slightly furrowed. It’s true, she doesn’t make mistakes. But neither do you, and that move you pulled, drawing her in close, until she felt the warmth of your body against hers, your lips nearly brushing. 

You knew what you were doing.

”Hey.” You say. Voice softening. Swiftly pulling her attention back.

Your hand moves, almost without permission, and carefully touches hers. You check her face for any sign of disapproval and find none. 

Natasha’s eyes move down to your hand, fingers doing a careful dance. She releases a slow breath, feeling the warmth your hand provided. She didn’t move away, instead, her own hand slowly gravitated toward yours, almost intertwining your fingers. 

She looks up into your eyes, then to your lips. You carefully lean in even closer, your chests nearly touching. She could feel your breath on her own lips, noses a hair width away.

Natasha opened her mouth, words dancing on the tip of her tongue. 

Multiple steps suddenly sound off outside and Natasha instantly removes herself from you. The warmth she provided getting ripped off. She moved for the door, her ear pressed against it, and waits a few seconds til the steps faded away. 

Your body stills as you hear the footsteps, you instantly look up, your head snapped back an inch at the sudden disturbance, fear filling your body rapidly. A recoil, gone almost as soon as it came. Once you snapped out of your trance, you moved, taking hurried strides toward her. 

“Natasha, wai-” You hissed, hand reaching out, voice low and sharp, getting cut off by the door shutting in your face.

You don’t open the door and run after her. 

Only someone with a death wish would do that. 

This place is heavily loaded with cameras and surveillance equipment, eyes in every room, every corner. Every movement recorded and every interaction logged. A harsh reminder of where you are. A ruthless environment. Unforgiving and cold. There is no place for warmth here, it wasn’t built for it, and you weren’t crafted for it. 

Your hand squeezed the handle, forehead pressing harshly against the door.

You wait exactly 3 minutes before you leave.