#(natasha)

Spent nights at one another’s houses whispering embarrassing stories into the dark until tears gathered in your eyes from laughing too hard. And sometimes those nights turned softer, quieter. Comforting hands resting on knees when secrets slipped out, insecurities revealed only in the safety of each other.

You grew up with one another. Blew out birthday candles side by side, exchanged stupid Christmas presents every year, learned to drive in the same rusted trucks, and crammed yourselves into diner booths after reckless late-night drives through mountain roads. The whole town knew the three of you together, like your names belonged side by side as naturally as the mountains belonged to the horizon.

Inseparable, never meant to part from one another. Photos of the three of you hung around each other’s rooms, tucked into mirrors and pinned to walls, always leaving space for another year, another memory. Until one evening.

It was supposed to be another sleepover, only older now. The three of you somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, curled up in familiar places with the television humming quietly in the background and empty soda cans cluttering the table. Comfortable in the way only years together could make people.

Then your mother stepped into the kitchen and asked softly if you had told them yet. Their eyes flickered toward you immediately, and your body ran cold.

You couldn’t say it. Could barely even look at them. So your mother did it for you. She told them you were moving away to the city.

And the room lost its warmth.

You had been in New York for almost five years now. You’d finished college, settled into your first full-time job, and quietly reached the point where your life stopped feeling like something temporary and started feeling like something built.

Somewhere along the way, you’d grown into a woman almost unrecognizable from the girl who once ran barefoot through riverbanks and mountain trails. Back home, you grew up in a place where cell service barely existed, where fashion meant whatever clothes survived the week and your father’s boots were just part of the outfit you threw on over pajamas.

Your friends in the city found your childhood charming in that distant, curious way people do when they’ve never lived it. Wine glasses balanced between their fingers as they asked you questions about horses and wide open land and how you could stand living somewhere so small everyone knew everyone. What it was like. Why you left. If you missed it. If you could ever go back.

You always answered lightly, laughing it off, turning your past into something almost like a story instead of something you had lived. But the questions stayed with you longer than they should have, especially the ones about why you left, because you never really had a clean answer for that anymore.

Your parents had long since stopped arguing with you about New York. Now your calls home were softer, stretched out with pauses, your mother asking when you were visiting again and your father pretending not to notice how often you said you were busy. It hadn’t felt urgent before, life always pulling you forward too fast to look back.

But now, for the first time in years, the thought landed differently.

You could go home. There was nothing stopping you anymore.

You had PTO sitting unused, no deadlines pressing against you, no real reason not to leave the city for a while. You could just… go.

The realization settled in your chest in a way that made everything feel suddenly too quiet. That night you called your parents while sitting cross-legged on your couch, laptop open on your knees as flight searches loaded in the background, your finger hovering between dates as your mother’s voice filled your apartment from the speaker.

Your dad picked you up at the airport, giving you a hug so tight your lungs burned. You didn’t mind it. You just shoved your face into his shoulder and held on a second longer than you meant to, breathing in the familiar rough cigarette scent and something older underneath it was motor oil.

It hit you all at once how much you’d been holding back, how much you’d been pretending wasn’t there. How much you’d missed him. How much you still loved him in that deep, uncomplicated way that never really changes no matter how far you go.

When he finally pulled back, his hands stayed on your shoulders like he needed to make sure you were real. “God, look at you,” he said, voice thick in a way he tried to hide by laughing. “Look at my girl… you’re so grown up.”

You smiled at him, soft and a little watery around the edges, eyes matching his in that too-emotional way neither of you commented on. You squeezed his hands like you were grounding yourself through him instead of the other way around. “I miss you…”

“Me too, and so does your mother,” he said, giving your hands a gentle squeeze back as he nodded toward the exit. “Let’s go home… she’s waiting for you there.”

She gave you a just as tight hug, one you fully just broke into, tears slipping before you could even think to stop them. You held onto her like your hands had been waiting years to do that again, arms wrapped around her so tightly it almost felt like you were afraid she might disappear if you let go.

She didn’t rush you. Just held you back just as firmly, one hand steady between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like you hadn’t outgrown needing it.

You buried your face into her shoulder, breathing in her shampoo and lotion, the familiar softness of her sweater, the quiet warmth of her that somehow still felt like home even after everything. The air in the house felt different in a way you couldn’t quite place at first.

Cleaner, lighter, like it had been waiting for you to notice it again. And suddenly it hit you how long it had been since you’d taken a full breath without something sitting heavy in your chest.

You exhaled shakily, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes still glassy. “I’m home…”

“That you are,” she said softly, brushing a thumb beneath your eye like she was still allowed to do that without asking. “We’ve been counting down the minutes.”

Her smile was small, careful, like she was afraid too much emotion might break something.

“We’ve got dinner… please come in.” Then, after a beat, her gaze flicked over your shoulder toward the rest of the house, softer still.

“The house has changed a bit… as you might assume you notice.”

After dinner, when you finally parted for the night, you climbed the creaky stairs slowly, each step familiar in a way your body remembered before your mind fully caught up. They had said the house had changed, and you believed them, until you reached your bedroom door.

The moment you opened it, everything stopped. Your suitcase rolled softly behind you and came to rest in the corner, but you barely noticed. Your feet moved on their own, slow and careful, like you were walking through a memory instead of a room.

Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been replaced. It was all still there, held in time like someone had refused to let it become anything else.

The old quilt on your bed. The faint marks on the wall where posters used to hang. The dresser you’d carved into when you were younger and thought it was funny. The bookshelf still slightly crooked no matter how many times your father tried to fix it. Even the soft smell of dust and old wood and something unmistakably you.

You walked like you were in a movie you weren’t sure you belonged in anymore, fingers brushing over surfaces as things you had forgotten suddenly returned in fragments. Late-night conversations, getting ready for school, lying on your back staring at the ceiling thinking the world would never change.

And yet it had. Just not this room.

You flop onto the bed afe hearing the springs bounce under you. The ceiling stares back at you the same way it always did, familiar in a way that almost feels unreal after so long away. Your eyes drift to your vanity, spotting the photos there, and something in your chest tightens.

You sit up slowly, gaze lingering on them. Smiling faces caught in time. Too many memories packed into small frames, edges slightly worn from years of being looked at and never really put away. You, Wanda, Natasha. Always the three of you.

You wonder what they’re up to, where they are right now. If they’re together. If they’re laughing. If anything about them feels different, or if it’s just you who changed. If they moved on after you left.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

You reach over and turn your lamp off for the night before you can let yourself wonder about anything further.

You had some time to warm up to everything again before your parents mentioned that you should attend the city’s small gathering once more, just to greet everyone again, catch up, be seen. It had sounded like a good idea at the time. You missed people from the town you grew up in, missed the familiarity of faces that didn’t feel like strangers even after years apart.

Your parents were going too, a kind of quiet reassurance at your side in case you felt awkward or in case the town had decided you’d become the “city girl” who left and never quite belonged again.

A few hours later, and it had been a fine gathering for the most part. Shaking hands yet again, hugging occasionally, repeating the same softened version of your life until your smile started to feel practiced instead of real. The fire burned bright in the center of everything, casting warm light over familiar faces as the sun fully disappeared and the night settled in.

You excused yourself quietly, slipping away toward the bathrooms just to breathe for a moment, let your shoulders drop where no one could see.

That’s when a truck pulled up. Headlights cut through the dark for a second before shutting off, leaving the engine to tick in the silence. It caught your eye without meaning to.

The door swung open, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

The one with the short, messy hair stepped out first. Except it wasn’t short anymore. Long auburn strands spilled over her shoulders, catching the firelight every time she moved. A cigarette rested between her lips, smoke curling into the night air.

The habit struck you immediately. Unfamiliar against the version of her you’d carried in your head for years.

The second door swung open a beat later. You shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, not really, but the sight of her still knocked the breath from your lungs. She looked older now.

Taller somehow, steadier. Softer in a way that only time could carve into someone. Even her voice, faint beneath the noise of the party, had deepened into something calmer, more mature.

You could hear the two of them talking quietly amongst themselves.

Their names stirred in the back of your mind, dangerously familiar. You shoved the thought down before it could settle, forcing your steps to remain even as you continued toward the bathrooms, pretending your pulse hadn’t suddenly fallen out of rhythm.

Part of you hoped you’d imagined it. That maybe you’d looked too fast, caught the wrong angle in the flicker of firelight and smoke and familiar noise. Maybe she hadn’t seen you at all.

But fate had other plans.

For one fleeting moment, her gaze drifted lazily across the crowd. Casual, distracted. Then it found you right as you reached the edge of the building and stepped inside.

You pushed through the bathroom door quickly, the cold fluorescent light washing over you as you gripped the edge of the sink for a second longer than necessary. Your pulse still hadn’t settled. You turned on the faucet anyway, letting the icy water run over your hands just to give yourself something else to focus on, but you can't.

Five fucking years. You dried your hands slowly against your jeans as you stepped back into the mosquito-filled air, already planning to keep your head down and walk straight past them.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Guilt and awkwardness climbed up your throat so fast it almost made it hard to answer.

“Hi.”

The word came out quieter than you intended.

Silence settled between you almost immediately, thick and uncomfortable. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to her anymore—or if you were supposed to say anything at all. The two of you hadn’t spoken since the day you left for the city. No calls. No texts. Nothing except years of distance stretching wider and wider until it became easier to pretend it didn’t matter.

Maybe this was how things were supposed to go.

People faded. Friendships lost their grip. Not everyone you met was meant to become part of your foundation. Some people were only passing branches, temporary things meant to break away eventually.

You told yourself that was all this was. Five years was a long time to hold onto someone. You shifted slightly, already preparing to step around her and leave the conversation exactly where it stood. Brief, polite before Wanda spoke again.

"You changed your hair,” she commented, her eyes drawing carefully over you.

“Yeah, I did…” you breathed out, wiping at your bicep when you felt what was probably a mosquito land there.

“It looks nice. Seems like you’ve really been taking care of yourself.”

The compliment sat awkwardly between you. You shifted your weight, one foot already turning away like you were preparing to leave the conversation before it had the chance to become anything more. Still, you could feel Wanda’s gaze lingering on you. And another from farther away, heavier somehow, burning into your skin.

Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced toward the truck near the fire and found Natasha already watching you. The flame from her lighter illuminated her face for a brief second as she lit another cigarette, smoke curling past her lips as she leaned back against the truck.

“Not too sure,” you admitted. “However long I can stretch my PTO. I’m getting time with my parents.”

Something flickered across Wanda’s face at that. Small enough that you almost missed it. The mention of family. The quiet implication beneath your words. That you came back for them, not for this, not for her.

No mention of catching up. No offer to see each other again. Still, she smiled softly, the kind that felt more polite than personal now. “Well… it was nice seeing you.”

“You too.”

The words felt strange leaving your mouth.

Wanda gave a small wave before turning and heading back toward the fire, her figure slowly blending into the warm glow and drifting smoke. You started in the opposite direction, hands shoved into your pockets, but after a few steps you glanced back over your shoulder anyway.

It wouldn’t be a small town without its monthly farmer’s market.

Your parents had driven the three of you into town early that morning, and for once, you didn’t mind staying close to them. It gave you something familiar to hold onto. The market buzzed around you with soft music, overlapping conversations, and the scent of kettle corn drifting through the warm air. You pointed out different stands to your mom, teased your dad over overpriced honey, and exchanged polite smiles with a few familiar faces from years ago.

It almost felt normal.

By the time you stopped at the smoothie stand near the edge of the market, the heat had already settled into your skin. You held your mango smoothie in one hand while waiting for the larger one your parents planned to split, half-listening to the blender roaring behind the counter.

Then a voice slipped into the space beside you.

“Mango? Always been your favorite.”

Your stomach tightened before you even looked up.

Wanda stepped beside you casually, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket despite the warmth outside. Her hair was pulled back loosely today, auburn strands catching in the breeze.

“You ordering one?” you asked, trying to sound more relaxed than you felt. Almost pushing her away again.

She hummed softly, glancing up at the menu board. “Maybe. I’m deciding.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “This stand’s new. Only been here about two years.”

She glanced away from the menu for a moment, eyes settling on you. “How’s the city been?”

The question made your stomach sink unexpectedly, like there was too much wrapped inside those four words. Your fingers tightened slightly around the smoothie cup as you silently wished your parents’ order would be ready already.

“Uh, yeah…” you muttered, shifting your weight. “It’s good. A lot.”

Wanda smiled anyway, like she understood the awkwardness behind it. “Still overwhelming?”

“Pretty much all the time.”

“I can imagine,” she said softly. “Forty people in one gathering is about enough for me. I can’t imagine being surrounded by that many people all the time. Always somewhere to go.”

You hummed, feeling yourself loosen slightly at the subject. Talking about the city was easier than talking about yourself. Easier than talking about the five years sitting between the two of you.

“It’s not as bad as people think,” you admitted, glancing down at your drink. “Everyone kind of stays in their own lane. It feels like you actually get your own space there.”

You paused briefly before adding quieter, “Doesn’t feel as suffocating. Or like everyone’s watching you all the time.”

Your name was called from the stand. Relief flickered through you immediately. “That’s mine,” you said, half a step backward as you pointed toward the counter. You grabbed your parents’ smoothie when it was handed over, the cold cup grounding you in something simple again.

Wanda was still there. Feeling awkard to say goodbye, but even more not to say anything at all. You turned back to her, something small and almost unintentional softening your expression. Not quite a smile, not quite nothing either.

“Uh… it was good seeing you,” you said quietly.

Wanda nodded once, gentle. “Yeah. You too.”

You held her gaze for a second longer than you meant to, then shifted your weight away, your parents already drifting toward the next stall.

“Take care,” you added, voice lighter now.

"You too."

You lay in bed, covers pulled up to your chest, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of your room presses in around you. Your eyes drift again and again to the photos still pinned along your vanity mirror. Snapshots of a life that feels both distant and uncomfortably close.

You shift restlessly beneath the blankets, your thoughts swinging between extremes, almost hot and cold the way Wanda and Natasha feel in your chest.

Part of you circles the idea of mending it.

Of letting the distance soften, of allowing something polite and careful to form again. Something that doesn’t demand too much, just enough to acknowledge what you once were without pretending it never existed.

It's similar to Wanda, who's already reaching, in her way. Small steps. Easy conversations. A version of reconnection that doesn’t feel like it would swallow you whole if you tried.

The second part, one that looks at Natasha and feels that familiar finality settle in your bones. The part that questions why you would even try to rebuild something that already burned itself down so completely.

What would it even mean to go back there? What would you be rebuilding, exactly. Friendship, history, or just the echo of something you’ve already outgrown?

It pulls you in two directions at once, neither one fully letting go.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize it isn’t really about choosing between them. It’s about choosing which version of the past you’re willing to carry forward with you.

You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, watching the clouds shift into something ugly overhead. Thick, swollen, and dark enough to swallow the horizon. They rolled together into one continuous mass as far as you could see, the air turning heavy with the metallic scent of rain before it even started falling.

You tapped your foot against the floor near the counter, impatience building as you waited for the last of the payment to go through for your parents’ horse feed. One more errand. One less thing for them to worry about. That was the idea, anyway.

The cashier finally nodded toward the card reader. “You’re good to swipe or tap.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, relief already loosening your shoulders.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped outside.

You had wished for no rain. And the sky answered anyway.

It hit fast. Cold wind first, then the first scattered drops, and then all at once the world opening up above you. You hurried toward the car, already regretting the jacket you chose, the timing, the entire day.

You had wished to get home safe. And the car responded by slowing like it was thinking about giving up entirely.

A sputter. A shake. Then silence.

“No. No, no, no—come on,” you groaned, gripping the wheel as if that alone could convince it otherwise. You slumped forward, pressing your forehead against it for a second before letting out a long, defeated breath. “Damn it… of course. God fucking damn it.”

Of course it was the old car. Of course it was your parents’ old everything. Old house, old roads, old feed store that took forever to get anything done.

You shoved the door open and stepped out into the rain immediately soaking through your jacket. Cold water ran down your arms as you moved behind the car, placing your hands against the trunk.

“Please,” you muttered under your breath, as if the car might suddenly develop empathy.You pushed.

At first it barely moved, tires digging into wet ground that was already turning fast into mud. You leaned harder into it, boots slipping slightly with each effort. Rain blurred your vision, plastering your hair to your face, soaking through everything faster than you could adjust.

More time passed. And your arms started to burn. Your breath came sharper. The car barely shifted an inch.

“Come on,” you hissed through clenched teeth, pushing again, harder this time.

The ground gave out beneath one step, your foot slid out from under you instantly. You hit the mud first—hard—then felt the sharp sting as your face followed, your lip splitting on impact. A copper taste filled your mouth almost immediately, mixing with rainwater as it ran down your chin.

You froze for a second, breath shaking, rain hammering down around you like it was trying to erase you entirely. Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing over your lip. No, your nose. Or wherever it is the blood had started to show after slamming into the back of the car.

“God,” you muttered again, voice rough as you pushed yourself upright, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. It didn’t help much. Everything was already soaked anyway. Rain, mud, and now a thin streak of blood that refused to blend in.

You turned back toward the car, still half-focused on trying to salvage the situation, when headlights cut through the storm in the distance.

At first, it was just relief. Sharp and immediate. Someone. Anyone.

You held a hand over your eyes, squinting through the rain as she stepped out of the truck. Her boot sank slightly into the mud, dark water splashing around it, but she didn’t seem to care.

You opened your mouth to explain. Something halfway between it just died and I’ve got it handled... but she cut you off before you could get a word out.

“The hell are you doing?” Natasha’s voice cut through the storm, sharp enough to feel like it landed harder than the rain.

Something in your chest snapped hot immediately.

Not fear. Not embarrassment.

Frustration. Honestly, it might’ve even started the second you saw her truck.

“What does it look like I’m doing, you ass?” you shot back, wiping rain from your face again only for it to be replaced instantly. “The car stopped. It’s not starting again and I’m just trying to go home!”

She made it across the road, crouching slightly to peer into your stalled car as rain battered both of you. You stood there beside it, completely soaked now.

Tears dripping into your eyes, clothes heavy and clinging to your skin, mud tracking up your legs. Everything felt cold, uncomfortable, wrong. The only thing you could think about was a hot shower waiting somewhere on the other side of this mess.

Natasha straightened again, voice carrying over the storm.

“I can’t help you out here,” she called. “I’ll drive you back and tow your parents’ car.”

There wasn’t much room for argument in the way she said it.

The passenger seat of her truck felt like another world entirely. Your soaked clothes squeaked faintly as you sat down. You stared straight ahead for a moment, hands awkward in your lap, trying to settle your breathing. Time only moved forward, you reminded yourself. Second by second, and you're moving forward to this moment ending.

Natasha was already outside again, hooking your car up, rain running off her shoulders as she worked. Then she climbed back into the driver’s seat like the storm didn’t touch her the same way it touched everyone else.

The truck rumbled slightly as she started it. Silence settled in immediately after, just the low hum of the AC. The steady drum of rain against the windshield. The faint creak of metal as the tow line tightened behind you.

You stared out at the blurred world beyond the glass, rain streaking sideways in the headlights as the truck rolled steadily forward.

“Thank yo—” you started, the words catching in your throat before they could fully form.

Natasha hit the brakes. Hard.

The sudden stop snapped you forward against the seatbelt, breath punching out of your lungs as the world jerked into stillness. The tow line behind you creaked under tension. Rain hammered the windshield like it was trying to break through.

“I just can’t fucking believe that you’re back. Why in the world did you come back? You’re so incredibly selfish, you understand this?”

For a second, you just stared at her, rain and adrenaline still ringing in your ears.

“Excuse me?” you say, sharper now.

