Female Fight Club

Help!

The text had come just as Natasha was gearing up to dig into a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. She was mid-scoop, enjoying the quiet and solitude at this time of night, when her phone dinged. She knew it could be one of the few people on her personal line, daring to text her at this hour. 

With a fond eye roll, she began to respond to your message. Only another one came in before she could finish typing. 

I have made a series of poor but legally defensible decisions. 

Natasha sighed.  ‘Where are you?’ She asked. 

I’m here, but Karen can take me home….

Another ping. 

I just really missed you. *insert crying sad face emoji* 

Where is here? She responded, already grabbing her jacket. 

*************

Here ended up being a lovely, hole-in-the-wall nightclub named Peachez with terrible parking and a line down the block. Natasha parked her Jaguar in the front, not even bothering to turn on her hazards as she gave a slight nod to the bouncer at the door. 

There were a few gasps in the line from those who recognized her. She didn’t react. You were her only focus.  The club was loud enough to qualify as a weapon. She slipped through the crowd, practically bumping into security, a man named Will, with green eyes and a muscle shirt labeled in white. 

“Where is she?” Natasha asked. They’d done this dance before. It was always funny, really. She had infiltrated secure compounds, fought assassins, and survived alien invasions. Finding her girlfriend after a law school finals celebration felt more challenging. 

“If you’d come any earlier, you would have seen her,” Will grinned. “She was dancing on top of the platform. After that, she jumped into the crowd and-”

“Natasha,” You grabbed her from behind, pulling her into you. You drunkenly stumbled back, knowing how surprising it could be for her, but also knowing she was expecting it. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m just so happy to see you.” “I’m happy to see you too,” She said. She gave you a once-over, eyeing the outfit you donned. A fitted halter dress that hugged your waist, flaring out over your curves, patterned with cheetah print, fishnet stockings with rips on the side, and stilettos high enough to twist an ankle. Those heels kept her attention longer than necessary. She could guess because they made your legs and ass look so much more enticing. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“Well, the average woman is around 5'4,” You began very seriously. “And I am 5'7. Which means statistically speaking, I am easier to find than most women.”

Natasha stared at you. “You are not 5’7.” 

Will immediately turned away to hide a laugh.

“Also, that isn't how statistics work.”

“You're a spy, not a mathematician.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Neither are you.”

“I passed Statistics.” You scoffed. 

“You got a B-minus.” She glanced down again, no doubt at your heaving breasts, before she looked back up to your eyes. 

“A pass is a pass.” You shrugged. Then, you beamed proudly.

Natasha took your hand before you could launch into whatever argument was coming next. “Come on.”

“No.”

“No?” She raised a brow. 

“I just got here,” You said. “Karen’s already left and found some dude to screw. I should really stop her from doing that.”

“You texted me for help.”

“I needed emotional support.”

“You have emotional support.”

You held up her hand triumphantly. “See?”

Despite herself, Natasha felt the corner of her mouth twitch.

Dangerous.

The second you spotted it, you pointed dramatically.

“There! You smiled!”

“I didn't.”

“You did.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're smiling right now.” You poked her cheek. 

Will coughed loudly. “She's definitely smiling.”

Natasha shot him a look. The security guard suddenly found the opposite wall fascinating. You giggled and leaned against her shoulder.

The smell of your perfume mixed with sweat, club lights, and something sugary she'd long ago identified as your signature scent wafted in the air. 

“Did you have fun?” she asked.

“The most fun.”

“How much did you drink?”

You squinted. “A lawyer never reveals information without representation present. Also, define drinks.”

Natasha closed her eyes briefly. 

“Before we leave, you have to dance with me.” You made her promise. “One song.”

“One song,” Natasha held up a finger. The crowd seemed to cheer as Zapp and Roger’s “I want to be your man” began to play. You wrapped your arms around her waist and pulled her into you. 

Natasha was a great dancer. One of the best you’d ever met. There was nothing like slow dancing with your girl in the middle of the club. Except maybe, tacos. Tacos would do. 

“Let’s go,” You began to pull her outside of the club. Before you could leave, the bartender, Connie, held up your purse. “Oh, I was wondering where that went.” You reached past a couple of men to grab it. 

One of them, a blonde with expired highlights, leered at you. “Where are you going? Can we come?”

“In your dreams,” You rolled your eyes. You pulled Natasha towards the door once again. “Besides, I don’t share.” You mumbled. Natasha’s expression softened in a way she didn’t bother hiding anymore.