Natasha lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. She looks back out at the road like she already regrets turning toward you in the first place.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “excuse you.”

The wipers drag back and forth, useless against how hard it’s coming down.

You open your mouth again, but she cuts in before you get anything out.

“No, don’t… don’t even start explaining like there’s a good version to any of this,” she says, voice tighter now. “Not ‘I wanted to chase my dreams.’ You only told the two of us when your mom brought it up. Like something you were never even going to tell us until you just left. And I don't even want to know how you told your sweet parents."

“Natasha—!”

“Two friends, people who’ve known you since birth,” she continues, faster. “You don’t think we deserve an official goodbye? Any explanation? Before you get up and leave for five years? And oh yeah, 'I got your little things done, so let me just come back because I missed it?' You expect everything to just be fucking peachy dandy? Two people you’ve known for your whole life, who’ve been nothing but everything to you. You can’t even afford the decency to say goodbye? What a fucking joke you are.”

You throw your hands up, opening the car door. “I can’t do this.”

She’s out almost immediately, slamming her door behind her.

“Run away,” Natasha snaps after you, voice cutting through the storm. “Very you. Don’t confront anything head-on."

You whip around to face her.

“So what is it with you? Do you want to drive me home, or should I drive? Because this is—”

“This is what?” she interrupts, stepping closer. “You tell me. What is it with you? Why did you want to leave everyone here who’s cared about you? Truly?”

Her voice rises slightly now, not quite yelling, but close.

“How’re the fake friends in New York?” she throws in, sharp and quick. “You like the money? The title of being in New York instead of this nothing town?”

A beat.

“It’s all wonderful, right? Until you need to think about something that actually means something to you. That’s why you came back. You’re not truly satisfied there and you know it. Why the hell did you even lea—”

“Because Natasha, I’ve had nothing done nothing! My siblings have done outstanding things, and all I have ever done is mess around. I tossed pencils into a cup with you and Wanda instead of studying. My sister was in honors at my age, while I was covered in mud. My parents expect more. I can’t be the loose end in my family.... I.."

She huffs. “You know how much your parents missed you when you were gone? I made up excuses to come by just to try and cheer them up. They worried they messed up with you. Wondered why you left so far away when you seemed so happy here.”

You wave your hands. “Can we just… don’t…”

“Sure,” she says, tone flat, unimpressed, already done. Climbing back into her car.

The drive is even more silent than before, Natasha reaching to try to light a cigarette on the rest of the drive.

You glance at her. “Terrible habit, but I’m not surprised.”

She huffs, setting the pack back in the cup holder. “Wanda’s been entirely too sweet to you. I’ve been telling her."

She pulls up at your parents’ house, unattaching the car. She waves to your parents, who look worried on the front porch, before her car hums off into the distance, not a wave your way. But your heart feels warmer, soften even... despite the harsh words thrown at each other. You slept that night, feeling a little less like bricks were laying on you.

The argument in the storm had been the dam that broke everything. After that, something in the air between you all shifted. Not healed, but loosened just enough to breathe through. The past hurt feeling like a river cried, and the bridge beginning to form again.

Despite it all, you started smiling a little when you ran into them. In a small town, it was impossible not to. There were only so many places to go, only so many corners of town you could avoid before they stopped feeling avoidable at all.

At the diner, it was a brief wave.

At the little store downtown, it was Wanda holding the door open while Natasha lingered near the counter, pretending not to notice you.

At the gas station, it was a quiet exchange of “hey” that lasted a few seconds longer than it used to.

It wasn’t smooth. But it wasn’t as sharp anymore either.

Each time, you found yourself staying a little longer. Saying a little more. Laughing, sometimes, before you had time to stop yourself. The awkward edges didn’t disappear, but they softened enough that you stopped bracing for impact every time you saw them.

And slowly, without any real announcement, things started to settle into something that resembled a pattern.

Wanda always spoke first. Careful, warm, like she was still trying to build a bridge between where you were and where you used to be.

Natasha stayed quieter, but she didn’t leave. She lingered in the background of conversations more often than not, watching, listening, occasionally throwing in something blunt that cut through the softness without fully breaking it.

It confused you, how something so fractured could still hold together in motion. And eventually, even your parents noticed.

“You’ve been running into them a lot lately again,” your mom said one evening over dinner, her tone light, but threaded with something warmer. “It makes me really happy… I was happy your friendship could rekindle. I had hope.”

“It’s trying…” you said, a little uncertain.

Your mom hummed softly, poking at her food. “It was a hard time when you left. Hit them hard, as it did us. Sweet women, they are. They’d come and help us with some chores. The ones you used to cover. They’d ask how you were doing…”

She glanced up at you then, softer now.

“Well... anyways, I’m just happy you’re all talking again. They’re gold. Don’t let go of them, alright darling? True gold, not false. Rare."

It had begun to bloom.

Not in any sudden, obvious way. Nothing you could point to and name, but in the slow return of ease. In the way your shoulders stopped tensing when you saw them. In the way conversations started lasting longer without feeling like you were walking on glass.

You found yourself revisiting places you hadn’t thought about in years.

The riverbank you used to sit at as a kid looked smaller now, quieter in a different way. The water still moved the same, but everything around it had changed just enough to remind you how much time had passed. You pointed things out absently when they were with you, half-laughing at old memories you weren’t sure you should still remember so clearly.

Your bed felt warm, like home each time you laid your head.

While you felt free, the two women felt caged still.

A weight still sat on their shoulders. Something unspoken, something that hadn’t dissolved just because time had passed and you were back in the same rooms again.

It lingered in the things they didn’t say.

In the way Natasha’s gaze flicked to you when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

In the way Wanda’s anger never quite found a place to land. It rose, once, briefly. Then dissolved the moment she saw you again, as if relief outweighed everything else. As if having you in front of her made it impossible to hold onto anything sharp for long.

It lived in hesitation, too. In the smallest pauses before speaking your name. In fingers that twitched, almost reaching, then curling back into themselves like restraint was a habit they couldn’t break.

In how their hearts betrayed them in quiet ways. Faster when you laughed, heavier when you looked away, uneven in your presence as if something inside them had never learned how to settle properly without you.

It lived in the nasty habit Natasha took upon herself. Smoke easing into her lungs instead of you. Into the nights the two of them spent together, the silence after as they occasionally grieved your presence.

Living to see a photo of you on social media, but too scared to follow.

It felt finate, your friendship. But the love that resonates in their hearts is infinite. And your distance, only strengthened it.

Your PTO is to come to an end. And this time, you inform others of your possible upcoming departure. It was brought up when they asked, settled into your bedroom. With a sunken heart, you come to realize the impending return date. Less than a week away. It felt as if a timer had offcially started. A stop watch starting, cointing down the seconds. Raising a feeling underneath everything. A question, a conflict to be resolved… hoping to be.

A sunken feeling settled in your chest as the return date became real in a way it hadn’t been before. Less than a week. A line drawn too clearly now to ignore.

It felt like something had started counting down. Haunting.

Tomorrow is your flight.

You sit with the two of them, checking into your flight. The room had been lively, until now. The clock louder than ever before.

"Sad I have only a couple hours really left... But we have each other's numbers... We can always text, or call..?"

"Right, yeah..." they had responded, dejected.

You hugged them, smiling—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes—before you got into the Uber. You waved goodbye to everyone: your parents, Wanda, Natasha. The dust kicked up behind the car as it pulled away, carrying you toward the airport, toward the flight.

You bit your nail, watching the world blur past the window, something tight settling into your chest. Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, uneven in a way you couldn’t quite settle. You kept swallowing it down, shifting your focus, pinching at your skin just to stay grounded in something physical.

It felt off. Wrong, even.

You walk toward security, lugging your suitcase behind you. Each step feels heavier than the last, like the airport itself is pulling you forward whether you want it to or not. The noise around you fades in and out. Announcements, rolling bags, footsteps, until it all starts to feel distant, muffled, like you’re already halfway gone.

Your mind keeps catching on moments you didn’t realize you were holding onto. Wanda’s laugh in your room. Natasha’s voice cutting through rain. The way silence between you all had started to feel less like absence and more like something full. Something you hadn’t known how to name until it was already slipping out of reach again. Like you don't what you have, how you feel until it's gone.

You swallow hard, forcing your grip tighter on your suitcase handle, like that could keep you steady. Like that could keep anything steady. Each step feels slower. The clock in your head ticking down the last few seconds you didn’t want to hear.

Your body is tense, too aware. Too tightly held.... until your name is shouted behind you.

For a second, you almost don’t believe it.

Then again.

Louder.

You turn, as something in your chest breaks loose before you can think about it. You drop your suitcase immediately and start moving before you even realize you’ve started running.

The space between you disappears too fast. And then you’re there, hugging the two women.

Hugging them tight, like if you let go too soon it would confirm every fear you’ve been trying not to name. They pull you in just as close, like neither of them had any intention of letting you be the one to hold on alone.

The pressure builds in your chest all at once. Too much feeling, too much time compressed into a single moment, and it spills over before you can stop it. Tears blur your vision, warm and sudden, and you don’t bother hiding them.

You don’t want to go home.

Because home isn’t the airport, or the city, or the life waiting for you past security.

Home is right here in your arms.

Wanda's or Natasha's home. You’re unaware and uncaring of whose it is as you're shoved inside with passion.

Your arms are wrapped around Natasha's neck, lips pressed to one another. The kiss is deep and unmoving. Her body pins you to the wall, and she grabs your thigh to wrap it around her waist. She holds you close, tightening her grip as she pulls you in. She tastes like the smoke she’s always inhaling and some unnamed, basic brand of chapstick.

You gasp, tugging at her hair as you melt into the kiss. Your body feels so warm and tingly that you believe you're floating. Wanda shuts and locks the door, coming up behind you to slide her hands down your chest while her lips lock onto your neck, listening to the little sounds you make.

Your shirt is tossed aside by Wanda, bra is shoved down so she can feel along your chest. To feel your nipples harden from her fingers tracing them. Your legs buckle under their touch, and they catch you to lead you toward the bed.

You fall back onto the bed, looking up at the two of them with lidded eyes, dressed only in your bra and bottoms. Wanda removes her shirt and lays over you, mumbling quiet comments about your body.

She whispers how gorgeous you are and how you’re stunning, "like a dream."

She tells you how good you look under her as she climbs on top, slotting her lips against yours. You reach a hand up to tug at her hair, squirming under the weight of her body. Pushed into the mattress by her hips slotting between yours. Hips grinding against one another.

Wanda kisses down your body, her lips latching onto your nipple for a moment.

"Mm—!"

You jolt, a whine escaping you at the contact as your thighs rub together. You're seeking more already, which brings a cocky, knowing look to her expression.

She continues to kiss down your body and across your abdomen. She skips over the area you want, instead kissing up your inner thighs while her thumbs hook into your underwear.

"This alright?"

You nod. "Mm... 's alright..."

She slides them down while keeping eye contact, creating a deeper sense of heat. You reach out to cup her cheek, pulling her up to kiss you for another moment before she heads back down again to hover over where you want her most.

She blows against your clit, watching you as you shiver, your hands clutching at the sheets. It takes no longer than a minute to have you clutching at the headboard, moans slipping from your lips as she slides her tongue between your folds.

She presses her tongue against your clit, rubbing it there and making it feel almost as if it's vibrating. You keen and whine, rolling your hips against her face. You smear your arousal around her face as if it isn't already dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

Your chest rises and falls, your back arching. You give her a view she wishes could be captured in a Renaissance painting.

As you come down from your high and the pressure is released from between your hips, she gives you zero time before sliding a finger into you.

"O-oh—!"

"So tight," she teases. "Squeezing my finger..."

She licks at your inner thigh, biting down and littering the skin with hickeys, bruising it. She slides in a second finger, moving it alongside the one already inside you. You shove your face into the side, moaning into the pillow to muffle the sound.

"God...!" you squeak, mewling. "There...! There, please... oh...!"

She hums, kissing your collarbone. She places sweet kisses there before adding a third finger, one that stretches you delightfully well. Wanda seems gentle, as she is, but her fingers are large and she is something else in bed.

Watching you come down from your high a second time, Wanda slides her fingers out, licking the excess off. She looks back, noting Natasha's presence and the strap settled on her hips.

She moves to you, seeing the breathless, dazed expression on your face. Natasha manhandles you onto your back, raising your hips.

"Mm..! 'tasha...!"

"Keep 'em there," she commands, her hand resting on your hips to indicate exactly where she wants you to hold yourself. She rubs the length between your folds and against your ass, watching it catch your arousal almost like lube before she presses it fully at your entrance. She pushes all the way through, until she hits the hilt.

Noting how you rub your hips back as if you were in heat, grinding against her, she grips your ass and pulls back before pushing in again. She brings you to a keen, your mind completely lost.

Your face is smudged into the sheets, gripping them and making a mess as you take her the best you can. Wanda comes to the other end of the bed, leaning in to kiss you deeply.

You kiss back as best as you can. "I... I love you... I love you..."

Her expression softens, and both of theirs do. Wanda brushes her thumb against your cheek. "And we love you, so much."

"I... mm! Mm.. n-not leaving... e-ever—oh!"

Wanda hums, leaning back. She slides herself forward, her pussy on full view in front of you. You can feel the heat as her legs spread wide, opening herself up for you.

Before you can take anything into your own hands, Natasha’s hand shoves your face down into Wanda's cunt. You moan, rolling your hips back and liking the gesture. Your lips and nose are shoved into Wanda's cunt, while Natasha stretches you out around her length.

Wanda’s head is tilted back. "Ohhh baby, there... mm... dreamt about this."

You use your tongue and lips to worship her, driven by the rhythmic, heavy thrusts of Natasha behind you. The friction of the strap-on and the heat of Wanda’s skin create an overwhelming sensory overload. Your breath is hitching, muffled against Wanda’s thighs, as you work to keep pace with the frantic movement of your own hips.

Natasha leans over you, her chest pressing into your arched back as she whispers darkly into your ear. "If you don't make Wanda come, you get nothing else tonight. Focus on her."

The threat, or promise, sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through you. You double your efforts, your tongue flicking and swirling with desperate precision until Wanda’s hands lock into your hair, her hips jerking upward in a sudden, violent spasm. She cries out your name, her walls clenching around your face as she reaches her peak.

Seeing Wanda shatter is the final straw for your own control. As she collapses back against the pillows, Natasha delivers several hard, deep lunges that hit exactly where you need. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your internal muscles seizing as your own climax crashes over you.

The room falls silent, save for the heavy, synchronized sound of three people catching their breath. Natasha pulls away, sliding out of you and collapsing onto the bed beside you both, pulling your shaking body into the middle of their warm, protective tangle

You spent so long trying to leave this town behind, but looking at them now, you know you’re never going to find a reason to say goodbye again.

The conference room at the top of Avengers Tower had seen gods argue with soldiers, billionaires threaten monsters and the end of the world laid out across glass tables more times than anyone cared to count.

But tonight, the room felt different and that was the first warning. No voices overlapped or no one paced except Tony and even his restless movement felt muted, like the tower itself had decided to hold its breath. New York looked distant from up here, completely unaware that somewhere beyond the stars, something ancient and merciless was moving toward them.

The hologram above the table glowed blue. Vision’s face turned slowly within the projection, then his body, then the Mind Stone in his forehead. He was now a target, which meant..death sentence. A silence followed every rotation of the image. Steve stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight and Wanda sat beside Vision, her fingers wrapped around his hand as if physical touch alone could keep him anchored to the earth. Tony flicked his wrist and the hologram zoomed in on the Mind Stone.

“So, we’re all agreed that letting the big purple grape collect the magic forehead jewelry is bad.”

No one laughed and Tony’s mouth tightened. “Right. Tough crowd..” Shuri stood on the other side of the table with her arms folded and eyes bright with the kind of intelligence that made even Tony look like a man holding a candle beside a star.

“It is not jewelry.” she said and Tony pointed at her without looking. “I am aware.”

“You keep calling it jewelry.”

“I cope with world ending trauma through sarcasm. It’s a system.”

“It is a poor one.” Shuri stepped forward, tapping the holographic display. The image shifted, peeling back layers of Vision’s synthetic tissue and the luminous threads connecting the Stone to everything he was.

“The Stone is not merely attached to him.” she said. “It is integrated. Poorly, in some places but elegantly in others..and it can be removed.”

Wanda looked up. Vision’s expression softened, but there was fear beneath his composure. “How long?” Steve asked.

Shuri’s gaze flickered briefly to her brother before returning to the projection. “Long enough that we would need a controlled environment. My lab and my equipment.“

“Wakanda.” Natasha said.

T’Challa stood near the windows, he had been listening more than speaking. A king in a room full of warriors, letting others spend their panic first.

“Yes.” he said. “Wakanda.”

Tony exhaled, already moving to another screen. “Okay, good. We have a destination. We get Vision there, Shuri does her genius thing, we keep the Stone away from Thanos and maybe, for once, the apocalypse can make an appointment instead-“

“No.”

The word did not come from T’Challa, it came from Shuri. Steve’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

Shuri was looking at her brother now and he did not move, but something changed in his face. “We need help.” he said quietly.

“No.” she repeated, sharper this time. “Do not even think it.”

“We may not have a choice.”

“We always have a choice.” Shuri said. Her voice trembled, but not from weakness, but from the effort it took to hold something enormous back. “You taught me that.”

“I taught you that kings choose for their people before they choose for themselves.”

“You are not talking about Wakanda.”

“No.” T’Challa said and the room seemed to grow colder. Natasha straightened from the wall. “What are you talking about?”

T’Challa was silent for a moment. He looked at Vision first, then Wanda, then Steve. “If Thanos comes for the Stone..” T’Challa said, “he will not come alone.”

“We know.” Steve replied.

“No.” T’Challa said and this time there was steel in it. “You do not. Thanos does not conquer like men conquer. He does not send soldiers to claim land, or kings to demand surrender. He sends hunger and he sends teeth. He sends nightmares that do not understand mercy because mercy was never put into them.” Bruce’s face had gone pale because he had seen Thanos. He knew.

T’Challa continued, “Wakanda is strong. Stronger than any nation your world believes exists. Our shields may hold. Our warriors may fight. Our weapons may cut down thousands. But if an army falls from the sky with no fear of death, no need for rest and no desire except slaughter, then strength alone will not be enough.”

Shuri turned away, her jaw clenched and Tony looked between them. “Okay, I’m officially not loving the direction this is going.”

Steve stepped closer. “You know someone who can help.”

T’Challa’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I know of a people.” He turned slightly, looking out over the city as if what he was about to say did not belong under electric lights and glass ceilings. As if it belonged around a fire, under a red sky, spoken by men who had seen gods bleed. “They live far from the world you know. Farther even than Wakanda, though not by distance alone. They are not on your maps and do not come to summits. They do not trade with presidents and they definitely do not ask permission to exist.” The room was utterly still.

“They are a kingdom.” T’Challa said. “Though that word is too clean for them. They are bloodlines and banners..Ash and bone. They are a people built by war, shaped by it, fed by it.”

Wanda’s hand tightened around Vision’s and T’Challa looked at her, “For centuries, they fought a war the rest of the earth never knew was being waged. Not for politics or for oil. Not for borders drawn by men in rooms. Their war was older than that. A war of oaths and prophecy. A war that swallowed generations.”

Bruce slowly lowered himself into a chair. “Who are they?” he whispered.

“Their society is harsh.” he said. “Law exists, but loyalty is stronger, blood..is stronger. A promise made before witnesses is worth more than paper and a coward’s word is worth less than the dirt beneath a horse’s hoof.”

Natasha’s face remained unreadable, but something in her eyes changed. She knew societies like that. Not the horses, not the banners, perhaps not the myths. But fear as language? Obedience as survival? Children raised to become weapons before they understood the shape of their own names? Yes. She knew.

“Their warriors wear their victories where all can see them. Long hair braided with rings of bone and metal. Battle trophies and proof of survival. Their riders are elite beyond anything I have seen outside Wakanda. They do not simply ride horses, they move like storms given bodies.”

Clint, who had been silent until now, frowned. “And you think they’ll fight Thanos?”

“I think..” T’Challa said, “that if they choose to ride, even Thanos will hear them coming.”

The words lingered till Shuri spoke, “They will not come for you.” Everyone looked at her. “They do not fight because someone asks. They do not send armies because the world is in danger. The world has never cared about them and they have returned the sentiment generously.”

“Then why bring them up?” Tony asked.

Shuri looked at him. “Because there is one person they would burn the world for.”

T’Challa closed his eyes for half a second, as if hearing the name before it was spoken.

Steve’s voice was careful. “Their ruler?”

“No..” Shuri said and T’Challa opened his eyes. “Their king and queen still sit the throne.”

“Then who?” Wanda asked. Shuri swallowed and T’Challa answered. “Their daughter.”

The word daughter should have softened the room..It did not. “Age means little among them. She ended the war her ancestors could not. She broke armies that had been bleeding her family for centuries. She took men who had known nothing but vengeance and made them kneel. Not with speeches, not with treaties. With victory.”

Natasha’s gaze did not leave T’Challa. “What’s her name?” Shuri’s head snapped toward her. “Do not.”

Natasha’s brow lifted slightly and Shuri’s voice dropped. “Do not ask that lightly.”

Tony gave a humorless laugh. “We’re really doing the forbidden name thing now?”

T’Challa looked at him, and Tony’s expression faltered, because the king of Wakanda did not look irritated. “In their language, names have weight.” T’Challa said. “Hers more than most.”

“What do they call her?” Steve asked and T’Challa’s eyes lowered. For the first time since he entered the room, the king looked reluctant. “Khaleesi.”

The word fell like a blade laid flat on the table. It was not a name, not exactly, it was a title. But even without understanding the language, the room felt the shape of it. Shuri looked away as if even hearing it here, in this glass tower in the heart of New York, was wrong.

“They bow to her?” Rhodey asked and T’Challa’s mouth tightened. “Everyone bows to her.”

“To the princess?” Sam asked.

“To the victor. She is not first on the throne.” he continued. “Not yet. Their laws do not allow it while her father lives. Their family tree is old and cruel and tradition does not bend quickly, even for those who have earned more than a crown.”

“And yet?” Natasha asked.

“And yet..” T’Challa said, “her parents rise when she enters a hall.” That landed harder than anything before it. “Her brothers, cousins, generals, blood riders, priests, servants, enemies taken into chains, all of them lower their eyes. Not because she demands it, because they have seen what happens when she is opposed.”

Shuri looked back at the table, “They treat her like a god.” she said and the blue glow of the Mind Stone projection flickered between them all.

“They fear her.” T’Challa said. “They love her. They would die for her. They would kill for her. And there are many among them who do not believe there is a difference.”

Steve’s voice was quiet. “That kind of loyalty is dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“Can she control it?”

T’Challa looked at him. “She ended a war that had eaten centuries.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only answer that matters.”

Bruce was staring at nothing now, his mind clearly moving too fast, dragging old myths into new light. “You said prophecy..” he murmured and T’Challa’s eyes shifted toward him.

“What myths?” Bruce asked. “What exactly are we talking about?”

Shuri inhaled. “Dr. Banner-”

“No.” Bruce stood suddenly, chair scraping against the floor. “No, wait. Because there are stories. Old ones, not just Norse, not just Greek, not just the usual gods with bad parenting legends. There are expedition journals that were dismissed as fever dreams.”

Tony stared at him. “Banner.”

Bruce turned to T’Challa, stunned. “No..” he said softly. “No, that’s impossible.”

T’Challa’s face did not change and Bruce’s voice thinned. “They’re stories. Children’s stories.” Bruce said. “Myths..Dragons are myths.”

The word struck the room like thunder and for a second, no one seemed to understand it. Then Sam let out a breath. “I’m sorry, did he just say dragons?”

Thor, standing near the back with his arms folded, “Dragons are not so impossible.”

Tony turned on him. “You do not get to normalize this.”

“Many realms have them.”

“This is Earth.”

Bruce stepped away from the table, shaking his head. His eyes were wide with the horror of a scientist watching myth become evidence. “I thought they were symbolic.” he said. “I thought the fire was metaphor. The wings, the scales, the whole thing, I thought it was power exaggerated by people who didn’t understand what they were seeing.”

T’Challa’s voice was very soft. “They understood.” The room died around him. “They were real?” Wanda whispered.

“They are real.”

No one moved and Natasha felt the words settle beneath her skin. Not were..are.

“How many?”

T’Challa looked at Shuri. She shook her head once, pleading without words, but he looked back at the Avengers. “Once, the royal family had three.”

“Three.” Bruce repeated.

“Born from a line older than any record I have ever seen. Not pets or weapons in the way men understand weapons. They were bound to the family through blood and fire, through rituals older than their kingdom. During the last years of their war, the dragons changed everything.” His eyes lowered. “And then the war took them too.”

Wanda’s voice was barely there. “They died?”

“Two did.” The number moved through the room like a living thing. But..one dragon is still alive. Still enough to make a king of Wakanda speak with caution.

“And the last one belongs to her..?”

T’Challa’s gaze lifted. “No. She belongs to no one.” T’Challa said. “But he follows her.”

Natasha pushed away from the wall at last. “You’ve seen it.”

T’Challa looked at her. “Yes.”

Shuri’s expression tightened, but she said nothing now. The memory seemed to pull T’Challa somewhere far from the tower. “A few years ago..My father believed that Wakanda could not remain blind to the other hidden powers of this world. He took me beyond our borders, farther than our aircraft were tracked, farther than our maps marked with names.”

He paused. “Their land is not like Wakanda. Wakanda hides beauty behind illusion. They hide brutality behind distance. I remember the first sound.”

His voice lowered, drawing the room with it. “Thousands of them. The earth moved before they appeared. Then the riders came over the ridge, hair uncut and braided, blades curved, faces painted in ash and red clay. They did not slow when they saw us. They circled close enough that I could see the scars on their horses. Close enough that my guards reached for their spears.”

A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth. “My father told them to stop and their king came, but none of them were the reason the riders parted.” The room waited. “She was.”

Natasha’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. “I had heard the title before I saw her.” T’Challa said. “Whispered by men who did not whisper for anyone. She was young, but already riding a black horse with no saddle. Her hair was braided down her back with iron rings, each one marking a battle won. She wore no crown, she needed none. The riders lowered their weapons before she passed. Men twice her age touched their foreheads to the ground. Her own father stepped back to let her speak first.”

Shuri stared at the hologram, but her eyes were distant. “She was seventeen then.” T’Challa said and Bruce made a quiet, disbelieving sound. “At seventeen.” T’Challa said, “she had already won the eastern war.”

T’Challa’s eyes remained fixed on the past. “I did not understand it then. The way they looked at her, like she was salvation and execution wearing the same skin. I thought it was fear, then one of their prisoners spat at her feet and she did not flinch.” T’Challa said. “She did not raise her voice..only looked at him.”

“What happened?” Steve asked. T’Challa’s expression darkened. “The entire field went silent and one of the shadows came.” T’Challa said. “At first, I thought a storm had crossed the sun, but storms do not have wings. They do not blot out the sky with scales black as burnt metal. They do not breathe fire so hot that stone remembers it.” The room seemed to shrink around his words.

“One of her dragon landed behind her and she did not turn. The beast lowered its head over her shoulder like a mountain bowing to a girl.”

His voice became almost reverent despite himself. “And then I understood.”

Natasha whispered, “Understood what?”

T’Challa looked at her. “Why no one challenged her.”

For one bright instant, the tower windows reflected everyone’s faces back at them: soldiers, spies, gods, kings, monsters in human shape, all gathered around the image of a dying man with a Stone in his head. And somewhere beyond all their maps, a woman with a forbidden title and a dragon that followed her waited in a kingdom built from war.

Tony broke the silence, but his voice had lost its edge. “Okay..” he said. “So we ask dragon girl for help.”

Shuri’s head snapped up. “You do not ask her like that!”

Tony lifted both hands. “Noted.”

“You do not summon her!” Shuri said, voice hardening. “You do not bargain with her as if she is one of your politicians. You do not lie. You do not threaten. You do not look at her people like they are savages, even if they frighten you. Especially if they frighten you.”

Natasha watched Shuri closely. There was not only fear there. “You’ve met her too. ” Natasha said and Shuri’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“And?” For once, Shuri did not answer quickly. “She was kind to me.” she said at last. “She showed me their healing tents. Their forges. Their histories carved into bone and stone because paper burns too easily. She asked questions about Wakanda’s technology and understood more than she should have.”

A small, unwilling smile appeared and vanished. “Then a man interrupted her and she had him dragged from the hall.”

Tony blinked. “For interrupting?”

“For forgetting where he was.” Shuri said. “For forgetting who she was.”

“What kind of person are we inviting into this war?” he asked and T’Challa answered without hesitation. “The kind who can win it.”

The honesty sat between them and Natasha looked back at the Mind Stone. A creature like Thanos was coming..A thing with no mercy, no doubt, no hesitation and T’Challa was speaking of a woman raised in a world where hesitation read as weakness, where loyalty was blood deep, where gods were not prayed to but obeyed when they entered a room.

Steve drew a slow breath. “Will she help us?”

T’Challa turned toward the windows again. “I don’t know.”

Wanda’s voice was fragile “Can you reach her?”

“There are ways.” he said. “Old ways. Wakanda has kept them secret for generations, but understands this before I send word. If she comes, she will not come as a soldier under our command.”

His gaze moved from face to face. “She will come as Khaleesi. And where she goes..” T’Challa said, “..her people follow.”

Bruce sank back into his chair, stunned. “Dragons..” he whispered, still trying to make the word fit inside the world he knew.

Hours later, the Quinjet waited like a black blade against the gray dawn. The city below was waking without knowing it had almost died in a conference room hours earlier. And high above them, the team boarded a ship that would take them toward a country that did not exist. No one said what they were thinking.

A century long war? A hidden kingdom? A royal family with dragons? A girl worshipped like a god? It was impossible and absurd. The kind of story told by dying men around fires. The kind of thing carved into old ruins and dismissed by scholars. The kind of thing people stopped believing in when the world invented satellites, missiles, news channels and men like Tony who could map half the planet from a screen.

And yet..No one had known about Wakanda. The world had seen a poor country with cloth markets, shepherds and dusty roads. It had not seen the mountains open like the mouth of a god. It had not seen vibranium woven into cities. It had not seen aircraft without wings, weapons without bullets, medicine that could humble death itself. So no one

Vision was helped aboard first, Wanda never leaving his side. He walked under his own power, calm as ever, but there was something too careful in his movements now. As if the Stone in his forehead had become heavier since they had spoken its fate aloud. Steve followed, carrying a shield he hoped he would not need and knew he would.

When T’Challa entered, everyone was looking at him. “We have permission to enter their country.” The words landed like a sentence passed by a distant throne.

Steve gave a single nod. “Then we go.”

The sky changed from iron gray to pale blue, then to the molten gold of late afternoon, then to darkness so complete the windows became mirrors. Tony tried to track their route twice but the systems failed both times, as if the world beyond a certain point refused to be measured.

Inside the Quinjet, tension grew teeth. Natasha sat alone near the middle of the aircraft, she wanted to watch everyone else. That was how she survived, they was how she had always survived. Read the room and the breath before the lie and the fear before it became betrayal. And was full of fear. He sat hunched over, the old book open on his knees and Natasha watched him turn one page, then stop. “Hey.” She slid into the seat across from him. “You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”

He blinked, then looked down as if surprised to find the book there. “Yeah.” he said softly. “I know.”

“That bad?” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I’m not sure bad is the word.”

Natasha leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Try me.”

Bruce looked at her for a moment, then carefully turned the book so she could see. The leather cover was cracked and darkened by age, the corners reinforced with dull metal. The pages inside were thick, uneven, yellowed at the edges and covered in ink that had faded from black to brown. On the page Bruce showed her, was a drawing. A girl stood at the center of it and was lifted above a field of bodies, her hair flowing behind her like smoke, one hand outstretched, the other holding a curved blade slick with black ink meant to be blood. Around her, men knelt with their foreheads to the ground. Some still held weapons, some had dropped them. Behind her, wings spread wide enough to swallow the sky. The dragon in the drawing was monstrous. Its neck was long and armored in jagged scales, its horns swept back from its skull like broken crowns. Its mouth was open and the artist had drawn fire spilling from it in twisting lines that consumed towers, horses, men.

Natasha stared at it and Bruce’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “I was told about them when I was a student.”

Natasha did not look away from the page. “By who?”

“A professor at Culver. He specialized in pre modern myth cycles. The kind of thing no one funded unless it could be tied to something famous. He used to talk about the hidden war, the fire line, blood riders and the last daughter.”

Natasha looked up at him. “The last daughter?”

Bruce nodded. “That’s what some of the older texts call her. Not because she was the only daughter, because prophecy loves making things sound dramatic and impossible to verify.”

“Prophecy.” Natasha repeated.

“I know.”

“That’s a dangerous word.”

“Yeah.” Bruce tapped the page lightly, careful not to damage it. “This book refers to her as the daughter of storm, smoke and slaughter. Which, you know, not exactly comforting.”

Natasha’s eyes returned to the drawing. “What does it say?”

Bruce hesitated. “Banner.”

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “It says that when the old war reaches its final winter, the daughter without a crown will call fire down from the sky. It says kings will kneel before she sits a throne. It says her enemies will speak her name only once.”

Natasha’s face did not change. “Why only once?”

Bruce looked at her. “Because after that, they’re dead.”

The Quinjet hummed around them and Natasha studied the girl in the drawing. The artist had not made her look soft, that interested Natasha more than the dragon. Men loved turning dangerous women into either monsters or saints after the fact. They painted innocence over rage, beauty over violence, tragedy over choices. But whoever had drawn this girl had not softened her. Her face was young, almost painfully so, but her eyes were hard. A child drawn like an execution.

Bruce turned another page and there were more illustrations. Three dragons circling over burning siege towers. A young woman kneeling in mud with two massive dragon skulls behind her, her hands pressed to the earth, her mouth open in what might have been grief or might have been a scream.

“What happened to her?”

Bruce looked down. “I don’t know all of it. The texts contradict each other. Some make her sound like a liberator. Some make her sound like a curse. Some say she was beloved. Some say she was never human at all.”

“She’s still human.” Natasha said and Bruce looked at her. “People who are worshipped are always human underneath.” she said. “That’s usually the problem.”

Bruce was silent for a moment till a voice spoke from behind them. “You are right.” T’Challa stood in the aisle, he had moved silently despite the aircraft’s faint vibration.

Bruce shifted slightly. “You recognize this?”

T’Challa nodded. “It is a poor copy.” he said. “But yes.”

Bruce’s face changed, the last thread of skepticism in him snapped. “So it’s true..”

“Yes.”

Natasha leaned back slowly. “All of it?”

“No.” T’Challa’s eyes hardened. “Stories are never all true. They are shaped by fear and pride. By men who were not there and wished to sound as if they were.”

He touched the edge of the page, not quite making contact. “Before the Great War..She was not what she is now. She was kind.” T’Challa continued. “That is the first thing people forget because it frightens them less to believe she was born terrible.”

Shuri’s face softened, just barely and T’Challa saw it, then looked away. “She was loved.” he said. “By her people. By the riders. By servants who had no reason to love royalty except that she knew their names. By old warriors who had buried sons and still smiled when she passed. There are songs about her from before the war.”

Natasha looked again at the drawing of the girl surrounded by corpses. “Everyone wanted her so badly..” T’Challa said, “that the royal house created a private unit to guard her before she ever commanded an army. Not because she was weak, because she was precious.” His voice lowered.

“They called them the Silver Guard. Forty men and women sworn to her alone. Their oath was not to the king, not to the throne, but her breath.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, that kind of oath never ended cleanly. “When the Great War began, it did not begin with a battlefield.” T’Challa looked at the book, but it was clear he was seeing something else.

“An alliance was offered, a union meant to end generations of bloodshed. Her family believed it would hold, so they came under guest right.” T’Challa said. “And when the horns began, the doors were barred from the outside.” The Quinjet’s engines filled the silence.

“The Silver Guard died first, not because they were outmatched..Because they put their bodies between her and the blades. Forty sworn.” He paused. “Forty dead.”

Bruce looked down and Natasha kept her face still, but something in her chest had gone tight and sharp. “Her loved one was killed in front of her. Her people were slaughtered around her. One of her dragons was chained in the courtyard and pierced with scorpion bolts until the stones ran black beneath it.”

Shuri turned her face toward the window. “The second dragon broke its chains.” T’Challa said. “It burned half the keep trying to reach her. It died over the gate hours later.” Wanda’s eyes filled with tears and Vision, gentle lowered his gaze.

“The stories say she did not scream.” T’Challa said. “I do not know if that is true. I think perhaps men prefer women silent in grief because it makes legends easier to carve.”

Natasha looked at him then. There was a weight in his voice that had not been there before. “What I do know..” T’Challa said, “is that she survived and it changed her.”

Bruce whispered, “Rage took over.”

T’Challa nodded once. “Rage, grief..Duty. Perhaps all three became the same thing. She did not beg for justice. She did not wait for her father’s banners. She did not ask the old gods why they had allowed it. She walked out of the ashes with blood in her hair and called the last dragon.”

The words slipped through the Quinjet like smoke. “The enemy army was still beyond the walls. Thousands of men and lords already dividing lands they had not yet conquered.”

He looked around the cabin. “And then the sky opened. Fire came down first on the siege towers. Then on the horses and on the men who ran.”

T’Challa’s voice did not flinch, but the image did. It filled the aircraft without needing a screen. Men clawing at burning armor, warhorses screaming and flesh splitting beneath heat.

“She brought fire to the world.” T’Challa said. “Not in one night, not in one battle..That would have been mercy.”

His eyes grew harder. “She hunted them. Every lord who broke guest right. Every commander who ordered the slaughter. Every house that hid them. Every man who swore he would hurt her, touch her, chain her, breed her, break her-” T’Challa stopped himself. “By the end, those who had once promised to drag her through their streets were kneeling in the dirt, pressing their swords at her feet. Some begged forgiveness, some offered loyalty. Some called her chosen by the gods.”

“And she accepted?” Steve asked.

“She accepted their surrender.”

Bruce looked down at the book again, at the prophecy, at the inked girl surrounded by men bowing and fire blooming behind her. “She wasn’t a myth.” he said.

“No.” T’Challa replied. “She was a warning.”

Natasha stared at the drawing. Before, the title had sounded distant. Exotic in the way all foreign titles sounded until you knew the blood behind them.

A few rows ahead, Wanda spoke softly. “What is her name? Her birth name?”

Shuri stiffened and T’Challa did not answer. Wanda lowered her eyes, understanding she had stepped too close to something sacred. “You will hear it when she gives you leave to hear it.”

Tony looked toward the cockpit. “How much longer?”

“A few hours.”

And the hours passed. The Quinjet flew through weather that did not behave like weather. Then T’Challa stood and everyone’s attention snapped to him. “We are entering now.”

Steve moved first, then Sam, Rhodey, Clint. Wanda helped Vision stand, though he did not need it. Tony came forward slowly, one hand braced against the ceiling. Bruce carried the book against his chest like a shield and Natasha rose last. They gathered behind the cockpit and ahead, there was nothing but cloud.