“Good to know,” she murmured. She was finally happy to see that you both stepped onto the street. She aimed for the car and stopped for half a second.

That was all it took for you to veer off course like it was the most obvious decision in the world.

“Y/n? Where are you going?” She called after you. 

“Street tacos,” you said again, more firmly this time, already scanning the sidewalk like a person on a very important mission.

Natasha followed your line of sight and immediately spotted what you meant: a late-night taco truck parked a half block down, glowing under the street lights. 

Of course.

Of course, you had priorities.

“Baby,” she called, catching up to you in three quick strides, “you’re wearing stilettos.”

You waved her off without even looking back. “And? Tacos don’t judge me. I’m hungry, and my stomach’s gonna eat my back.”

“Walking like that, you’re going to fall into the sidewalk.”

“I won’t fall.”

“You’re walking like a newborn deer.”

“I’m walking like a lawyer on a case.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose, already reaching out so her hand hovered near your elbow without quite forcing you to stop. You didn’t even fight it; you just naturally drifted closer into her space.

“Yes, hi, I’ll have three of the mini steak tacos, with jalapenos on the side,” you asked politely.” You looked over to Natasha with slightly dilated pupils. “My girlfriend will have three as well.”

“I’m not really hungry,” She shook her head. 

“Oh, please, you’re going to be trying to bite into mine as soon as you smell how good it is,” You finished ordering. You paid and stepped back to allow another drunken customer to order. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to fight off the cold. 

“Here,” She said quietly, wrapping her jacket around your shoulders. 

“Thank you,” You kissed her lightly. “You have my makeup on your lips now.” You giggled, wiping it away with your thumbs. You could tell Natasha was secretly amused by all of this. “Later, I can tell you about how Professor Meyers is destroying my life.”

“You're getting a job offer from one of the best firms in New York.” She furrowed her brow. 

“That's unrelated.”

Natasha reached to grab the tacos, thanking the cashier, and walking arm and arm with you back to her car. 

“Get in the car.” She said as she opened the door for you.

You paused. Then suddenly wrapped both arms around her neck. The force nearly knocked her backward.

“Thank you for coming, baby.”

The sincerity in your voice caught her off guard.

Your eyes were glassy now, not from tears exactly, but from exhaustion and love?

Natasha pressed a kiss against your forehead.

“Always.”

Your smile returned immediately.

“Okay.” You sat down. “Stay there so I don’t flash the neighborhood.” You requested, grabbing onto your seatbelt and throwing your head back against the seat. 

“Sometimes, maybe you should wear panties,” She shook her head. When she was in her seat and ready, she started the car again and drove off. 

“A thong counts,” You laughed. “You know I was arguing with a guy in there,” You said. “A finance bro using daddy’s money to splurge on hookers and booze. We argued for forty-five minutes about maritime law.”

“You don’t know maritime law,” Natasha flicked her indicator on to change lanes. 

“I know enough to know he was annoying,” You argued. You were quiet for a few minutes longer. “Can I ask you something?”

“What?” Natasha glanced over. 

“If we get married,” You began. “Would I get diplomatic immunity?”

She tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach at the idea of marrying you. It wasn’t the first time you brought it up, and she loved it every time. 

“No,” She denied. 

“Are you sure?” You tilted your head. “What are the benefits of being an Avenger? Do you need someone to go over your contract because I can?”

“Do you plan on committing crimes?” She asked. 

“No, of course not,” You shook your head. “I’m innocent.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said proudly, “you came to get me anyway.”

That made her glance at you.

“Yeah,” she said simply. The moment lingered for half a second longer than either of you acknowledged.

Then you shifted, her hand on your thigh moving a bit higher, like a thought had just fully formed.

“Okay,” you said suddenly.

Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly. “That tone is never good.”

“No, listen,” you insisted. “Hypothetically. If we ever decided to have kids—”

Natasha froze. You kept going, completely unaware of the internal system reboot you’d just triggered.

“—What do you think they’d be like?” You looked up at her, genuinely curious now, swaying a little in your seat.  “I feel like they’d either be super well-behaved,” you continued, “or absolutely feral. There’s no in-between with our genetics.”

Natasha finally found her voice.

“…Our genetics?”

You nodded seriously.

“Yes. Like, imagine a kid who inherits your ability to read a room and my inability to stay out of one.” You began to name. “Or putting my foot in my mouth at the worst times. A little us running around. No, I think I’d like that very much.” You said. 

Natasha couldn’t help but think about it too. Before, she’d think about it too. A life with you. A family with you. For a while, the only sound was the sound of the road. 

Natasha glanced over at you again.

“You really don’t pace yourself,” she said under her breath, not expecting a response.

You didn’t move. You were already gone. With your head tipped against the window, lashes lowered, mouth slightly parted in the kind of deep sleep that only came after weeks of exhaustion finally catching up all at once.

She huffed a quiet laugh.

Then, after a moment, her gaze returned to the road, but her thoughts didn’t.

“You know,” she said softly, like she was talking more to the quiet than to you, “you asked about kids. I think about it sometimes,” she admitted. At a red light, she finally let herself look at you properly. Your cheek was pressed against the window.  “I think…” she continued, almost uncertainly, “you’d be good at it.”

A small breath left her.

“You’re patient in the way you don’t realize. And stubborn in the way kids need. You’d definitely teach them bad habits.” She glanced at you again, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Probably starting with tacos before responsibility.”

You shifted slightly in your sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.

Natasha reached over carefully, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“I guess,” she said, quieter now, “I wouldn’t mind that either.”

The trip back to Natasha’s quarters isn’t a slow walk, it’s a flurry of frantic kisses trailing down her neck before your mouth reconnects with hers so your tongue can sloppily push its way past her lips, your hands roaming her body like you can’t get enough of her… and you can’t.

The moment you make it into her room, you’re quickly tugging at her shirt, roughly pulling at her pants, needing to remove all articles of her clothing that are preventing you from feeling her bare skin as fast as possible, needing to see her stripped and uncovered and in all her true glory.

Your hands shove up her shirt until her midriff is exposed for you to touch, and then they begin to slide lightly across her stomach, traveling to grip at her hips tightly in order to hold her to you for a few seconds before you resume trying to help her fully discard her shirt and bra.

You groan once the barriers between you two are gone, when the heat of her naked torso is flush against your body for the first time. You swear you can feel the hardness of her nipples as they press into you, and you know it’s not from just the chill of them now being out in the open. You’re immediately rolling one of the perked buds in your fingertips, unable to resist pinching at it until it peaks even more and draws a surprised noise from Natasha.

You repeat the action, wanting to elicit another one of her sounds, and then switch to the other side, skimming your thumb over her nipple and grabbing at and squeezing the softness of her breast until you’ve become thoroughly acquainted with her chest.

You shift your focus down to her pants, a damp spot still present from earlier between the apex of her thighs, soaking her leggings. You’re urgently pulling at them, attempting to rid her of her underwear simultaneously, Natasha assisting you by kicking the last barricade of clothing away.

And all the while, you’re still trying to kiss her. Your lips remain stubbornly locked onto hers with no space or breaks allowed. After your first kiss, gentle and lingering—you wanted to convey every bit of affection and desired intimacy you have for her—you’re now eager and desperate for more, everything in you begging to never let your lips part. Your kisses are no longer light touches. They’re haphazard and chaotic, tongues and teeth clashing with overwhelming need.

Natasha is moaning almost nonstop into you, sounds of pure pleasure escaping before getting swallowed by your mouth with each press of your lips, with each hot brush of your tongue against hers.

You pull back for a moment, your voice a mere whisper, in awe. “You’re so vocal,” you murmur, and when Natasha flinches despite your soft tone, you freeze as you realize that you’ve made another mistake.

“I- I’m sorry,” the redhead says weakly, and your heart breaks as you see the nervousness and embarrassment and shame visible on her face as she thinks she’s done something wrong.

For so long she’s been performing—to those she’s had to seduce or bed or sleep with for missions, to the people she had to pleasure without receiving anything in return, to everyone that came before you. Her sounds have always been theatrical, sensual in the way she knows will be regarded well, an inauthentic display intended to simply turn on the other person. They were never honest. And now that they are, she doesn’t know how to believe they’re not imperfect now that they’re not rehearsed.

You never want her to feel like that with you, to believe that she has to stifle any of her expressions, stifle any of the pleasure she experiences. You’re kicking yourself for your careless words, for the way you should’ve known how they could possibly be taken.

It gets worse when Natasha tries to pull away, to fully extract herself from up against you.