“This is the border?” Sam asked and T’Challa nodded. The Quinjet entered the cloud and white consumed them. For several seconds, the world disappeared. There was no sky, no ground or direction. The windows showed only pale vapor rushing past like the breath of some sleeping giant.

Then the cloud broke and the world opened. Below them lay a country that should not have existed. Not hidden in poverty like Wakanda had once pretended to be. This land did not hide by shrinking itself..It hid by becoming too impossible to imagine. Mountains rose in vast black ridges, their peaks crowned in snow and gold sunlight. Valleys spilled between them, green and wild, crossed by rivers that flashed like silver wounds. Forests stretched farther than the eye could follow, deep and ancient, broken by roads of pale stone winding through the land like veins. To the east, the ocean struck cliffs so high the waves shattered into mist before reaching the top. Ships moved in the harbors below, their sails dark red and black, marked with symbols Natasha recognized from Bruce’s book.

Cities stood along the coast and hillsides, built of black stone, bronze roofs, white towers and bridges suspended over impossible drops. And ahead..the castle. It dominated the horizon. The fortress was carved into the side of a mountain and built outward as if the mountain itself had decided to grow teeth. Black walls rose in tiers, jagged and severe, banners streamed from every height, red and black against the wind.

Wanda stared down at the land, one hand pressed to the window. “All this time..” she whispered and Vision’s eyes moved across the landscape. “Humanity has always been better at hiding wonders than preserving them.”

Before anyone could ask anything, something moved in the corner of Natasha’s vision. A shadow over the sun. At first, she thought it was cloud, but then the shadow curved. The Quinjet’s warning systems screamed and red lights flooded the cabin.

Tony jolted forward. “What the-”

A roar split the sky, it slammed into the aircraft hard enough to rattle the frame, hard enough that Wanda grabbed Vision, Sam cursed, and Bruce nearly dropped the book. The roar rolled through Natasha’s ribs and sank into something older than fear.

Outside, the clouds tore open and the dragon appeared beside them. For one impossible moment, it was all the world contained. A body longer than the Quinjet, larger than anything that should have been able to stay in the air. Wings stretched wide, the thin membrane between their bones scarred and dark, catching the sun in veins of deep red. Its neck curved with terrifying grace, armored plates overlapping like shields. Horns swept back from its skull, cracked in places, each fracture pale against the black.

The dragon flew beside them as if the Quinjet were no more than a strange bird allowed, temporarily, to live and its eye fixed on them through the glass. Natasha had been looked at by killers, by monsters and gods. This was so much different..This was not a creature deciding whether she was dangerous. This was a creature deciding whether she mattered.

Bruce made a small sound behind her. “Oh my God..” Tony’s hand hovered over the controls, frozen. For once in his life, he had no joke ready.

The dragon’s jaw parted, rows of teeth appeared, each one curved and long as a knife. A low growl rolled out first, vibrating through the Quinjet’s metal skin, then came the roar again. The windows trembled and a panel sparked overhead. Wanda flinched despite herself and Vision stepped slightly in front of her.

The dragon’s eye moved to him and to the Stone. For one terrible second, the creature’s pupil narrowed and the cabin went cold. Then T’Challa lifted one hand and placed it flat against the glass. The dragon’s gaze shifted to him and recognition passed there.

T’Challa bowed his head and the dragon watched him. Then, with one powerful stroke of its wings, it rose above the Quinjet and the entire aircraft shuddered under the force of displaced air. Its tail swept past the window, ridged with spikes, close enough that Natasha saw old scars carved deep into its scales. Some were pale and healed, some were darker and newer. One jagged scar crossed the left side of its chest, a wound that looked like it should have killed even a creature born of fire.

Bruce stared at it, eyes wet behind his glasses. “The second dragon died over the gate..” he whispered. “And this one survived.”

The dragon wheeled ahead of them, black against the sun, and dove toward the castle. Far below, horns began to sound, warning the kingdom and welcoming the guests. Or announcing them to something far more dangerous than a king.

“Okay..” he said. “I believe in dragons now.”

No one laughed, no one even looked at him. The Quinjet continued toward the castle, escorted by the shadow of wings and ahead, beyond walls blackened by history, beyond banners snapping like blood in the wind, beyond a kingdom that had survived by becoming legend, she was waiting.

The Quinjet descended through the last coils of cloud and from above, the fortress had looked impossible. The platform was vast enough to hold half a fleet, carved directly from dark volcanic rock and veined with metal that caught the dying light in dull red flashes. Massive chains hung from iron posts along the edges, each link larger than a man’s torso. Beyond the platform, the castle gates rose in layers and above it, banners snapped violently in the mountain wind.

No one moved when the Quinjet touched down and for a breath, the cabin remained silent except for the low cooling hum of the engines. Then the ramp lowered and it definitely smelled nothing like Wakanda or New York. Sam stepped closer to the ramp and his eyes narrowed against the wind. “That’s a welcoming committee?”

Natasha followed his gaze and saw how soldiers waited on the platform. They stood in disciplined formations along both sides of the landing area, spears upright, curved blades at their hips, armor dark and matte beneath cloaks of red and black. Some wore helmets shaped like snarling beasts, others had their faces uncovered, revealing high cheekbones, scarred brows, dark eyes, pale eyes, brown skin, bronze skin, weather worn skin and hair braided with rings of iron and bone.

A man stood ahead of the soldiers, waiting at the center of the platform. He was older than most of the warriors, perhaps in his late fifties, though the harsh lines of his face made age difficult to measure. His eyes moved over the ramp as the Avengers began to descend. T’Challa went out first and the older man’s attention sharpened immediately. Then he bowed like a man recognizing another man of power under laws older than comfort.

“King T’Challa of Wakanda.” he said in accented English, his voice carrying across the platform despite the wind. “You return under guest right and old witness, your name is remembered.”

T’Challa inclined his head. “Lord Vaelar.”

The man’s mouth twitched faintly. “You remember mine.”

“My father taught me that forgetting a man’s name at these gates is an insult best avoided.”

This time, there was nearly a smile. “Your father was wise.”

“He often reminded me.”

Lord Vaelar’s eyes shifted to the others. Natasha felt every stare settle on them because she knew the sensation well. It was how predators looked at unfamiliar things before deciding whether they were food, threat, or weather. Steve stepped forward half a pace, but T’Challa lifted one hand slightly because he understood the rules here and everyone else would be safer letting him speak. “We bring wounded need and grave warning.”

Lord Vaelar’s gaze flickered to Vision and for a second, something in his expression changed.

“The royal family has been informed of your arrival.” he said. “You and those under your protection will be housed tonight. Tomorrow, you will be brought before the throne and heard.”

“Tomorrow?” Wanda’s voice cut across the platform before anyone could stop her. Her fingers tightened around Vision’s arm and red beginning to glow faintly at the tips. “We do not have until tomorrow.” she said, stepping forward. “You do not understand, something is coming. An army, a force you cannot imagine. He will come for Vision and if he gets what he wants, half the universe dies.”

Lord Vaelar’s face did not change but the soldiers’ hands shifted closer to their weapons. Shuri moved faster than anyone expected. “Wanda.”

Wanda turned on her. “No. I am tired of everyone speaking like we have time. He is being hunted and we came here because T’Challa said they could help and now we are supposed to wait for an audience?”

“Enough!” Shuri snapped and Wanda stared at her. Shuri’s eyes were fierce, “You are afraid, I know. But you will not stand on their stones and speak to their blood speaker as if he is delaying you for sport! You will not make threats with your magic glowing in your hands! Not here..”

Wanda’s breath trembled till Vision touched her hand gently. “Wanda.”

Her eyes flicked to him and the red faded. T’Challa turned back to Lord Vaelar, face composed, though Natasha could see the warning beneath his stillness. “Forgive the breach. Fear speaks quickly when love is threatened.”

Lord Vaelar studied Wanda for a long moment. Then he gave a small nod. “Fear is understandable.”

T’Challa continued, “The matter is urgent. If there is any way we may be heard tonight-”

“No.” Lord Vaelar said and Shuri’s shoulders tensed. Lord Vaelar did not look apologetic, “The king and queen do not receive unsummoned pleas after moonrise when the heir of fire is beyond the walls.”

T’Challa’s expression shifted subtly. “She is not within the castle?”

“No.”

“Will she return tonight?”

“That depends on the success of her..business.” Something about the way he said business made Natasha’s attention sharpen. It was a court word, a veil thrown over something everyone here understood and no outsider was meant to question.

Lord Vaelar continued, “Until morning, you are guests and guest right protects you. You will be fed, housed and left untroubled so long as you do not trouble others.”

Sam muttered under his breath, “That sounded friendly right up until it didn’t.”

Rhodey murmured back, “That’s kind of their brand..”

Lord Vaelar turned and the soldiers parted. The movement was perfect and the gates opened without a sound. The team followed and Natasha walked near the middle, her eyes moving everywhere. The entrance hall beyond the gates was large enough to swallow a cathedral and the floor was polished dark stone, worn slightly uneven by centuries of boots. Along the walls hung shields, banners, old weapons and enormous tapestries depicting battles in thread so vivid the red looked wet. Everywhere, people stopped to stare and children were peeking from behind pillars until older hands pulled them back but when T’Challa passed, several people lowered their heads, not in submission, but in recognition.

The castle was beautiful in a way Natasha distrusted. Built to awe and intimidate in equal measure and each arch was carved with flames. Each doorway was guarded by stone beasts with wings tucked close to their bodies. Bruce stopped once and Natasha stopped with him. He was staring at a mural stretching across one wall.

Three dragons flew above a battlefield, wings wide, mouths open, fire pouring down over towers and men. Beneath them, a young woman stood with her hair unbound and a blade in her hand. Lord Vaelar noticed but did not pause. “Your chambers are prepared in the eastern guest wing.” he said. “You will find water, food and attendants should you require them.”

The guest wing was warmer than the halls, though no less imposing. Their chambers were large and high ceilinged, furnished with carved beds, thick furs, bronze basins, low tables and windows that opened toward the city below. Vision was given the largest chamber so Shuri could examine him in private and Wanda followed him inside and did not come out again.

Bruce did not sleep at all. Natasha found him later standing by one of the tall windows in the common chamber, both hands braced against the stone ledge, staring out at the darkening sky. The sun had gone down behind the mountains, leaving the city below lit by thousands of fires.

“You’re going to burn holes in the glass.” Natasha said.

“There’s no glass.”

She looked closer and he was right. The window was open to the air, protected only by a carved stone lattice and a drop that would kill anyone unfortunate enough to test it.

“Then you’re going to fall out.”

“I saw a dragon..” Bruce said and Natasha leaned one shoulder against the wall beside him. “I noticed.”

“No, I mean…” He laughed once, “I saw a dragon. A living, flying, breathing dragon. It looked at us..looked at me. The mass to wing ratio alone should be impossible unless its bone density is unlike anything on Earth.”

“Maybe it isn’t.”

Bruce looked at her and Natasha shrugged. “Or maybe Earth has always been bigger than we thought.”

He looked back outside, expression softening into wonder edged with fear. “That’s what scares me.”

Behind them, the common chamber was quiet. The team had scattered into uneasy rest, or something pretending to be rest. Natasha felt the walls pressing in despite their size and she looked down at the city again.

“I’m going out.” she said and Bruce finally turned. “Out where?”

“City.”

His eyebrows rose. “Nat.”

“What?”

“We just got here.”

“I’m aware.”

“Where we were specifically told not to trouble anyone.”

“I’m not planning to trouble anyone.” Bruce gave her a look that suggested he had known her too long to believe that. Natasha smiled faintly. “I want to see what kind of people worship a woman like that.”

Bruce glanced toward the door. “Maybe ask T’Challa first.”

“I wasn’t asking permission.”

“No.” T’Challa’s voice said from behind her. “But you should listen to advice.”

Natasha turned and he stood in the doorway, still wearing the dark clothes he had traveled in, though he looked less like a guest now and more like a man remembering how to move in a place full of knives. Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting quiet again.”

“I have always been quiet.”

“Not like that.”

His mouth almost curved. Then his gaze moved to the window, to the city below, and the amusement vanished. “You should not go alone.”

“I can manage.”

“I know that.” T’Challa said. “That is not the concern.”

Natasha folded her arms. “Then what is?”

“You do not know the streets. You do not know the customs, know which houses are loyal to which bloodlines, which colors should not be worn after dark, which songs should not be requested in taverns, or which insults are insults until someone has already drawn a blade.”

“Sounds like most cities.”

“No.” T’Challa said. “It does not.”

That gave her pause. “I just need some air.” she said and T’Challa studied her. He saw more than most people, that was one of the reasons Natasha liked him and one of the reasons she was careful around him.

After a moment, he sighed quietly. “If you insist on going, cover your hair.”

Natasha frowned. “My hair?”

“Yes.”

Bruce blinked. “Why?”

T’Challa’s eyes remained on Natasha. “Red hair will draw attention.”

“It draws attention everywhere.”

“Not like here.”

Natasha touched a strand near her shoulder. “Should I be offended?”

“No. You should be practical.” Shuri entered behind him carrying a folded length of dark cloth. “He is right.”

Natasha looked between them. “Is red unlucky?”

“No.” Shuri said. “Rare and associated with old battle songs, foreign omens and women who appear in stories right before men do something stupid.”

She held out a cloth. It was fine, soft and dark enough to vanish in shadow and edged with subtle bronze embroidery. Natasha took it. “You were prepared for this?”

“I assumed one of you would make a poor decision before morning.” Shuri said.

Sam poked his head out of a doorway. “My money was on Stark!”

“So was mine.” Shuri replied. Natasha wrapped the cloth over her hair with practiced ease. She had worn enough disguises in enough countries to understand the language of fabric. She tucked the red beneath it, adjusted the fall near her cheek, and watched T’Challa’s expression.

“Better?”

He looked at her for a long second. “Yes.”

Natasha’s smile softened into something more genuine. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“I know.” T’Challa said. “Be more careful than that.”

The city took her in quietly, that was the first surprise. Natasha had expected noise, drunken shouting, brawls spilling from taverns, riders thundering through narrow streets, violence barely chained beneath torchlight. T’Challa’s warnings had painted a place where every wrong breath might invite blood.

Instead, the city at night felt controlled. The streets were paved in pale stone that glowed faintly beneath lanternlight. Buildings leaned close overhead, built of black brick, white plaster, carved wood, and bronze balconies draped with heavy fabrics. The soldiers were everywhere, they stood at corners, bridges, gates, watching without appearing to watch. Their presence explained the quiet more than any law could have. This was a city where violence existed, perhaps even thrived, but it had rules. It had places. It had consequences.

Natasha respected consequences. She wandered without seeming to wander, keeping to streets with enough people to disappear among but not enough to trap her. Eventually, she found a tavern, the sign above the door showed a black cup surrounded by painted flames.

Natasha went in and the room dipped in volume for half a second. That told her everything she needed to know. She crossed to the bar as if she belonged there. The bartender was a broad woman with gray hair braided over one shoulder and arms muscled from years of lifting barrels or bodies. Her eyes narrowed at Natasha’s clothes, her covered hair, her boots.

“You drink?” the woman asked in English that was rough but understandable.

Natasha rested an elbow on the counter. “That depends what you’re pouring.”

The woman’s mouth twitched. “Foreign.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me what you’d give someone who wants to stop being obvious.”

The bartender stared at her and she laughed. It was not a friendly laugh, “You want heavy?”

“I want to understand the local culture.”

“Then heavy.” the bartender decided and reached for a dark clay bottle from beneath the counter. The liquid she poured into a short bronze cup was nearly black, with a reddish sheen where the firelight caught it. It moved too slowly, clinging to the sides like syrup and the smell hit Natasha a second later.

Natasha picked up the cup, then someone crashed into her side. The drink spilled across both of them and Natasha reacted before thought. One hand caught the stranger by the waist to keep them from falling, the other steadied the cup, though far too late to save more than a mouthful. Dark liquid splashed down the front of Natasha’s borrowed tunic and across the stranger’s cloak.

The body against hers was warm and smaller than she expected, but strong beneath the layers. “I’m sorry.” Natasha said immediately, because apologies were cheaper than scenes and she had promised not to trouble anyone.

“No, no!” The stranger pulled back with a breathless laugh. “That was my fault. I was watching the door and not my feet, which is a very poor habit in a place with both furniture and witnesses.”

A young woman, her voice was low and smooth but threaded with amusement and Natasha looked at her and forgot, for one dangerous second, that she was supposed to be watching the room. The woman’s face was partially shadowed beneath a deep blue head covering, the fabric wrapped elegantly around her hair and throat, leaving only her face visible. But that was enough...more than enough. She had the kind of beauty men wrote wars around and then blamed on fate.

Her skin was pale beneath the tavern light, warmed by the gold of the flames. Her mouth was full and curved with the beginning of a smile and her cheekbones were sharp enough to make softness seem like a choice. Her eyes were dark at first glance, then not dark at all when she shifted beneath the light, but strange, luminous, somewhere between violet and gray and storm clouds before lightning. Natasha had seen beautiful people. She had been trained with beautiful people. She had used beauty, weaponized it, dismissed it, survived it. This was different.

The woman glanced down at the stain spreading across both of them. Then she touched two fingers to the wet fabric near her collarbone, lifted them to her mouth and tasted the drink. Natasha’s attention fixed briefly on her lips and the woman’s eyebrows rose. “You were going to drink that?”

“That was the plan.”

“Willingly?”

“I like to live dangerously.”

The woman’s smile widened. “There are easier ways to die.”

Natasha leaned against the bar, letting her gaze move over the stranger’s covered hair, layered cloak, fine gloves and boots that looked too well made for someone trying not to be noticed. “And here I thought you were about to apologize.”

“I did apologize.”

“You also insulted my drink.”

“I insulted your judgment.” the woman corrected. “The drink is blameless. It does what it was made to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Punish arrogance.”

Natasha laughed softly despite herself and the woman’s eyes brightened. The woman turned to the bartender. “Another.” Then she looked back at Natasha, “I spilled it, I replace it.”

“Generous.”

“Practical. I dislike owing strangers.”

“Then we’re strangers?”

“For the moment.” Natasha angled her body toward her. “And later?”

The woman’s smile turned slow enough to be dangerous. “That depends on whether you survive the drink.”

The bartender set down a fresh cup. The woman picked it up before Natasha could and lifted it in a small toast. “To poor footing.”

“And dangerous judgment.” Natasha replied.

The woman drank. The dark liquor disappeared past her lips and her expression did not change at all. No cough, no blink, no tightening around the eyes. Nothing. She lowered the cup and passed it to Natasha. The challenge was silent and Natasha accepted it. She had survived Russian vodka, contraband Balkan spirits, poison-laced champagne in Prague and something Fury had once called whiskey despite all evidence to the contrary.

She could handle a drink, so she took a mouthful and fire detonated behind her teeth. The taste was smoke and iron and pepper and old fruit left to ferment in a dragon’s throat. Heat punched down her throat, spread through her chest and tried to climb back out through her nose. Natasha turned slightly, because she refused to spit it across the bar, but a cough escaped her anyway.

The woman laughed, it was a beautiful sound and an infuriating one. Natasha set the cup down with great care while her eyes watered. The woman was still laughing when she reached for a pitcher, poured water into a plain cup, and offered it, “Here.”

Natasha took it, throat burning. “I’m..fine.”

“Of course.”

“I am.”

“You look very fine.”

Natasha drank the water and the woman watched with undisguised delight. The woman leaned closer. “Take your time.”

There it was again, that confidence. Natasha was used to watching people respond to her. The shift in breathing or the moment they realized she was flirting with intent and keeping up with her, but this woman was not struggling to keep up. She was enjoying herself.