“No, no, Natasha, you have nothing to apologize for,” you try, holding her, keeping her right where there’s still no distance between your bodies. “I didn’t mean it like that. I love how you sound.”

Your words don’t remedy the situation like you were hoping, Natasha still worrying, and she says sorry again, small and subdued.

The repetition of her apology, the way she’s still shrinking back despite your steady grip and sincere gaze, despite your reassurance, makes your guilt twist further. One of your hands raises from her waist to cup her cheek. “I wasn’t complaining, I swear. I want to hear you; I want all of you—vocal, candid, loud—however you are.”

Natasha looks up at you uncertainly, still afraid of overstepping some invisible line that doesn’t exist, will never exist with you. “I didn’t mean it,” she says quietly.

“Didn’t mean to, what? Be loud for me? Moan for me? Fuck, I meant it when I said that I want that. Don’t apologize for making noises; don’t apologize for reacting how your body wants. Don’t hold yourself back for me, for anyone.”

She tries to compose herself, to untense her shoulders, to convince herself that you truly desire her even when unfiltered and unrestrained and undiluted, but it’s hard.

You slowly walk her backward to her bed, gently pushing her down until she’s laying back on the mattress and looking up at you as you stand over her. You blanket yourself on top of her body. Your words clearly aren’t enough, so you’re going to show her just how much you love her sounds, show her just how much you want her in this moment and every moment after.

You kiss her again, this time long and drawn out, pouring every ounce of adoration you have for her into it, trying to coax another moan, another whimper, another anything out of her, but you get nothing back. Your heart breaks again as you realize what she’s doing, as you see the way she’s holding back, trying hard to control herself because she thinks that her reactions aren’t something you desperately desire from her.

She doesn’t understand that the very thought of hearing her—her mewls, her whines, her gasps and panting—is something you’ve dreamed of.

“Please don’t be quiet for me,” you tell her, “Not ever.”

Natasha’s silent.

“Natasha,” you breathe out, “I need you to be loud. Your sounds are addicting.”

You begin to trail lazy kisses down the column of her throat, teeth scraping lightly against her skin, trying to entice her to make any noise. When she finally lets out something small, breaking her silence, unable to suppress it, you smile against her at your success.

“There it is,” you whisper, “Now, louder for me.”

She moans again at your demand, as you pick up where you left off, your mouth reattaching to her neck. You’re careful not to mark her despite your desire to—she’s so new to genuine attentiveness, after all, and you’re not sure how it would be received—but Natasha once again catches you off guard.

“Harder,” she pleads after a slightly firmer but still mindful bite.

You pause, pulling back to gaze at her, needing confirmation that you heard her right.

She whines at the new distance, weaving her fingers through your hair to try and tug you back in. “Harder,” she requests again, “Please.”

“Any harder and I’ll leave marks,” you warn her. Her unfamiliarity with touch, her insecurity… you’re unsure if she knows what she’s asking for, if she actually wants the reddened skin that’s going to follow your teeth and mouth.

“Please,” she says again, “I want them; I want everyone to know you touched me.”

And she does. Natasha wants there to be physical proof that you made her feel good, wants something that she can stare at in the mirror tomorrow and the next day and maybe the next, wants evidence that not only a person but you cared enough to give her something instead of take, that you spent time revering her instead of exploiting her.

You soften at her begging, at her words, at the look in her eyes, and when you move back to her neck, you mouth at it a little harder, suck a little more forcefully, dark marks instantly blooming in your wake. Your tongue laves over the areas to soothe the sharpness you know she’s feeling, but Natasha doesn’t seem to care. If anything, she seems to enjoy the dull sting, marveling in the consequence of your bites.

Your begin to continue down her body, descending to her collarbone and leaving more trails of love bites as you go, making your way to her chest where you swirl your tongue around one nipple before heading to pay attention to the other, licking a path down her stomach, nipping at her hipbone, and then positioning yourself at the foot of the bed in between Natasha’s thighs. Your mouth waters at the sight of her laid out before you, the wetness and need of her pussy more than obvious. You lean in closer, and the scent of her hits you hard, your eyes fluttering for a moment as you simply revel in it.

Her hips rise off the mattress impatiently, needily, trying to get her heat to come in contact with your mouth, but all it does it tease her more when you remain just out of reach, your warm breath now puffing against her slicked-up folds.