She was young, yes. Young enough that Natasha should have held the advantage through experience alone. But the stranger flirted like someone born in a court where language had always been a weapon and desire was simply another battlefield. She knew when to answer or to deflect. When to offer enough truth to make Natasha chase the rest. Natasha liked skill..she liked it too much.

“You’re enjoying this.” Natasha said.

“I am.”

“At least you’re honest.” Natasha lowered the cup and smiled. The woman’s laughter softened into something warmer, but her eyes remained sharp. She leaned one hip against the bar, close enough that Natasha could smell the night air on her cloak beneath the spilled liquor. “You still haven’t told me your name.” Natasha said.

“Neither have you.”

“Mine is harder to earn?”

The woman’s smile turned wicked. “You assume yours is the prize.”

Natasha nearly laughed and that actually caught her off guard. The stranger saw it and looked delighted. “There.”

“What?”

“You did not expect me to bite back.”

“I expected it.”

“No.” The woman stepped closer until the edge of her sleeve brushed Natasha’s wrist. “You hoped for it.”

Natasha’s expression did not change, but inside, something sharpened. This girl was good.

“Maybe.” Natasha said and the woman’s eyes dropped to her mouth again, “I hoped you would stay.”

Natasha’s answer came softer than she intended. “I haven’t left.”

“No..” the woman murmured. “You have not.”

The tavern became smaller around them. The singer’s voice blurred into the warmth of the room and a chair scraped against stone. Somewhere behind Natasha, someone laughed, but it sounded far away. The space between her and the veiled stranger was suddenly the only place with heat. “So what should I call you?”

“What do you call women whose names you do not know?”

“That depends on what I want from them.”

The woman’s eyes flashed. “And what do you want from me?”

Natasha let the silence stretch and a slow smile touched her mouth. “I was going to start with conversation.”

“Liar.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“You say that often.”

“I am right often.”

Natasha leaned in until her voice was just for her. “Careful. Confidence can be mistaken for arrogance.”

The woman did not retreat. “Only by people too small to recognize it.”

Natasha stared at her. “You’re trouble.”

“Yes.”

“No denial?”

“I thought honesty pleased you.”

“Depends how it’s used.” The woman’s fingers brushed the back of Natasha’s hand where it rested against the bar. A mistake if either of them wanted to pretend. “And this?” she asked.

Natasha looked down at the touch, then back up. “That depends how it’s used.”

The stranger’s thumb moved once, barely there, over Natasha’s knuckle and Natasha’s breath stayed steady by training alone. The woman noticed anyway and her smile softened into something slow and victorious. “You are easier to read than you pretend.”

Natasha turned her hand, catching the woman’s fingers before she could withdraw. “And you are enjoying pretending not to be.”

The woman looked at their joined hands, then at Natasha. “You are very bold for a guest.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed faintly. “How do you know I’m a guest?”

The woman did not miss the slip. “You are not a merchant. Not a rider or temple sworn. Not court born. You entered under someone’s protection or you would not have crossed the border at all.”

Natasha’s thumb traced once over the side of the woman’s finger. “Then you already knew I wasn’t from here before I said anything.”

“Yes.”

“And you still spilled my drink?”

The woman’s smile grew dangerous. “Perhaps I was curious too.”

Natasha should have pulled back. Instead, she moved closer. “How curious?”

The woman looked at her as if weighing how much truth would make the game sweeter. “Enough to ruin your drink.”

“That all?”

“No.”

Natasha had to remind herself where she was. Hidden kingdom, strange laws and royal blood. Vision with a Stone in his head and Thanos somewhere beyond the sky. But then the woman’s fingers tightened lightly around hers and Natasha thought, one more minute. Just one.

The stranger tilted her head. “You are thinking too much.”

“I’m usually praised for that.”

“Not by anyone trying to kiss you.”

Natasha’s smile was immediate, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The first honest thing you’ve said all night.”

The woman leaned close enough that her breath touched Natasha’s cheek. “No.” she said softly. “The first honest thing was that I was interested.”

Natasha turned her face slightly and their mouths were close now. Too close for the tavern, but not close enough for Natasha. The woman’s eyes flicked down, then up again. She was waiting and she was letting Natasha feel the space and choose what to do with it.

Natasha respected restraint but respected temptation more. “You do this often?” Natasha asked.

“Almost kiss strangers in taverns?”

“Make them want to forget why they came.”

The woman smiled, but something darker moved beneath it. “No. Do you?”

Natasha could have lied, instead, she said, “Not like this.”

For the first time, the stranger looked truly surprised. Then her expression changed as if Natasha had offered something more intimate than a name.

“Good.” she said and Natasha felt it like fingers at her throat. A man brushed past behind them, giving the veiled woman a wide berth despite the crowd. His shoulder nearly clipped Natasha’s but swerved at the last moment. He murmured something in the local language without looking up.

The stranger caught Natasha catching it. “You are important.” Natasha said and the woman withdrew her hand slowly, but not because she was embarrassed, but because the game had turned dangerous.

“Many people are important.”

“Not like that.”

“You do not know what that was.”

“I know deference.”

The woman’s eyes sharpened. “And do you offer it?”

Natasha leaned against the bar, letting her gaze move over the hidden face, the elegant veil, the mouth that had already become a problem.

“Depends who earns it.”

That pleased the woman so much she looked almost angry about it. “You would be difficult to command.” she said.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I did not say I dislike difficult things.”

Natasha laughed softly. “You are young to sound so sure of yourself.”

The woman’s smile vanished with warning. “I am old enough to know what I want.” the woman said.

Natasha held her gaze. “And what do you want?”

The stranger stepped closer again. “You.”

The answer struck harder than flirtation should have and Natasha did not move. For all her training, all her control, all the years she had spent using desire as tool, cover, weapon and shield, she found herself briefly, absurdly, without words.

The woman saw that too and a smile slowly returned to her face. “Did I steal your tongue?” she asked and Natasha recovered with a slow inhale. “No.”

“No?”

“I was deciding whether you meant it.”

“And?”

Natasha’s eyes dropped to her mouth. “You meant it.” The woman’s voice softened. “Yes.”

The honesty changed the air. Natasha felt the pull then, fully. Not curiosity anymore, not simple attraction, but something heavier, wrapped in risk and heat and the intoxicating knowledge that both of them were hiding almost everything except wanting.

The stranger turned slightly, looking toward the tavern’s side passage. “There is a quieter place..” Natasha’s pulse shifted and T’Challa’s warnings came back. She looked at the woman, at the veil hiding her hair, at the eyes that knew too much. At the mouth still curved like it expected Natasha to follow and would be disappointed if she did not.

“You invite strangers to quiet places often?” Natasha asked.

“No.”

“Should I believe that?”

“No.”

Natasha smiled and the woman’s smile answered. “But it is true.” she added.

Natasha looked toward the door, then back to her. “And if I say no?”

The woman’s gaze moved over her face, lingering just enough to make Natasha feel it. “Then I finish my drink and wonder whether you are as disciplined as you pretend.”

Natasha laughed under her breath. “You make saying no sound like losing.”

“It would be.”

“For who?”

The woman stepped in close enough that their sleeves brushed again. “For both of us.”

Natasha knew, in that moment, that this woman had come into the tavern wanting distraction. Maybe amusement or power without ceremony. Maybe a night where no one bowed, no one feared, no one begged her for anything. Natasha did not know the shape of that truth, she only knew its shadow and she was already stepping into it.

“Lead the way.” she said and the woman’s smile turned brilliant beneath the veil. And Natasha, who should have known better than to follow secrets into the dark, followed her anyway.

The woman led her deeper inside. Past the bar, past the crowded tables, past the hearth where the singer’s voice curled low and rough through the smoke. There was a side corridor half hidden behind a hanging curtain of dark beads and leather strips. No one stopped them when the woman pushed through it. No one even looked directly at them, though Natasha felt the awareness shift around the room.

Natasha followed close behind, close enough to see the elegant line of the woman’s neck beneath the veil, close enough to notice how she moved. She walked like someone used to doors opening before she reached them, like the world had always made space for her and she had grown bored of pretending not to expect it. But when she glanced back at Natasha, there was nothing cold in her eyes. Only amusement.

The sounds of the tavern dulled behind them, swallowed by heavy stone walls and thick rugs beneath their boots. Lanterns burned low in iron brackets and the air smelled of wine, smoke and something floral Natasha could not place. At the end of the corridor stood a dark wooden door carved with the same black horse that marked the tavern entrance. The woman took a key from inside her sleeve.

“Private room?” Natasha asked and the woman inserted the key without looking away from her. “Did you think I would take you somewhere public?”

“I was wondering how bold you were.” The lock clicked and the woman smiled. “Still wondering?”

Natasha stepped closer, close enough that the woman’s back almost touched the door. “No.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The tavern was only a few steps away, but it felt distant now. The music had become a pulse through the walls and the firelight from the corridor touched the edge of the woman’s veil, the curve of her mouth, the sharp brightness of her eyes. Natasha should have thought. She should have slowed down. She should have remembered the mission, Vision, the Stone, T’Challa’s warnings, the impossible kingdom above them, the dragon somewhere in the sky.

Instead, the woman opened the door and backed inside and Natasha followed. The door closed behind them and they reached for each other at the same time. There was no careful beginning or slow approach. The tension from the tavern snapped the moment privacy wrapped around them. Natasha caught the woman by the waist and pressed her back against the door and the woman went willingly, laughing once against Natasha’s mouth before the laugh broke into a kiss.

The woman kissed like she did everything else: with confidence, control and a wicked awareness of exactly what she was offering. Her hands found Natasha’s jacket, fingers curling into the fabric and pulling her closer instead of pushing her away. Natasha felt the strength in her grip, the poise even in the rush of it, and it made something low in her stomach tighten. This girl was definitely not overwhelmed by her and that was the part that made Natasha burn.

The woman let Natasha lead her back from the door, but not because she was yielding. She allowed it with the grace of someone granting permission, step by step, mouth never leaving Natasha’s for long. When Natasha turned them and walked her backward toward the table, the woman followed the pressure of her hands easily, almost elegantly, her body answering without losing its own rhythm.

Natasha melted a little at that and hated that she did. The woman noticed and she pulled back just enough to breathe, lips parted, eyes bright beneath the shadow of the veil. “You like being obeyed..” she murmured and Natasha’s fingers tightened at her waist.

“I like being understood.”

The woman smiled, “Then understand this.” She caught the front of Natasha’s jacket and pulled her back in and the kiss deepened. Natasha’s hands slid under the edge of the woman’s outer cloak, feeling warmth through layers of fine fabric. The cloak was loosened with a practiced tug and the woman let it fall from her shoulders, not breaking the kiss as it dropped to the floor. Natasha’s own jacket followed a moment later, pushed down her arms by impatient hands.

They stumbled toward the bed near the wall, though stumble was not the right word for the woman. Even half blinded by kissing, even breathless, she moved like a dancer who had once learned war instead of music. Natasha could not stop noticing her, the elegance and the danger under it. The way she let Natasha press her down onto the edge of the bed and still somehow made it feel like Natasha had been invited exactly where the woman wanted her.

Natasha kissed her again, slower now, one hand braced beside her shoulder, the other at her waist. The woman arched into her touch with a quiet sound that made Natasha’s thoughts scatter. Then Natasha’s fingers found the fastening near the woman’s throat and the veil shifted. T’Challa’s voice cut through the heat in her mind and Natasha froze. The woman felt it immediately and opened her eyes. “What is it?”

Natasha breathed once, steadying herself. Her hand was still near the veil. Too close to a truth she had no right to uncover without thinking. “I..can’t.” Natasha said quietly. The woman’s expression changed, but not with offense. “Can’t?”

Natasha pulled back enough to put space between them. Her own scarf had loosened during the kissing, but most of her red hair was still hidden beneath it.

“I was warned.” she said and the woman sat up slightly, “About me?”

Natasha gave a breathless little laugh. “About everyone.”

That earned the smallest smile, but it faded quickly. “What warning stopped you?”

Natasha touched the edge of her own scarf. “My hair draws attention here.” The woman’s eyes dropped to the movement and Natasha hesitated. Then, slowly, she pulled the scarf away and red hair spilled loose around her shoulders. The woman stopped moving and for the first time since Natasha had met her, the stranger looked genuinely stunned. Her eyes moved through Natasha’s hair as if she had never seen anything quite like it. The silence stretched so long that Natasha, impossibly, felt almost self-conscious.

Then the woman reached out and stopped just before touching, asking without words, but Natasha allowed it. The woman took one strand between her fingers, “is it natural?”

Natasha blinked, then she smiled, That was new. People had called her hair beautiful, dangerous, pretty or a target. A disguise ruined by genetics. No one had ever asked with that kind of wonder. “Yes.” Natasha said. “It’s natural.”

The woman looked up at her and the fascination had not faded. “It looks like flame.”

Natasha’s smile softened despite herself. “That’s what they’re afraid of?”

The woman’s thumb brushed the red strand once before letting it slip free. “No.” she said. “That is what they would remember.”

The woman leaned closer again, but Natasha did not move yet. “You said you were warned..” she murmured. “And now?”

Natasha’s gaze flicked toward the hidden veil. “Now I’m wondering what you’re hiding.”

A slow smile returned to the woman’s mouth. “Something less rare than yours.”

“I doubt that.”

The woman’s eyes glittered, then she reached up and loosened the pins beneath her veil. Layer by layer, the cloth slipped away and at first, Natasha saw only pale strands at the temple. Then more and all of it. Long snow white hair fell over the woman’s shoulders in a shining wave and Natasha stopped breathing. The room seemed to go silent around her, the tavern beyond the walls disappeared.

White.

Not silver, blond or gray. White as moonlight on fresh snow. It spilled down over the woman’s dark clothing, over her shoulders and chest, luminous in the low light, impossibly soft looking and impossibly striking. It changed the shape of her beauty into something almost unreal. Before, Natasha had thought her stunning. Now, with her face fully revealed and that white hair loose around her, she looked like something from the old tapestries in the castle. A girl from bloodlines people wrote laws around.

Natasha stared, she knew she was staring but couldn’t stop. The woman watched her closely and this time there was no teasing in her expression. Natasha’s mind moved, because Natasha’s mind always moved, even when her body wanted to forget how to stand. T’Challa had said snow white hair belonged to royal blood. Royal blood, not only one woman..

Certain branches tied closely to it. Noblewomen wore veils, royal cousins wore veils. Court women moving quietly through the city without drawing the wrong eyes. And Lord Vaelor had said Khaleesi was not in the castle tonight. Surely that meant away from the city..Away from taverns and from private rooms with foreign spies. Surely the woman a whole kingdom lowered its eyes for would not be here alone, smiling beneath a veil, tasting spilled liquor from her own shirt, flirting like the world had never placed a crown shaped blade above her head.

Surely, if this woman were Khaleesi, someone would have bowed. Someone would have whispered or would have panicked. But no one had..People had given her space, yes, but that could mean noble or royal adjacent.

Not Khaleesi. Not the dragon’s chosen. Not the almost-queen they had crossed the world to beg for help.

Natasha let herself believe the simpler danger, because the other one was too impossible. The woman was looking at her now like she did not want to be recognized. She wanted to be wanted and Natasha wanted her.

“You’re beautiful..” Natasha said before she could make the words clever. The woman’s expression shifted and for all her confidence, for all her sharpness, that seemed to reach her. “Careful..” she said softly. “You sound honest.”

Natasha stepped closer. “I am.”

The woman looked at Natasha’s red hair, then back into her eyes. “Then I do not care about the warning.”

Natasha’s breath caught. “No?”

“No.” The woman’s hand rose, fingers slipping carefully into Natasha’s hair. “I like it.”

Natasha’s gaze dropped to the woman’s mouth. “And your hair?” The woman smiled faintly. “Will you run?”

Natasha lifted her hand and touched one white strand, letting it slide between her fingers like silk. “No.”

“Will you kneel?”

Natasha’s eyes returned to hers. That question should have sounded playful, it did not..It sounded like something from a throne room, dragged into candlelight.

Natasha’s heart slammed against her ribs. She was older than this girl, had seen more wars, more beds, more ways desire could be used as both weapon and surrender and yet here she was, utterly undone by snow white hair and storm eyes that looked at her like she was something precious instead of dangerous. She wanted her. God, she wanted her. The kind of want that made every trained instinct short circuit.

Natasha sank to her knees without hesitation, the thick rug cushioning the fall. Respect and hunger twisted together until she couldn’t tell them apart as she looked up, eyes dark with need. The woman’s breath caught, surprise flickering across that beautiful face before it melted into something warmer, almost tender. She leaned back slowly on the fur draped bed, white hair fanning out like moonlight, thighs parting in open invitation. “You…chose that so easily for me?”

Natasha nodded once, crawling forward between those spread legs because she needed to be closer. “For you.” she answered, voice rough. “Only you.”

The woman’s smile softened, eyes glittering with delight and something deeper. She reached down and brushed her fingers through Natasha’s hair, not tugging, just stroking like she couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “Then show me..” she whispered.

Those words snapped the last thread of Natasha’s restraint. She leaned in and pressed her mouth to the inside of one pale thigh, kissing reverently before dragging her tongue higher. When she reached the heated center, she licked a slow, hungry stripe up the glistening folds and moaned at the taste, sweet and warm and addictive.

The woman’s hips jerked, a surprised little gasp escaping her. Then the first real moan spilled out completely unguarded and Natasha’s mind went white..It hit Natasha like fire in her veins. Her self-control, the careful distance she always kept, the calculated moves, the older woman composure shattered completely. She was supposed to be the one in control…but right now all she could think was more. She needed more of that sound, needed to be the reason it kept happening.

She dove in like a woman possessed, her tongue circled the swollen clit with desperate hunger, sucking it gently between her lips before licking back down to push inside her. The woman’s fingers tightened in her red hair, not pulling, just holding on as another moan tore free, richer this time, longer, trembling at the edges.

“Gods…you feel so good..” the woman breathed, voice already cracking with pleasure. She rolled her hips up to meet Natasha’s mouth, white hair spilling everywhere as her head fell back against the furs. Natasha lost herself completely. Every moan from those pretty lips made her spiral harder and licked and sucked with shameless need, tongue fucking into her in deep, wet strokes before pulling back to lavish attention on her clit again. Her own thighs pressed together, completely soaked and aching, but she didn’t touch herself, this was all for the woman beneath her, all for those gorgeous sounds that kept ripping Natasha’s composure to shreds.

The woman’s hand trembled where it rested in Natasha’s hair, guiding her gently higher when the pleasure peaked. “Right there- yes..just like that…” Another moan broke free, louder, sweeter and Natasha whimpered against her slick heat, the vibration pulling an even prettier sound from the woman’s throat.

Natasha’s mind was pure heat and reverence this woman, this impossible, beautiful girl was moaning because of her. Because Natasha couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down, couldn’t do anything but worship with her tongue and fingers and every desperate breath. When Natasha slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right, the woman’s back arched clean off the bed with a moan so raw and beautiful it made Natasha’s head spin.

The woman’s voice cracked, amusement long gone, replaced by pure overwhelmed pleasure. Her fingers tightened gently in Natasha’s hair, guiding her rhythm without force, just need. “G-Gods, don’t stop, Please..!”

Natasha definitely had no intention of stopping. Not when every moan made her lose another piece of herself to this woman..The woman’s moan cracked into a long, shuddering cry as she came hard on Natasha’s tongue and fingers. Her thighs clamped around Natasha’s head for one dizzying second, hips rolling helplessly through every wave of pleasure. Natasha didn’t stop, she just couldn’t licking her through it until the tremors finally eased and the woman melted back into the furs.