You stay just centimeters from her core, drawing out her desperation, her whines getting louder and more uninhibited with each second you refuse to give in. Eventually, you can’t keep the denial up. You need to taste her, to envelop yourself in her arousal, to get it to drip down your chin, and so you close the distance, licking a slow stripe from her entrance up to her clit before flicking the sensitive bud a few times, testing the waters, trying to determine what feels good to her.

You groan at the initial taste of her, savoring the flavor as it coats your tongue. “Fuck, you’re so wet, so sweet,” you murmur into her pussy in between licks.

Natasha’s legs try to snap shut at the stimulation, overwhelmed already, and your hands move up to grip her thighs, fingers digging into the plushness, keeping her spread open for you and your mouth.

You bury yourself into her pussy, wanting to smother yourself within, to practically suffocate in her folds. You want her to stay on your tongue for days after this, want to have her juices flood your mouth as you eat her out messily, your lips wrapping around her clit and sucking lightly.

Another moan leaves Natasha, and you keep up the suction just enough for her to whimper at how close she’s getting toward falling over the edge before pulling back.

“I’m not done with you yet,” you mumble against her core, the vibrations only adding to her stimulation. You shift to push one of her legs over your shoulder to give you better access. With the increased distance between her thighs, you dive back in, this time plunging your tongue into her hole, pushing in as deep as you can go.

With your previous reassurances, Natasha is now anything but quiet, sounds leaving her in a continuous succession. When you go back to her clit, you’re rewarded with a high-pitched noise that you’ve never heard from her before.

“You make the most perfect sounds,” you tell her softly before returning to your work.

Natasha’s hips are rocking, rutting up to get more of you, and you can tell she’s close yet again. Her eyes are screwed closed, her mouth parted with erratic breaths, and you decide to add your fingers, using them to replace your tongue.

One finger enters her, and then two, and she can’t believe that you’re able to wreck her to the extent you are right now. You start thrusting in and out at a fast pace, knowing she only needs a little more for the world to feel as though it’s tilting on its axis from pleasure.

Her face is flushed and gorgeous as your fingers drive into her, your hand slippery from her juices making the slide of your fingers in and out of her pussy almost too easy. Every breath of hers comes out as a moan and when you curl your fingers and are given an even louder cry, you know you found the right angle to hit that spot inside.

“Come for me,” you say gently, eyes locked onto her blissed out and focused expression, “I want you to come all over my tongue; I want to taste you as you do.” And then you’re hungrily lapping at her clit once more as you drag your fingers against her inner walls, rubbing parts of her that she didn’t know existed. You feel her getting tighter, pulsating around your digits as you continue your steady pumping, her legs shaking around your head.

Natasha falls apart in just mere seconds, her hips grinding down onto your face and fingers in an uneven rhythm after you speak to her in that tone of voice that indicates you are just as needy for her as she is for you. Everything seems to spin—the world tilts further—and then she’s floating on a high she never thought she could reach. If she thought earlier was good, she didn’t realize you hadn’t given her everything you had yet, didn’t realize that your hot mouth, your talented fingers, your unobstructed efforts, could affect her like this.

You slowly halt your movements when her trembling begins to subside, removing your fingers from within her in favor of stroking her inner thigh instead, the touch meant to soothe now instead of stoke fresh heat.

She’s still overwhelmed, still overcome by the feelings no one’s ever taken the time to give her before, but your caresses, your proximity, your closeness—both physically and emotionally right now—threaten to cause her heart to beat out of her chest while also settling the frenzied thumping behind her ribs.

“Feeling okay?” you ask.

She just nods her head. Natasha’s not yet certain that she can form words, but she after more than a few composing seconds, she tries. “I’m good,” she mumbles, barely successful at managing to talk, “Better than good.”

"Oh fuck," Natasha whimpered into the quietness of your bedroom. Her hands gripped the loosened scarf atop your head, holding on for dear life, as she rode the waves of her impending orgasm. Her hips moved of their own accord, undulating in smooth, deft motions against your face.

A muffled, "Mmm," vibrated through her pussy as you ate her out with practiced ease. Your tongue swirled around her clit, teasing and torturing her for a few long moments before switching it up. You flattened your tongue, licking a broad stripe up her slit. Your nose pressed against her pelvis, your breath fanning over her as her tangy musk filled your senses. You'd been at this for a while now, and your chin was slick with her arousal, but you didn't mind. You loved the taste of her, the way her body responded to your touch.

You could feel her thighs trembling around your head, her muscles tensing as she got closer and closer to the edge. You knew her body almost as well as your own, knew exactly how to push her. You knew when she held her breath, seemingly unable to remember to breathe during the pleasure, and when she began to pant heavily, letting out little whimpers and moans that were music to your ears. She was close. So close. You could feel it in the way her walls fluttered against your tongue, in the way her hands tightened their grip on your hair. You gripped the back of her thigh, signaling for her to let out her moans and breathe.

You pushed her leg higher to her chest. Her body arched, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as you gave her clit a final, firm suck. Her walls clenched around your tongue, her hips bucking wildly as she came. You held on, riding out the storm of her orgasm, your tongue lapping at her folds as she shuddered and trembled above you. You could feel her juices flooding your mouth, and you swallowed greedily, wanting to taste every last drop of her release.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Natasha collapsed into the pillows, her body limp and sated. She buried her face in your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. You held her close, her hands stroking her back as she came down from her high. "That was... intense," she mumbled into your neck, her voice hoarse.

"You're welcome," you chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. You moved over to your side of the bed, not bothering to look for your underwear as you lay beside her. There was usually a routine to Natasha's satisfaction after sex. She would either fall into a deep and immediate slumber or spend a short, insignificant amount of time diving into whichever book was on her nightstand, the pages illuminated by a tiny reading lamp bought on Amazon.

You would wrap yourself around her, stroking her belly or hips, as you fell into your own period of bliss. This morning seemed to be a bit different. You were reconnecting, in every way possible, wondering how you'd gone without her for eight months. The past hour had been a blur of passionate embraces, kisses, and whispered words that had melted away the distance between you. You'd made love with an intensity that bordered on desperate, each touch and caress a silent promise to never let go again.

Natasha shifted in your arms, her body pliant and relaxed against yours. "You're thinking too loud," she murmured, her husky voice sending chills down your spine.

You chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Just trying to memorize every inch of you again. Making sure I haven't forgotten anything."

She turned in your embrace, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light of the bedroom. "I don't think you could ever forget." You sat up, moving to lie across her lap. Her fingers traced patterns on your chest, light as butterfly wings. "But tell me something," she added, her tone shifting slightly, "that you love about me."

You smiled, thinking for a moment. "Your laugh. The way it starts small, and then grows into this full, contagious thing that makes everything feel right in the world. Not to mention you don't laugh out loud often. So when it happens, you can't help but stop and listen. Then it makes me laugh."

Natasha's lips curved into a soft smile. "I missed that," she said, her fingers still tracing circles on your skin. "I missed being the one to make you laugh."

"You always have been," you replied, your voice earnest. "Even when you were being all serious and spy-like. I always want it to be you."

"Spy-like?" She questioned.

"Yes, spy-like," You nodded. "You know how you get."

"Which is vastly different from your lawyer persona?"

"It's not a persona," You rolled your eyes playfully. "It's actually who I am."

"Mhm," She hummed. "I like that suit."

"Which one?"

"All of them." Natasha weighed her options. "But there's a grey and pink one you wore. It's pretty low cut. Even for you."

You laughed. "Well, I'll wear it more often if it means I get that kind of reaction."

"Maybe just at home. I don't want anyone else seeing you in it."

Her possessiveness sent a thrill through you. "Jealous, Mrs. Romanoff?"

"Protective," She corrected, her hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "There's a difference."

You leaned into her touch, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When her lips met yours, you smiled into the kiss." I know," you said softly. "I feel the same way about you."

A comfortable silence fell between you. You could feel the tension of the past months melting away, replaced by a warm, contented peace. Natasha shifted again, her arm draped over your midsection, bringing you even closer. "Stay with me," she whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised, your arms tightening over hers. "In fact, I think I've especially been missing these." You shifted slightly to flick the metal jewelry in her nipple. "The last time we had sex." Natasha hissed as your finger squeezed gently this time. She was always so sensitive, and especially so since she'd gotten them pierced. "You wouldn't let me touch them." You hummed.

Natasha's breath hitched as your fingers toyed with the small metal barbell. Her back arched slightly, a silent invitation for more. "I was too sore," she managed to say, her voice strained with pleasure. It was that, amongst other things. "You've been patient."

"I have been," you agreed, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her breast, deliberately avoiding the sensitive peak. "But patience is overrated sometimes."