Natasha’s own pulse was thundering. She was soaked, aching, trembling with how badly she still wanted her. The taste of her was still on her tongue, the sound of those moans echoing in her skull like a drug she already needed more of. Without thinking, Natasha slid her hands under the woman’s hips firmly and turning her onto her stomach.

The woman made a soft, surprised sound and her cheek pressed into the dark furs, her body completely limp and glowing with aftershocks. Natasha crawled over her from behind, pressing her own body flush along the younger woman’s back. She was moaning quietly already, just from the heat of her skin and the way the woman’s ass fit perfectly against her hips. Natasha slipped two fingers back inside her without warning and woman’s eyes flew open, “F-Fuck..I..can’t-!”

“You can..” Natasha’s mouth was right at her ear now. She twisted her fingers just right on every thrust, grinding her own soaked core against the woman’s ass in time with it. “Come for me again. Let me see your face when you do.”

The woman’s moan broke into something higher, sweeter, completely undone. Her hands fisted the furs, back arched beautifully under Natasha’s chest, white hair pulled taut in Natasha’s grip like silk ropes. Every thrust drew another gorgeous sound from her, breathy, helpless, overwhelmed and Natasha was losing her mind at the sight, “You’re so beautiful..”

The woman’s thighs started trembling. Her moans turned into broken little cries, face flushed and open and devastatingly beautiful as Natasha kept fucking her through it. “Come on..” Natasha breathed against her neck, “Let me feel you. I need it..I need you..”

The woman came with a long, shattered moan that echoed off the stone walls, clenching hard around Natasha’s fingers, back bowing as pleasure crashed through her all over again. Her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, white hair glowing against the dark furs while Natasha watched every second of it, chest pressed tight to her back and heart hammering like it wanted to climb out and give itself to this girl.

Natasha didn’t pull her fingers out right away. She kept them buried deep, stroking her gently through the aftershocks, face still hidden in that soft neck, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping her alive. Natasha smiled against her skin, pressing a slow, open mouthed kiss to the pulse fluttering under her lips. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

What followed was hours of heat and hunger that blurred the edges of time. The woman repaid every single second Natasha had spent worshipping her. She rolled them over with surprising strength, pinning Natasha gently beneath her, white hair falling like a curtain around them both. Her mouth was everywhere, kissing down Natasha’s throat, sucking marks into the older woman’s collarbone, then lower, until she settled between Natasha’s thighs like she belonged there. The first slow drag of her tongue had Natasha’s back arching clean off the bed with a broken moan of her own.

The woman was relentless in the softest way possible. She licked and sucked like she was savoring every sound Natasha made, fingers sliding deep inside her and curling just right while her tongue worked her clit in slow, devastating circles. Natasha came the first time with a sharp cry, thighs trembling around the woman’s shoulders, fingers tangled in that impossible snow white hair. But the young woman didn’t stop either. She kept going, murmuring soft praises against slick skin, “You taste so good…let me hear you again” until Natasha came a second time, harder, hips bucking helplessly as pleasure crashed through her in waves.

They switched again and again, bodies sliding together in the low lantern light. Hours passed like that and the tavern outside had long since gone quiet. The only sounds in the private room were gasps, moans and the wet slide of bodies moving together in the dark. Eventually they collapsed, utterly spent.

The woman lay on her back, chest heaving, one arm draped lazily over Natasha’s waist. Natasha was on her side, red hair sticking to her damp forehead, body boneless and glowing with the kind of satisfaction she hadn’t felt in years. She couldn’t remember the last time sex had been this good..this raw, this endless, this right. Every nerve in her body still hummed with it. She felt wrecked in the best possible way, like the younger woman had reached inside her and pulled out every hidden piece of want she’d been carrying.

Natasha turned her head slowly, still breathless, and just…looked at her. The girl beside her was flushed and glowing, lips kiss swollen, eyes half closed in pure bliss. She looked unreal..like something carved out of moonlight and fire and every impossible story Natasha had ever heard. Natasha’s voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “So…What’s your name?”

The woman turned her head, a slow, sated smile curving her lips. Her eyes met Natasha’s with something soft and open and a little amused, like she’d been waiting for the question all night. “Y/n.” she said simply.

The name settled between them like a secret finally shared and Natasha stared at her, heart still pounding, the weight of everything they’d just done sinking in deeper with every second. And for the first time since she’d stepped into this hidden kingdom, she had no idea what came next.

Part 2

-

-

“Dinner? Where?”

“It's the little Italian restaurant.”

“What do I where?”

“It's not too fancy, but it's not jeans-type either,” Natasha replies, smiling. She knew you hadn't been out together in ages, and she knows she's been staying at work longer than she should've been. “Come on, get off me. We both need to get changed.”

You sigh, untangling yourself from her before turning to walk back up the stairs as Natasha follows you.

Natasha doesn't change her style much, just swaps her navy tailored pants for black ones, her shirt for a white, thick strapped tank top and a black blazer draped over her shoulders. She never changed her earrings or her jewellery, though her wedding ring was always the only thing on her left hand.

You change into something a little nicer than your previous "eat leftovers on the couch" outfit, adding jewellery around your wedding ring where necessary.

Natasha locks the front door behind you both, quickly sidestepping Infront of you to open the passenger side door of her black Audi for you. She pushes the door shut with little effort before climbing in the driver's side, turning the key in the ignition. Her hand doesn't leave your thigh as she drives.

Once she stops the engine, you let her walk around the car to collect you, because Natasha Romanoff treats you like a princess. You both follow the waitress to a quiet booth in the corner, sitting down opposite each other.

She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Happy?”

You nod. “I'm glad you finished early. We haven't spent time together in ages.”

She grimaces slightly, reaching across to bring your hand up, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “Sorry, sweetheart. We can spend all tonight together.”

You smile, squeezing her hand. “I love you.”

She smiles back just before two menus are slid onto the table by the waitress. “Can I bring any drinks first?”

“Red wine, thanks.”

“Peach Bellini,” you tell the woman. She nods, walking back behind the bar.

“That's not wine.”

“It has alcohol in it,” you tell her.

She snorts. “Barely.”

You stick your tongue out at her, a childish gesture. “You're just jealous mine comes with fruit.”

Natasha sighs, shaking her head lovingly. “What are you fancying? Same as usual?”

“Always. You?”

“I might try a Papperdelle beef Ragu this time.”

“Ooh...that does sound good..”

Natasha smiles again, taking a sip of red wine immediately as it arrives. The waitress asks, “Are you ready to order, or still deciding?” with that typical, over polite, tired custome service smile.

“I'll have the beef Ragu, and she'll have the seafood linguini.”

“And garlic bread for the table, please,” you tell the waitress, her pen scratching across her notepad. “Thank you.”

The waitress smiles before leaving, you and your wife alone again.

“For the table?” Natasha questions.

“Yeah. For both of us.”

She just hums in response, smiling, before reaching across the table for your Bellini, taking a sip.

“Hey, you've got your wine.”

“Mm...but I wanted yours.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “At least ask next time.”

“Don't roll your eyes at me,” Natasha murmurs lowly across the table, one eyebrow raised. You roll them again, just to be annoying. “You wanna be a brat, rolling your eyes? Oh, sweetheart...they'll be rolling tonight.”

Unfortunately, your food arrives just as your cheeks flush a hot pink, the waitress sliding your usual linguini in front of you, Natasha's Ragu in front of her and the garlic bread between you. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you,” you reply, embarrassingly shy now.

“Someone's gone shy,” Natasha hums.

“Shut up,” you mutter, biting into a piece of garlic bread. Natasha takes a bite of her beef Ragu. “Good?”

She hums. “It's alright. Not as good as you though.”

The casual way she said things like that was always what caught you off guard, like she was talking about the weather instead of how you taste or how she'll make your eyes roll back.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. Mines good too.” Natasha reaches over her plate to grab a piece of garlic bread, just as you lean over with your fork to grab a forkfull of her Ragu. “Mm..it is good.”

The food disappears quickly between you two, sharing each others meals and drinks because that's what married people do, according to Natasha.

The tiramisu you ordered, which ended up being shared because Natasha decided that she actually did want dessert, was equally delicious, and the bill was soon being slid onto the table in place of the plates. You reach into your pocket, pulling out a $50 bill and sliding it towards her.

Natasha sees it immediately. “Sweetheart.”

“Natasha,” you reply, batting your lashes innocently.

“What's that for?”

“The bill.”

“Y/N.”

“Nat.”

“No.”

“I can help pay,” you tell her.

"You can," Natasha agrees. You brighten. "Just not tonight."

You groan. "Natasha."

"Y/N."

"That's not fair."

"It is when I invited you."

You fold your arms. "We're married."

"Correct."

"Our money is basically the same money."

"Also correct."

"Then why won't you let me pay?"

Natasha considers this. Then she takes your note out of the folder. You smile triumphantly.Only for her to slide it back across the table. With two extra hundred-pound notes tucked underneath it. You stare. "Natasha." She raises an eyebrow. "Natasha."

"What?"

"Why is there more money now?"

"I improved your contribution."

You look horrified. "You added four hundred dollars!"

"Two hundred."

"That's still ridiculous!"

Natasha shrugs. Across the table, the waitress is trying very hard not to laugh. "Take it back."

"No."

"Nat,” you half-whine.

"No."

"That's not how paying works."

"It is for me."

You push the notes toward her. She pushes them back. You push them again. She pushes them back again. The waitress finally gives up pretending she can't hear. "Should I come back in a minute?"

"Please," you say immediately.

"No," Natasha says at the same time.

The waitress snorts and walks away. You drop your head into your hands. "You're impossible."

"Yet you married me."

"Unfortunately."

Natasha's smile softens. "Keep it."

"I don't need it."

"You wanted to pay."

"Yeah, not profit,” you mutter.

She reaches across the table and takes your hand. "Buy yourself something nice."

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "Is this your way of spoiling me again?"

"Maybe."

"Natasha."

"Maybe."

You try not to smile. You fail. Natasha looks entirely too pleased with herself.

A few minutes later, when you stand to leave, she slips an arm around your waist and guides you toward the door. "I'm paying next time."

"Of course you are."

You stop walking. "Really?"

"No."

The silence between you is loud. Familiar. Full of everything that hasn’t been said in weeks.

She hasn’t looked at you yet, not really. She’s scanning the mission brief like it contains a hidden threat, flipping each page with surgical precision. You don’t know how she can be so still. You wonder, not for the first time, if she trained herself to stop fidgeting. Or if she ever did it at all.

Your knee bounces again.

“You’re twitchy,” she mutters.

You don’t flinch. “I call it ready.”

That earns you a look. Her eyes finally lift, and when they meet yours, you feel it in your stomach. Natasha doesn’t just look at people--she studies them. Dismantles them. You’re not exempt. Never have been.

“You call everything ready,” she says, voice flat, low. “Even when you’re not.”

That one stings. You smirk anyway. “And yet I’m still alive.”

She hums softly, no smile. “For now.”

You shift your weight, lean back on your hands, let your head tilt just slightly -- defiant. “You nervous, Romanoff?”

She turns another page. “Not for me.”

That shuts you up.

There’s something in her tone. Not sarcasm. Not clipped or cold. Something quieter. Heavier.

You sit with it for a second.

You’re not sure who breaks the silence next. Maybe it’s both of you. Her hand closes the file at the same time your boot squeaks against the floor. She stands, tucking the folder under one arm, other hand dropping to her thigh holster with ease. Always armed. Always precise.

You stay sitting, watching her check gear like it’s instinct.

“Mission’s tight,” she says without looking up. “Compound’s low grade, underground. Hydra splinter. Intel says they’re close to releasing the nerve agent. Target has the formula and the samples.”

You nod slowly. “We intercept, extract, and torch the rest. Silent entry. No kill unless provoked.”

She nods. “One vent point. Two entrances. No backup. You and me.”

Just you and her. Like it always is when it matters.

You feel your throat go dry.

She continues. “Preliminary scans show traces of an unidentified neurotoxin. Weaponized, possibly air-based. Could be absorbed on contact. Most likely internal dispersal through blade, syringe, or microdose powder. Symptoms could be delayed.”

“Symptoms?” you echo, heartbeat slowing.

She finally looks at you again. That same unreadable calm. But her eyes-- her eyes are molten steel.

“Paralysis. Hallucinations. Nervous system breakdown. Slow death, not quick.”

You stare. “Sounds like a party.”

“Not a party I’m letting you die at,” she says sharply, too fast, too raw.

You blink.

It’s the first time she’s slipped.

Her jaw tightens. She adjusts her gloves like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.

You step off the table, slow. Move to the bench where your gear waits. You buckle your vest, still feeling her gaze crawl across your shoulders. It burns more than the lights.

“So what’s the play if one of us gets tagged?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“Immediate evac,” she answers without hesitation. “There’s a bunker inside the north wing. Medical station. Supposed to be cleared. If we get hit, we get out. Fast.”

You hesitate. “And if only one of us gets hit?”

She doesn’t answer.

You turn. She’s standing too still now, eyes unreadable.

“Natasha.”

Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark and low.

Then.... “Then I carry you.”

The words drop like a blade.

You don’t move. She doesn’t flinch. There’s something between you now--buzzing, electric, unbearable. Not new. Just exposed.

You try to speak, but she’s already reaching for her sidearm, strapping it tight. Her movements are clean, practiced, but her hands shake just once--barely a tremor.

“Don’t get cocky,” she says again, voice soft. “And don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll try if you do,” you fire back.

She steps close.

Too close.

You feel her breath, smell the faint metallic oil of her gear. Her hand brushes past your shoulder as she picks up your earpiece. She holds it out to you between two fingers, like a dare.

You take it slowly, keeping your eyes on her face.

Her voice is a whisper now. “You ready, detka?”

The word sinks into your chest.

You want to say yes. You want to say always. But the way she’s looking at you, the weight in her gaze like she already knows something’s going to go wrong, it steals your voice.

So you nod.

She turns without another word.

You stare at the empty space where she stood.

And your heart doesn’t slow until you’re in the quinjet, five thousand feet in the air, staring down at the lights of a compound you’re going to walk into side by side.

And maybe not both walk out of.

The quinjet lands like a whisper against the backdrop of midnight fog.

Your boots hit the earth with a muted crunch-- mud, wet leaves, something darker. Fog curls around your calves in heavy tendrils. The compound looms ahead like a bunker out of time: slabs of decaying concrete, overgrown with ivy and moss, hunched in silence. You can't even see the stars. No moon. Just that dull gray pressure in the sky, like the whole world is waiting to hold its breath.

You breathe through your mask. Natasha lands beside you, silent as a shadow, her silhouette barely more than a shift in the mist. You catch a glimpse of her profile, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the treeline, already calculating exits and ambush zones. She's wired. More than usual.

You follow her to the compound’s eastern breach, a rusting utility panel half-covered in vines. You crouch beside her. The air smells like mold, metal, and ozone. She slips a fiber optic camera into the crack and studies the interior. Her breath barely stirs the fog.

She taps her comm. "Two guards, perimeter. Cameras looped for six minutes."

You nod. No words. The rhythm between you doesn’t need them.

You breach low. Silent takedown. The first man doesn’t even grunt before you’ve got his weight cradled to the ground, Natasha already dragging the second into the brush with a nerve pinch that leaves him twitching.

Inside, the compound is colder. The hallway smells like ammonia and rot. Overhead fluorescents flicker, half powered, some buzzing. The sound of your boots, soft-soled and careful, blends with the steady hum of unseen generators. You track together like wolves.

You take point. Natasha follows close. Close enough that you can hear her breathing through the comm.

You turn a corner and pause. Hold up one hand. Two guards. Talking in hushed Czech at the far end of the corridor. Natasha slides past you, calm, slow, predatory. You admire how easily she moves--like she’s dancing with ghosts. Within seconds, the guards slump silently to the floor.

You keep going. Left. Then another left. Then a flight of stairs that smell of oil and chemical burn.

The lower levels are worse. Damper. Darker. A faint blue light pulses under the lab door. You know it before you open it: this is where the poison lives.

"Scan for tripwires," she murmurs.

You sweep the frame with a small UV torch. Nothing. It’s almost disappointing.

"Too easy," you murmur.

She doesn’t reply.

You slip inside first. The lab is bigger than expected--long tables covered in sterile cloths and scattered notes, beakers, syringes, unmarked vials. The overhead light casts everything in a washed out, antiseptic blue. Shelves of equipment line the walls. An exhaust system hums in the ceiling.

Natasha peels off toward a terminal, hands flying over the interface. You start moving through drawers, lockers, storage bins. You find a canister sealed with four steel clamps--filled with clear vials, each bearing only a biohazard symbol.

You hold one up. "Found your death juice."

She glances back. "Don’t open it."

"Wasn’t planning to."

"Then don’t joke."

Her tone makes you pause.

You meet her eyes. There’s something in them. Something sharp. But she turns away too fast.

You secure the canister in your pack.

A noise. Behind you.

You pivot--weapon up. It’s a lab tech. Unarmed. Late 40s. Balding. Panic in his eyes. He lurches forward like a man with nothing to lose.

You intercept easily. Grab his wrist. Twist. Drive him into the wall.

He flails, and for a second, you think it’s over, until you feel the sting.

A flick of steel. A knife. Small. Coated with something faintly oily.

You slam your elbow into his face. He collapses.

You look down.

A slash along your ribcage. Not deep. Not even painful yet.

You exhale. Roll your eyes. “Asshole got a lucky scratch.”

But Natasha is already beside you.

“What happened?”

“Knife. Didn’t even feel it.”

She peels your suit open before you can stop her. The cut is dark already, edges rimmed in angry red, skin swelling fast.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “You’re dosed.”

“What? No, it’s--”

Then your hand starts to tremble.

You try to grip your weapon. Miss.

The ground tilts.

“Y/n.”

You hear her voice like it’s underwater.

Your knees buckle.

She catches you.

Your vision tunnels.

Cold tile under your spine. Lights bloom too bright above.

“Y/n. Hey. Stay with me.”

She’s kneeling beside you. Her gloved hands move fast--checking your pulse, your pupils. You see panic blooming in her face, cracking through that iron surface.

“I’m fine,” you slur.

“You’re not.”

You try to sit up. Your muscles ignore the command.

Natasha curses under her breath. She rips off her glove and touches your face. Her hand is warm. Grounding.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”

You reach for her wrist. Miss again.

“It was just a scratch…”

“Not with this compound. They laced it. Probably aerosolized it, too.”

You blink slowly. The room spins.

“I don’t want to die in a place that smells like feet,” you mumble.

That gets the smallest sound out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Shut up,” she says gently. “You’re not dying.”

She hoists you up into her arms.

You sag against her chest, your cheek against the stiff fabric of her vest. Her heart is pounding like a war drum.

“Hold on,” she whispers. “Just hold on for me, detka.”

You think you nod.

But then the world goes dark.

Everything is dim, and then everything is too bright.

You drift in and out, each blink a flicker of a memory you can’t hold onto. One moment you're in her arms. The next, your body is weightless. The cold metal beneath your back shocks you, makes your spine jerk, but it’s like your brain is buffering behind it.

Then comes sound.

Not an alarm. Not shouting.

Just her.

Natasha’s voice is high, sharp. “No, no, no, stay with me.”

You open your eyes. Barely.

The room above you spins. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, too harsh, too fast. You see the outline of her, her shoulders broad, hunched over drawers, flinging them open one by one.

The metal clatter is deafening.

Each slam, each rip of a cabinet door is edged with panic. She’s never like this. Not even in the field. Not even when bullets are flying.

But now she is.

She mutters to herself in Russian, breathless.

"Gde ty… gde ty, blyad', poka…"

She opens a drawer, slams it shut, moves to the next. Plastic vials scatter across the ground. You try to lift your hand to stop her.

You can’t.

She doesn’t hear you, but she hears something, the small choking noise that escapes your throat.

She drops everything.

Races back to your side.

You see her face now. Closer than ever. Bare. Vulnerable. Her braid is half-undone. Sweat beads along her brow. Her eyes look glassy. Haunted.

“Y/n?” she says softly, kneeling. “I’m here. Hey. Look at me.”

You do. Just barely. Her face swims, double vision, haloed in fluorescent light.

“I’m gonna fix this. You hear me?”

Your lips move. Nothing comes out.

She grabs your hand. Holds it to her chest. You can feel her heartbeat slamming beneath her suit.

She swallows thickly. Then leans down. You feel her forehead press to yours for a split second.

Then she bolts again.

You hear the hiss of a cold storage unit being cracked open. A lock disengaged.

She exhales like she’s been punched.

"Please, please…"

A beat.

Then: “Yes.”

She’s back at your side within seconds, sliding to her knees.

She holds the auto-injector up like it’s holy. Sleek metal. Faint blue glow in the vial. She checks it three times, her hand trembling, then steadies it against your neck.

You flinch.

She freezes.

“Hey,” she whispers, moving closer, her voice dipping low, quiet, coaxing. “It’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but I need you to trust me.”

You blink, sluggishly. Your breath rattles.

She cups your face with one gloved hand, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. Her other hand holds the injector firm.

“Y/n,” she says your name like it’s breaking her. “Detka… please. Let me do this.”

She waits. Just for your eyes. Just to see that flicker of understanding.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t.

But she can’t wait any longer.

She drives the needle into your neck.

The world shatters.

Your body jerks.

You scream.

White fire floods your veins like acid. Every nerve sears. Your back arches so hard your shoulders leave the table. Your mouth opens, but the sound is pure agony.

Her hand is over your mouth in an instant.

“Shhh, detka--I know, I know, I know--I’m here.”

You claw at her with your free hand. You can’t stop. You need it to stop. It’s worse than the poison. It’s like you’re being burned alive from the inside.

She holds you through it.

She leans over you, her hand firm over your mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her other hand clutches your shoulder. She’s shaking as hard as you are.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on, baby, please. Stay with me.”

Your legs thrash. Your hands slap at the gurney.

Then it crests.

The fire fades. You collapse. Chest heaving. Gasping for air.

Natasha pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go of your face. She strokes your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.”

Tears slip down your face now.

Not from the pain.

But from the look in her eyes.

Raw. Terrified. In love.

Your voice is wrecked. “Thought I was gonna die.”

She leans close. Her lips brush your temple.

“You’re not allowed to,” she whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You half-laugh, a broken sound. “You’re bleeding.”

She looks down. There’s blood smeared across her forearm. Yours. From your fingernails.

She doesn’t care.

She brushes sweat from your brow and kisses your knuckles.

“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Anything. Keep talking.”

You blink. “Hurts.”

“I know.”

“Still burning.”

“I know, detka. I’m here.”

Silence hangs for a second.

Then, softly, almost broken:

“I can’t do this without you.”

You stare at her.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper.

She leans forward, forehead pressed to yours again. Her lips brush your ear.

“I thought I lost you. And I never even told you--”

You feel her swallow the words. Bury them. But they’re there.

You whisper, “Say it.”

She doesn’t move.

Then “I love you.”

Simple. Unadorned. Like a gunshot in the silence.

“I love you and I didn’t say it because I thought it would make this harder. Because it would mean I couldn’t do the job.”

Her hand slides down your chest, rests over your heart.

“But watching you go down… nothing could have prepared me for that.”

You can’t smile, but you want to.

“You still owe me that date,” you rasp.

She laughs, watery. “You still want to be seen with me in public after this?”

You give her the faintest smirk. “Only if you carry me there.”

She exhales. Holds your hand tighter.

Then she checks the injector again. One dose gone. Timer running.

“Next dose in eleven minutes.”

You swallow. “And if I need a third?”

“We find it. We fight for it. Or I carry you through the compound kicking and screaming until I get you on that evac jet.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Her hand brushes your cheek.

“Don’t go to sleep,” she says gently. “You stay with me, Y/n.”

Your heart rate steadies.

But her panic doesn’t fade.

Not even a little. You don’t know how much time has passed.

Minutes? A heartbeat? Years?

You’re not on the table anymore. You’re moving again--limbs flopping uselessly, your weight dead in her arms. The air is colder now. You feel it against the sweat clinging to your neck, the pulse of it in the hallway, the echo of your foot dragging on tile every time Natasha pulls you forward.

Her arms are around you, tight--one across your back, the other under your thighs. You know she shouldn’t be able to carry you this far, this fast, while still moving silent and deadly.

But she does.

Because you’re her mission now.

No comms. No backup. Just her rage and fear holding you together while your body threatens to come apart.

“Stay awake,” she whispers, voice tight. “Detka, you hear me? No checking out. No napping. You do not sleep until I get you out of this hellhole.”

You try to answer. Nothing comes out.

But your eyes flutter. Barely.

She keeps going.

She rounds a corner and nearly runs into two guards--armed. Alert.

You’re barely conscious, but you feel the shift in her muscles. The sudden drop to one knee, placing you behind her. Her hand finds her Glock like it’s always been there. Two shots. Muffled. Precision. One in the throat. One between the eyes.

You hear the thud of bodies falling.

You hear the silence that follows.

Then her hand is on your face again.

“Still with me?”

Your head lolls.

She adjusts her grip on you. Kisses your temple.

“Two more minutes,” she breathes, not sure if it’s a promise or a plea.

The symptoms are returning.

It starts in your fingertips this time--an itching, almost tingling burn that crawls upward. You can feel your blood slowing down, thickening. Your teeth chatter even though you’re sweating.

Natasha feels it too.

You’re seizing.

She drops to the ground with you in the shadow of a steel stairwell and props you against her chest. Her gloves come off fast. She grips your face with bare hands. They’re warm. Yours aren’t.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers.

She pulls out the injector with shaking fingers.

“Too soon,” she mutters. “Not long enough since the last--fuck.”

Your body convulses.

“I can’t wait,” she decides aloud.

She plunges the second dose into your neck.

This time, you black out entirely.

No screaming. No flailing. Just silence.

Too much of it.

For a second, she thinks she’s killed you.

She presses her forehead to your chest, listening--desperate.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Faint. But there.

When your eyes snap open and you gasp like you’ve been pulled from underwater, her hand immediately slams over your mouth.

You don’t know why she’s crying until you realize you’re crying too.

The burn rips through you like napalm. The second dose hits faster, harder, crueler. Your body contorts, and she holds you like you’re both drowning.

“Shh. Shh. Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking you in her lap, curled around you like a shield. “Just breathe. Just breathe. I know it hurts.”

You claw at the front of her vest. She lets you.

Your teeth grit. You scream through her palm.

And then you collapse again, twitching. Weak. But breathing.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

She can’t carry you anymore.

Your weight, your heat, your body-it’s too much now. Not physically. Emotionally.

She can’t feel her arms.

She kneels beside you and presses her hand to your neck. Still alive.

Barely.

Then she grabs your vest collar, hauls you to your feet, and throws your arm over her shoulders.

You groan weakly.

“I know,” she says. “I know, detka. We’re almost there.”

Every step is pain. Your legs don’t work. You’re mostly dead weight, and she’s using every ounce of muscle and momentum she has to keep you both upright.

You round a corner.

You see it.

Light.

The corridor opens up into the hangar, your evac point. The chopper is already waiting, blades thudding.

“We made it,” she breathes, more to herself than to you.

But then, shouting. Footsteps.

Natasha grits her teeth. One more goddamn obstacle.

Five Hydra agents swarm the corridor behind you.

She throws you to cover, gently as she can. Her gun is up before your body hits the floor. Four rounds. Three bodies.

The fourth comes at her fast, knife out.

She parries, twists, drives her elbow into his throat. He drops like a stone.

She’s panting. Bleeding now, cut across the arm. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

She lifts you again.

Two more steps. Then your heart stops.

Literally.

You slump in her arms like a puppet with cut strings.

She doesn’t even scream.

Not at first.

She lowers you to the ground. Strips off her vest and places it under your head. Straddles your waist and starts compressions.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Come on, Y/n. Come on, baby. Breathe.”

Nothing.

She switches to mouth-to-mouth.

Breathes into you. Pushes her soul into your lungs.

“You’re not dying here.”

Another round of compressions.

She’s crying now. Shaking. Her voice climbs.

“Come on. Come on. Don’t do this. I didn’t say it just so you could leave me--!”

Still nothing.

She leans in again. Breathes again.

Then...finally.... You cough. Blood. Bile. But air.

She catches you before you turn your head.

You gasp again, mouth open, lungs on fire.

You look at her. She’s soaked. Bloody. Wild eyed.

You try to smile.

“Made it… to the date.”

She collapses into your chest.

“Shut up,” she says, sobbing, laughing. “Just--shut up.”

You feel her lips against your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your mouth. Salt tears and blood between you. She kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she needs it to live.

You let her.

Because you do too.

Natasha dragging you the final stretch, body broken, her mind fracturing -- while the evac chopper blades are screaming overhead and help is just out of reach.

This is the last burst of desperation before you’re ripped from the mouth of death.

She kisses you once.

Quick. Messy. Salt and blood on your lips. Her hand cups your face like it’s all she has left in the world.

Then she’s moving again.

“Stay awake, detka,” she breathes, slinging your arm around her neck once more. “You got this far. Don’t quit now.”

You try to stand. You try to help.

You can’t.

Your body is a dead thing she has to drag. Your legs twitch but won’t lift. Your knees knock against the floor as she pulls you through the corridor, step by brutal step.

Outside, the wind shifts. The chop of helicopter blades roars louder. Almost there.

“I’ve got you,” she says again, though her voice is hoarse now. She’s repeating it more for herself than you.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

She stumbles. The weight of you pulling her sideways. She slams a hand into the wall for balance, nearly collapses.

Her arms are screaming. Her spine feels like it’s going to snap.

But she keeps going.

One hand on her pistol, the other dragging your body into the light of the hangar bay.

She sees them then.

SHIELD medics.

Two of them. Just past the open ramp of the chopper.

One lifts a radio.

“Agent Romanoff--status--do you need--?”

“Help!” she yells, staggering forward. “She’s dying!”

They sprint toward you.

“Poisoned--nerve agent--two doses of the antidote--cardiac arrest sixty seconds ago--she’s back, but she’s slipping--!”

They reach you just as your body spasms again.

Natasha doesn’t let go.

She’s still holding you even as they lower a stretcher. Still has one knee under your head as they start cutting away the armor, checking your vitals, calling for adrenaline.

“You need to let us--” one medic says.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps, and her voice is ice. Shaking. Shredded.

They work. She watches. Every time your chest rises, her grip tightens on your arm. Every pause makes her stop breathing.

When they finally lift you into the chopper, she’s beside you. No one tries to stop her.

Her hand never leaves yours.

Inside, it’s noise and heat and spinning pain.

You blink weakly. The overhead lights are harsh. Your ears are full of static. You're shaking violently now--reaction from the second dose--and your body won't calm.

You can’t stop whispering her name. Like you’re checking if she’s still real.

She is.

She leans over you, both hands cupping your face.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at her, really look.

There’s blood on her cheek. A split at her lip. A gash along her bicep still bleeding freely. But her eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing worth watching in the world.

“I love you,” you murmur, dazed.

She kisses your forehead, hard.

“You’d better,” she says.

Then your eyes roll back. The medics shout something.

And she starts to pray again.

You wake to the sound of beeping.

Soft. Steady. Mechanical.

It echoes in your skull like sonar, each pulse drawing you back toward consciousness. At first, it doesn’t feel like waking -- it feels like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching, gravity heavier than it should be.

Everything is white.

Too bright. Too still.

The sheets under you are stiff. The light above your head doesn’t flicker like the compound’s. It’s soft. Clean. Sterile. A filtered hum of recycled air replaces the chaos of gunfire and shouted orders.

You inhale -- and feel the weight of your own body for the first time in hours. Days? You don’t know. Every inch of you aches. Your chest is wrapped tight. There’s a catheter in your arm. Tubes in your nose.

But you’re alive.

You blink again, slowly.

And that’s when you feel it.

Her hand.

Wrapped around yours.

Warm. Steady. Holding like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

You turn your head with effort.

There she is.

Slumped in a chair beside your hospital bed, head tilted to rest on the mattress, asleep. Or trying to be. Her other hand is buried in her hair, half-pulled loose from its braid. She hasn’t changed clothes. There’s a bloodstain on her tactical pants and bruises down her forearm that weren’t there before.

She looks wrecked.

You want to speak, but your throat is raw -- so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed dust.

Still, something rasps out.

“…Tasha.”

She jolts awake so fast it’s like you’ve been shot again.

Her head lifts. Her eyes are wild, scanning you from head to toe, like she expects you to vanish right in front of her.

And then they fill with tears.

“Oh my god--” Her voice breaks. “Y/n”

You try to smile. It hurts. “Still… breathing.”

She’s already leaning forward, both hands on your face now, her thumbs brushing gently at your temples, your jaw, your lips like she needs to re-learn every part of you to believe it.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Only returned the favor,” you croak.

She lets out a soft, broken laugh, then presses her forehead to yours.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.

You close your eyes, letting her words settle into your skin.

“You didn’t,” you say. “You never do.”

She sits back, wipes her eyes roughly, like she’s mad at herself for showing any of this. But her hands won’t stop shaking.

“How long?” you ask, voice hoarse.

She hesitates. “Thirty-two hours in a medically induced coma. Another eight unconscious. You coded twice. They had to re-administer part of the antidote. Your kidneys tried to fail.”

“Hot,” you whisper.

She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

You squeeze her hand, or try to. Your fingers barely move.

But she feels it.

Her expression softens.

“I thought about what I’d say when you woke up,” she murmurs. “Rehearsed it in my head. Over and over.”

You look up at her. “And?”

She leans close again. Her voice is barely audible.

“I love you,” she says. “I loved you before this. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

You blink slowly. “Guess I had to almost die to get you to say it.”

She closes her eyes.

“You’re never doing that again,” she whispers. “I mean it. No more near-death confessions. Next time I want to say it, we’re going to be safe. Somewhere soft. Warm. You’ll be wearing pajamas. I’ll be making you pancakes. Badly.”

You smile, finally. Weak. But real.

“I want that.”

She kisses your knuckles.

“You’ll have it,” she whispers. “You’ll have all of it.”

Silence falls again. Not awkward. Just full of things that don’t need to be said out loud.

Her hand stays in yours.

And in the lull between beeping monitors and IV drips, you let yourself drift.

Not from pain. Not from poison.

But into rest.

Safe. Held. Loved.

The stip club smelled faintly of horny men, neon lights and spilled drinks. You moved through the crows, letting the music carry your hips, but your mind wasn’t on the beats.

It was the exhaustion gnawing at your muscles. It was another one of those long nights that never really seemed to end. Your knees and ankles were sore from the heels and the many lap dances you had performed that evening.

Somewhere deep down, you knew this wasn’t where you wanted to be.

You moved through the blinds that reflected the neon glow from the club, painting stripes of pink and blue across the worn wooden floor of your backroom.

You sat down and removed your heels, tugging at the straps of your costume and trying to steady your nerves. The bass from the main floor was relentless; it vibrated through your chest like it wanted to rewrite your heartbeat.

‘’Hey, girl,’’ A voice cut through the haze—one you’ve heard dozens of times but never quite gotten used to. One of the other dancers, Diamond, leaned against the counter, tossing her long braid over her bare shoulder.

She started to remove the money from her bra, letting it clink into the small pouch at her waist. ‘’Another packed floor tonight,’’ she said with a grin, shaking her head. ‘’Think they’re ever going to get tired of you?’'

You smirked, flexing your sore ankles. ‘’Not if I don’t get tired first. But I swear, sometimes it feels like I’m running on autopilot just to get through nights like these. Don’t get me wrong, I like stripping. But for men?’'

Diamond laughed, low and warm, and flopped onto the counter next to you, letting her braid swing lazily. ‘’I hear that. And I swear, the heels were made to torture us, not seduce anyone. My knees are officially filing a formal complaint.’'

You hummed, rubbing at the side of your ankle. ‘’At least we make it look effortless. That’s the real magic trick. Nobody sees the swearing, the aching, the silent counting of minutes until you can finally collapse.’'

She leaned back, eyes sparkling in the neon haze. ‘’You make it look so easy though. Like girl, you move like the music owns you… and I swear if you ever quit, some rich idiot’s going to snatch that fat ass in a heartbeat.’'

You laughed softly, tugging your costume straps into place. ‘’Maybe, yeah. But for now… This is what pays the bills.’’

The bass thumped through the walls again, and the glow from the neon lights painted stripes of pink and blue across your skin.

As you stood, sliding your heels back on and adjusting the last parts of your costume, the air felt a little heavier, like something— or rather someone— was waiting.

Once you stepped onto the stage, the first notes of your song pulsed through the speakers.

You stepped forward, hips swaying with a confidence born of years of practice. The click of your heels marking the rhythm. Every movement was precise, fluid, effortless—a language only your body spoke, and tonight, the crowd was fluent.

You swung your leg around the pole, your chest rising and falling in time with the bass. You tilted your head just so, letting a lock of hair fall down your face, teasing the audience without needing a word.

Your hands traced up your arms, over your shoulders, lingering on your neck before gliding down your torso. As your hands moved up again, you removed your bra. A standard in your routine. 

You bent backward slightly at the waist, the arched forward, letting your chest lead, a practiced tease that made the room hold its collective breath.

Circling the stage, you leaned into the crowd, letting the faintest brush of your fingertips near their hands ignite excitement. You spun slowly on your heel, letting your hair whip around dramatically before landing in a smooth, grounded stance.

You traced a hand down your thigh, gripping it gently and forcing your legs apart more. It teased the crowd with just enough suggestion to make their tips fly without crossing boundaries.

Your floorwork was up next. You kneeled gracefully, rolling from one side to the other, letting your torso twist and stretch, showcasing your extreme flexibility and strength. You rolled up, chest lifted, shoulders ack, and let your gaze sweep the audience like a predator hunting, knowing exactly which reactions to elicit.

Then you saw her.

You bit your lip without thinking, your body slowing.

She was taller than you, dressed well, red hair falling over her shoulders. She was not only watching you, but she desired you. You felt it, everywhere.

You finished with a slow, deliberate sway, keeping eye contact with her. Your heels clicked as you took measured steps forward. Each of your motions was polished to perfection, each gesture designed to command attention from royalty.

Tips put on the side of your string or in your hand—ones, fives, tens, some twenties—you kept scanning the crowd, catching every movement, every reaction.

And there it was. A crisp and commanding hundred-dollar bill, tucked firmly into the front of your panties. The hand lingered for longer than allowed. But you allowed it this once. But only because it was hers…

Her hand slipped out of your sparkling string.

Even with the cheers and the flashing lights, all you could feel was the pull of her gaze, sharp and dominant, and it made your movements sharper, more confident, more intoxicating. Every sway, every spin, every deliberate pause now carried an extra electricity. You weren’t just dancing for the crowd—you were dancing for her.

The song ended, your chest heaving just enough to show the exertion, and the applause roared. Your hands slick with the sweat of a performance well-done, you grinned, knowing you’d given them—and her—exactly what they came for.

You climbed off the stage, sliding your bra back on. Diamond was already at the counter, counting over her tips again, smirking.

‘’Not bad, even I got turned on,’’ she said, tossing a few singles into her pouch. ‘’Seems like someone’s got a fan with deep pockets?’'