Your tongue traced a slow circle around her areola, feeling the texture change as her nipple hardened in anticipation. Natasha's fingers rested on your neck, pulling you closer. "Don't tease," she breathed out.

"I'm taking my time," You mumbled. "Think I can make you cum just by sucking them?" You glanced up at her.

Natasha's pupils dilated at your question, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You think you're that good?" she challenged, though her voice held a hint of excitement.

You raised an eyebrow, a confident smirk playing on your lips. "I know I am." Your thumb brushed over the metal barbell again, pulling another sharp inhale from her. "But we can find out for sure if you'd like."

Natasha's answer was a soft, breathy laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as your lips finally closed around her nipple. The metal was cool against your tongue, a strange and thrilling sensation. You could feel her heartbeat quicken under your touch, her body responding with an eagerness.

Your free hand slid down her stomach, fingers tracing the dip of her navel before continuing lower. Natasha spread her legs instinctively, a silent invitation that you were more than happy to accept.

"Patience is overrated," she echoed your earlier words, her fingers tightening in your hair as your fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. You circled it slowly, deliberately, matching the rhythm of your tongue on her breast.

Her hips began to move in time with your touch, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You removed your fingers, forcing her to keep her thighs open as you released her breast with a pop. You used the tip of your tongue to offer the lightest bit of pressure to her nipple.

"Ugh," She managed a sound that was almost more moan than speech.

"Keep them open," You ordered softly. When she hesitated, you flicked your tongue against the metal again. "Be a good girl for me. Let me see." She whined as her thighs trembled and she forced them open again.

The view of her, spread open and vulnerable before you, sent a jolt of desire through you. Her chest was flushed, the marks of your earlier passion already fading but still visible on her neck. Her breathing was ragged, anticipation written in every line of her body.

"Good girl," you praised, your voice low and intimate. The words seemed to resonate through her as they always did, a visible shiver running down her spine.

You lowered your head again, this time switching to her other breast. Your tongue explored the newly sensitive skin, learning the responses of her body all over again. Natasha arched into your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Your other hand moved back between her legs, fingers exploring the wet heat of her. You circled her entrance slowly, feeling her body tremble with anticipation. Her hips tried to move, to take your fingers inside, but you kept your touch light and teasing.

"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Don't torture me."

"I told you I want to try," You shook your head.

Natasha let out a soft laugh, her fingers still tangled in your hair. "You're insufferable," she said, though her voice held no real annoyance. "But I love you."

"Love you too," you replied, going back to worshiping her breasts. You started with light, open-mouthed kisses, your tongue tracing circles around her areola without touching the peak. Natasha's breath hitched, her hips lifting slightly off the bed in silent invitation. You ignored it, continuing your slow, deliberate exploration.

When you finally took her nipple into your mouth, your teeth scraped gently against the sensitive skin. Natasha gasped, her back arching off the bed. You could feel the hard metal of her piercing against your tongue, a strange and thrilling contrast to the softness of her skin. You sucked gently, increasing the pressure gradually until she was writhing beneath you, her hands gripping your shoulders.

"Ughhhhh fuck," She cried. Your other hand moved between her legs, not being able to help yourself, your fingers slid through her wet folds to find her clit. You circled it slowly, matching the rhythm of your mouth on her breast. Natasha's breath hitched, her hips moving in time with your touch.

"Oh," she gasped as your fingers pressed more firmly. "God, yes."

You could feel her getting close, her body tensing as she approached the edge. You increased the pressure on her clit, your teeth grazing her nipple again. That was all it took.

Natasha cried out as she came, her body arching off the bed. Her walls clenched around your fingers, her hips bucking wildly as waves of pleasure washed over her. You held on, riding out the storm of her orgasm, your fingers and mouth working in tandem to prolong her pleasure. As the waves subsided, Natasha practically curled into herself, not knowing whether she wanted to push you away or keep them open for more. You released her breast with a soft pop, moving up to capture her lips in a gentle kiss.

She deepened the kiss, her tongue exploring your mouth with renewed passion. "I love you," She breathed. You settled into your arms again. She began to reach for you, moving to reciprocate. You placed a hand over hers and brought it to your mouth to kiss. 

“I’m okay,” you said, kissing her knuckles. “I just wanted to take care of you.” 

As she huffed, she moved to reach into the nightstand. She pulled out a long black jewelry box. "I've been meaning to give this to you, but I couldn't find a good time." 