You smirked, brushing sweat from your forehead. ‘’Yeah… someone.’’ Your fingers grazed the bill still tucked in your panties. The memory of her eyes—intense, sharp and possessive—made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely comfortable, but not unpleasant either.

You felt a presence behind you.

Diamond’s mouth fell open, watching the woman behind you. She didn’t like girls, but this woman was something no man could defeat.

You hadn’t seen her move through the crowd, hadn’t heard her footsteps, and yet she was suddenly in the doorway of the backroom. Tall, poised, every inch the Alpha.

You turned to look at her, her gaze locking on you immediately, unyielding, dominant. A flicker of something else, too, softening her edges ever so slightly, just for you.

‘’You’re holding back.’’ Your heart skipped. How could she tell?

‘’I’ve been doing this a long time.’'

‘’I’ve been looking for someone like you,’’ she said, voice dropping. Her presence wrapped around you, firm, undeniable.

Your fingers tightened on your costume strap. Somewhere in your chest, you knew: this is meant to be.

‘’I’m y/n.’'

‘’Natasha.’'

Diamond took it as her cue to leave when you introduced yourself to her with your real name.

‘’Come with me,’’ she said simply. ‘’I’ve got somewhere you belong.’'

Your breath caught. You could say no, but every instinct, every pull, told you to follow. You did.

-///-

The noise of the club faded behind you as Natasha led you through the throng of bodies. Your long faux fur coat covers your body. Her hand brushed against yours—light, deliberate—and even that small touch sent a shiver curling down your spine. You didn’t pull back. You couldn’t. Every instinct in you wanted to stay close, to follow, lean into the pull she radiated.

Outside, the air was cooler, sharp against your face. The city hums around you, neon reflecting in puddles from recent rain, but none of it really matters. All you could feel was her. The way she carried herself, firm, commanding, every step precise.

Her energy filled the space around you, and your omega instincts bent toward it naturally, curling in response, softening, trusting without question.

‘’You don’t understand,’’ she said, voice low, rough with something urgent. Her hand shot out, brushing against your arm. It wasn’t light, nor teasing, but claiming, grounding and desperate. ‘’I can’t… I can’t let you stay there. Not like that.’'

Your pulse spiked.

‘’You belong with me,’’ she said, and the words were sharp. ‘’You’re mine.’’

The words made your knees weaken, heat curling low in your stomach.

‘’Yes,’’ you breathed out. Your hands hesitated for a moment before clutching at her jacket, body drawn toward hers like gravity had changed direction.

Natasha exhaled slowly against your hair, her grip tightening as if letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

Before you knew it, you were in her room.

Natasha’s hand closed around your wrist, firm and steady.

The heat between them was far from subtle. It was the main focus at this very moment. Your chest rose sharply as her presence pressed closer, Alpha enegry heavy and grounding.

Her thumb moved slowly against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured.

You hadn’t even noticed until she said it. Your body felt like it was humming, nerves alive, instincts pulling you closer to her without permission. But you didn't force them to stop.

‘’I’m not scared.’'

‘’I know.’'

Her grip eased on you, sliding her hands into yours. Interwining them.

Natasha stepped closer, crowding into your space until your knees brushed the edge of the mattress. She didn’t rush. Alphas didn’t need to rush. The control in the way she moved only made the tension worse.

Her other hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“You looked at me like you already knew,” she said quietly. 

Your hands tightened in her jacket again. “I think I did.”

Her jaw flexed at that, like the words hit something deep inside her.

For a moment, she just looked at you—really looked. Like she was memorizing every part of you.

Then her hand slid from your hands to your waist, pulling you a little closer.

Your breath hitched.

“Baby girl,” she murmured. 

The word sent a shiver through your whole body. Natasha leaned down slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your fingers curled tighter in the fabric of her jacket as your forehead brushed hers, the space between you shrinking until your breathing mixed.

“Say it,” you whispered.

A faint smile touched her mouth.

“You’re mine.”

And this time, when she kissed you, there was nothing hesitant about it.

You moaned into it, submitting to her fully. Letting her claim you as hers.

Natasha guided you down on the mattress, her touch delicate.

Her fingers lingered over your jacket.

Natasha looked up at you, asking for permission. 

You gave her a small smile and a nod.

She smiled back at you before gently removing your coat. She put it to the side before removing her own.

Natasha watched your curves, your goosebumps, and glitter covering your chest.

Then she met your eyes, lingering longer than necessary.

‘’Come here,’’ you spoke.

She moved closer, and you spread your legs for her.

A soft hum left her, her fingers playing with the hem of your underwear.

She removed it with your consent, then your bra.

It left you shy, gently covering your hands with trembling hands.

‘’It’s okay… You’re beautiful, y/n.’'

Her reassurance made you feel a little better. It wasn’t that you hadn’t had sex before, but you had never had this type of connection with another alpha before.

This was special. It was soft and gentle, and that made you nervous.

Her touch lingered on your thigh, tracing circles before speaking.

‘’Let me know if I do anything you’re not comfortable with.’'

‘’Of course, Natty.’'

She smiled softly at you, removing her own clothes.

You gasped, her faint abs showing in the moonlight.

‘’You’re stunning,’’ you mutter, eyes meeting hers. ‘’I need you, please.’'

She hovered over you, her touch on your stomach delicate.

‘’Tell me,’’ Natasha looked down, spreading your legs so she could move between them, ‘’who do you belong to?’'

You breathed out, glancing at her hard cock, then meeting her eyes that were already looking at you.

‘’You. I belong to you.’'

Her lips hovered over yours, but you couldn’t wait. You grabbed her waist and pulled her into you, kissing her passionately.

Her tip rubbed against your entrance, making you gasp.

You let out a nervous laugh as she pulled away from your lips.

She smiled, ‘’You’re okay. You’re safe here.’'

All you could do was nod.

She lined up, pecking your lips before gently pushing in.

You let out a gentle, strangled moan, arching your back as she pushed herself in.

Natasha cooed at you, rubbing your arm, leaning closer as you pulled her in.

Your nails dug into her back, making her hiss.

‘’Sorry,’’ you mumbled.

She chuckled, a soft and maybe a little nervous one, ‘’it’s very okay., baby girl’'

Natasha felt your hot breath against her neck, continuing to push herself in until you were filled to the brim.

Your breath was heavy, your eyes closed.

As you took a deep breath in to calm yourself, you got a good whiff of her perfume.

It calmed you almost immediately.

‘’You smell nice,’’ you whispered, caressing her back.

She leaned down to kiss your neck.

You hummed, a hand landing at the back of her neck to pull her closer.

Natasha pulled away, then started to move her hips.

‘’Natasha…’’ you breathed out.

Her right hand moved to grab your left one, intertwining your fingers.

She pinned it above your head, her thrusts becoming more urgent and deeper.

‘’That’s it. Take me, baby girl.’'

Your eyes squeezed shut, her tip hitting your G-spot in the best way possible.

‘’Oh god, oh god, oh god…—‘’

Your breathy moans and whimpers hit something deep and feral inside her.

Natasha’s chest moved against yours with her thrusts, arousing both of you even more.

She pulled you closer as your free hand came to your mouth, biting the back of it to suppress the moans you left out.

‘’Let me hear you.’'

‘’Natasha—!’'

You squirmed, her hand removed itself from your to grab the one over your mouth.

She moved your hand and hers down to your clit.

You started to rub it, the way you knew that would make you cum.

Her hand was over yours, learning the pattern.

Once you removed your hand, in complete bliss, her hand took over, rubbing your clit in the way you had.

It was perfect.

‘’Yes! Oh fuck..’'

You gasped, your hands tangling in Natasha’s hair.

Natasha let out a low growl, feeling herself getting closer to the sight of you and the tug of her red hair.

Her hand worked overtime on your clit as she continued to pound into you, now at a speed you didn’t know was possible.

You heard her mutter ‘mine’ under her breath, making you smile softly through the moaning mess you had now become.

‘’Are you close?’’ She asked, panting herself.

You nodded your head furiously, ‘’ye-yeah…’'

Your legs wrapped around her waist, her thrust getting a new angle, which made your eyes roll to the back of your head.

‘’You’re safe with me, come for me.’'

With her words, you did, it came rushing over you, and your body stiffened.

Legs then shaking.

She kissed your forehead lovingly as your nails dug into her back, almost ripping through her skin.

The feeling made her moan, ‘’ngh- y/n!’'

She groaned your name as she shot her load into you.

You shivered at the sensation, the second contraction spilling more white liquid into you.

Her muscles tightened and her skin flushed.

Natasha’s heart pounded in her chest as she looked at you.

She pulled out, her dick still hard.

She let out a quiet laugh as she bit her lip. Her eyes were dark with lust, love and admiration.

She wiped the sweat off your forehead, kissing you deeply.

You returned it with more passion.

‘’You’re amazing,’’ she whispered.

''Thank you.’'

Her dick continued to throb, as something changed in her, ‘’lay on your side.’'

You obeyed as she moved behind you.

Her hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer.

Her touch was protective, calming and strangely arousing.

-///-

The next morning, the two of you were panting. Natasha never got tired of using all your holes.

Finally, though, when the sun hit her face, she quieted down, exhaustion getting to her.

With a soft thud, she collapsed beside you, her fingers stroking absent-mindedly on your arm.

Your eyes were still closed, chest heaving, and lips parted.

She kissed your back lovingly before turning you to face her.

You smiled at her, and she smiled back.

Natasha brushed a strand of hair away from your face, studying you like she had been doing all night.

‘’You should stay…’'

Her voice was raw and soft.

Your smile widened as you cuddled closer to her, your trembling legs entangled in hers.

‘’I didn’t plan to move.’'

‘’Be my girlfriend…?’'

She was hesitant, and you saw it, you heard it.

It was sudden, but it was exactly what you needed.

‘’Yes.''

AN: releasing a photo of me in the club

The mission had gone smoothly. You'd been listening from the comms room, eyes flicking between the surveillance feed and Natasha’s on-screen, pretending not to notice the way your stomach twisted every time she laughed. 

The target was some smug businessman with a taste for redheads and too much cologne. And Natasha, professional as always, played the part perfectly. Leaning in close, voice soft, the kind of laugh that made your pulse skip.  

Then you heard her through the comms. 

“You know,” she said, her tone silk smooth, “I’ve always had a weakness for confident men.” 

Your jaw tightened. You let out a small huff before you could stop yourself. It was quiet, but not quiet enough. 

There was a tiny pause on the comm line. Then Natasha’s voice came again, like she hadn’t heard you. 

“Mmm. Tell me more about this security system of yours, handsome.” 

You muted your mic before you could say anything you would regret. 

By the time you were back at the Tower, you had decided she didn’t need to hear much from you tonight. 

~ 

Natasha walked into your shared room, still half in her gear. She looked tired but smug, her usual post mission glow. 

“You didn’t say much on the ride home,” she said casually, unzipping her suit, “Everything okay, baby?” 

You sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling on your phone. Not even a glance. Natasha paused. 

“Oh. I know that look.” 

No response. 

She dropped her gloves on the dresser with a sigh, “You are not seriously giving me the silent treatment.” 

Silence. 

“You are!” she grins, “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” 

You kept your eyes on your screen. She crossed the room and plopped down beside you, close enough for the bed to dip. 

“Alright,” she said, “Let’s see. Did I forget a date? Leave my boots on the bathroom again? Use your mug? What are we mad about this time?” 

Still nothing. 

Her brow furrows, a little crease appearing between her eyes, “Okay... so it’s not the boots.” 

You continued scrolling on your phone. 

“It’s something from the mission, isn’t it?” she guessed, “Was it my excellent act?” 

Your raise an eyebrow but don’t speak. Her grin widens. 

“Ah. So it is about the mission.” 

She leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to be teasing, “Let me guess... You didn’t like hearing me flirt with our charming target?” 

Yu finally looked at her. Just for a moment. Then you went right back to your phone. 

“Ohhh,” she said, amused now, “You’re jealous.” 

“I am not,” you exhaled through your nose. 

“She speaks!” her eyes light up at the sound of your voice. 

“Barely,” you shot her a look. 

Natasha chuckled, “Come on, you know that was just part of the mission.” 

You didn’t look up, “Mhm.” 

“Sweetheart,” she tried again, softer now, “it was just work. You know that, right?” 

You shrugged, scrolling again even though you weren’t reading a thing, “Sure. Just work.” 

Her lips twitched, “You huffed in my ear.” 

That got your attention, “You heard that?” 

“Oh, I heard it,” she said, leaning back on her hands with a grin, “Almost made me laugh. Not great timing, though. I was trying to seduce a criminal.” 

You finally put the phone down, turning toward her, “Glad I could help.” 

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice softened, the teasing melting just a little, “You know I only had eyes for you, right?” 

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched, “You told him you had a weakness for confident men.” 

“Mm,” she hummed, pretending to think, “That was a lie. I have a weakness for stubborn girls who give me the silent treatment.” 

You snorted, trying not to smile. She caught it instantly, “Ah! There it is. The almost smile. I’m making progress.” 

“Barely.” 

“Barely is still better than nothing,” she said, nudging your knee with hers, “You can keep ignoring me if you want, but just know you’re terrible at it.” 

You stood up, crossing your arms, “Maybe I’ll ignore you until breakfast.” 

Natasha tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully, “You think you’ll last that long?” 

“Watch me.” 

~ 

The next morning, you walked into the kitchen to find Clint, Sam, and Wanda already there, and Natasha leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, grinning like she’d been waiting all night for this. 

“Morning,” Clint said, half-asleep, “Uh-oh. Cold front coming through?” He glanced between you and Natasha. 

“Don’t,” you warned. 

Natasha smirked into her coffee, “She’s ignoring me.” 

Clint raised his eyebrows, “Again?” 

“What did you do this time, Romanoff?” Sam chuckled. 

“Apparently, I was too charming on a mission.” 

“Oh, that’s definitely grounds for punishment,” Clint said with mock seriousness, “Silent treatment for a week, minimum.” 

You grabbed a bagel and sat at the far end of the table. Natasha followed like a shadow, sitting directly across from you. 

Wanda looked between you two, hiding a smile behind her cup, “You know, Nat, some people bring flowers when they’re in trouble.” 

Natasha didn’t even blink, “Already did.” 

You gave her a pointed look, then went back to your bagel like you were reading classified information on the cream cheese. 

“Yikes,” Sam muttered under his breath, “That’s some dedication right there.” 

“Don’t encourage her,” you said. 

“I wasn’t,” Sam said quickly, lifting his hands in surrender, “I’m just saying, most people would’ve caved after a few hours. Romanoff’s got her work cut out for her.” 

Natasha smirked, clearly unfazed, “Oh, I like a challenge.” 

Clint leaned toward Wanda, “Ten bucks says she breaks before lunch.” 

“Make it twenty. Natasha doesn’t lose.” Wanda smiled, not looking up from her cup. 

“You’re all insufferable.” You stood up, chair scraping the floor. 

Natasha grinned. “You love us.” 

You didn’t answer. You just grabbed your mug, refilled it, and left the room with a huff. 

~ 

By the time lunch rolled around, Natasha had tried three different tactics: charm, humour, and sheer persistence. None worked. You were focused, silent, stubborn, and completely unreadable. 

When you passed her in the hall, she grinned, “Hey, gorgeous.” 

You kept walking. 

“Still nothing?” she called after you, “Not even a glare?” 

You threw her a look over your shoulder, just enough to let her know she wasn’t invisible. She smiled like she’d won a medal. 

~ 

Later that afternoon, you were in the lounge with a book when the rest of the team filtered in. Tony turned on the TV, Bruce took the armchair and Natasha entered last, deliberately dropping onto the couch beside you. 

“Room for one more?” she asked. 

You didn’t look up. 

“Cool, cool,” she said, settling in like she’d been invited. 

A few minutes of quiet passed, just the sound of the TV and Sam’s running commentary, before Natasha reached for the bowl of popcorn on the table. She deliberately leaned over you to grab it, arm brushing yours. 

You scooted slightly to the side. 

Natasha hid a grin and took a handful of popcorn, “You know,” she said conversationally, “this silent treatment thing isn’t as bad as I thought. You’re quiet. Peaceful. Kinda nice.” 

You looked up, finally meeting her gaze. 

She smirked, “There it is. That look. That’s my favourite one.” 

You turned away, fighting the urge to smile. 

Tony looked over his shoulder, amused, “Whatever you did, Romanoff, you’d better fix it before she locks you out of your room again.” 

“She wouldn’t,” Natasha said confidently. 

Tony raised a brow. “Wouldn’t she?” 

You didn’t answer, just raised your eyebrow. The whole room laughed. 

~ 

Dinner was worse. Or better, depending on who you asked. Natasha spent the entire meal trying to get your attention, offering you bread, stealing your fork, even sliding a note across the table that said Still mad? Circle one: Yes / No / Maybe later. 

You didn’t circle anything. 

She laughed under her breath, and you swore you caught Clint snapping a picture. 

~ 

When you finally retreated to your shared room, Natasha followed a few minutes later, quieter this time, no smug grin. Just her usual calm. 

She stopped in the doorway, watching you pull your hair back, clearly trying to gauge your mood. 

“You know,” she said softly, “I was gonna give you space tonight.” 

You didn’t turn around, folding your shirt neatly before setting it on the dresser. 

“But,” she continued, stepping closer, “then I realized giving you space might mean giving up on you and that’s not really my thing.” 

You stilled, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing your face, but you kept folding clothes. 

Natasha sighed quietly, running a hand through her hair, “I know you’re mad. And you have every right to be. I was… reckless with my words. I should’ve thought about how it sounded.” 

You turned slightly, enough to see her reflection in the mirror. Her expression wasn’t teasing anymore, no smirk, no spark of mischief. Just honesty. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you said quietly, finally speaking, “I just hate hearing it. The way you laugh, the way you lean in like it’s real. It makes me feel stupid for caring.” 

Natasha’s voice softened even more, “You’re not stupid for caring. You’re human. And I… I care, too. Probably more than I should.” 

You finally turned to face her, “You didn’t even hesitate, Nat. You said it like it meant something.” 

Natasha took a slow breath, her hands falling to her sides, “That’s the job,” she said quietly, “I have to make them believe it means something.” 

“That’s the problem,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, “You make me believe it, too.” 

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the faint hum of the AC and the sound of your pulse in your ears. Natasha stepped closer, her movements slow, careful. 

“Hey,” she murmured, “look at me.” 

You did. 

Her eyes were softer now, that usual steel replaced with something warmer, more fragile, “When I’m out there,” she said, “I become whoever I need to be. But when I come home…” She hesitated, her lips twitching faintly, “…I don’t have to pretend with you.” 

Your chest tightened. “You still said it.” 

“I know,” she whispered, “And I hated it the second I heard that little huff in my ear.” 

You tried not to smile, but your mouth betrayed you. Natasha saw it instantly, stepping closer until there were only a few inches between you. 

“I don’t flirt with them because I want to,” she said softly, “I do it because I have to. But when I flirt with you…” Her hand reached up, brushing your cheek with the lightest touch, “That’s real.” 

Your breath hitched. 

“Confident men don’t do it for me,” she murmured, “You do.” 

“You’re impossible, you know that?” 

“I’ve been told,” she said with a small grin, her thumb tracing your jaw, “But you keep loving me anyway.” 

You let out a reluctant laugh, shaking your head, “I wasn’t even sure if I was gonna talk to you tonight.” 

“Good thing I’m persuasive.” 

You sighed, but there was no heat left in it, “You really are.” 

Natasha leaned in, her lips brushing just beneath your ear, “Does that mean I’m forgiven?” 

You hesitated for dramatic effect, then said softly, “Maybe.” 

She smiled against your skin, “Maybe’s a start.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved up despite yourself, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”