She held it out to you, hiding her smile at your suspicious look.

“What is this?” You shook the box. It sounded light yet expensive. Naasha didn’t do cheap.“My baby loves me.” You grinned. 

“I do,” She said softly. She kissed your lips again. “Open it.”

"The sex was that good, huh?" You joked as you ran your fingers along the opening.

Natasha didn't respond to your joke. She looked up at you, and for the first time, you could see the exhaustion etched around her eyes. "That and so much more." She replied. 

You opened the box slowly, your breath catching in your throat. Inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was a delicate silver necklace. At its center hung a small, intricately designed locket. It was beautiful, but it was the engraving on the front that made your heart skip a beat: a simple number (2007). The year you got together. 

"It's beautiful," you whispered, your fingers tracing the delicate design.

Natasha's shoulders seemed to relax at your reaction. "I had it made for you," she said softly. "A few months back. I was going to give it to you on our anniversary." She paused, her gaze dropping to the necklace. "I know it's late, but I wanted you to have it."

"It's perfect," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. Put it on me." You sat up, not minding the sheets falling from your body.

Natasha helped you put it on, her fingers brushing against the back of your neck as she fastened the clasp. The silver was cool against your skin, the weight of the locket a constant, comforting presence against your chest. "Open it." She urged you.

"Oh, right," You grinned. You opened the locket, straining your neck only slightly, to see the tiny ultrasound picture inside. "Nat." You said softly. You dropped your hand to your lap. 

"I know it passed, but..." She said, referring to the anniversary of one of the saddest days in your entire life. The baby you'd lost. So many years ago. Too far away to actually still count, but always in your heart, wherever you looked at your other children. The miscarriage was always in the back of your mind. A quiet ache.

"This is... this is the best gift I've ever received," you managed to say, your voice choked with emotion. You closed the locket, pressing it against your chest. "Thank you. I love it. I love you."

You closed the space between you again, not so much this time for passion but more for the quiet closeness that she had been starved of. You didn't realize how emotional you'd feel after all this time. You certainly hadn't expected to feel it after a morning spent making love with your wife.

"Baby," Natasha whispered. She kissed your shoulder, adjusting your position against the headboard, and pulling you tighter against her. "I'm here."

There was something about Natasha that always understood how you felt. She knew when you were happy. When you were angry, especially when you would break. You'd been together for so long. So many years. You'd had more birthdays and anniversaries together than you could count. You'd made a family together. She'd nearly died countless times. You had nearly died then, too. She'd disappeared for a month on a mission she was never supposed to speak of and returned covered in burns and soot. You'd had your hearts broken and healed, and then broken again. But you always, always came back to each other.

"I was so scared," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. The vulnerability in your tone surprised even you. You were supposed to be the strong one, the rock in the storm of her life. But in this moment, with her arms around you and the memory of your loss fresh in your mind, you felt anything but strong.

"I know," Natasha said softly, her fingers stroking your hair. "Me too." She didn't try to shush you or tell you that everything was going to be okay. She just held you. "You can talk about him. To me."

"After all this time, you're still sure they were a boy," You chuckled, wiping at your tears. Natasha snorted. She tended to be right about those things. "I just... I still think about it. About him. About what he would be like. What would they be like together?"

"We both do," she replied, her fingers tracing the shape of the locket through your skin. "Every day."

"I didn't get to hold him," You frowned. "Or see his tiny face in the ultrasounds. I know I should be grateful. We have our babies. Times five." You laughed. "It's just that I don't know... It's an ache that I don't know how to soothe."

"I wish I could've made it stop," she said quietly. "I wish I could have taken the pain away from you."

"You did," You assured her. "You were there."

You lay there for a long time, just holding each other. It was a wound that had never fully healed, a scar that throbbed with a dull pain on days like this. But it was also a reminder of what you had overcome, of the strength you had found in each other.

"I love you," you said finally, breaking the silence.

"I love you too," Natasha replied, her lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "More than you know."

You shifted slightly, your head resting on her shoulder. "Remember when we first started trying?" you asked, a small smile playing on your lips. "You were so serious about it. You had charts and schedules and vitamins."

Natasha laughed. "I was a spy on a mission," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I was determined to put a baby in you."

"That you were," You nodded. "Can you imagine us with seven? We're already falling apart as is."

"I would have been a very tired mother," she admitted, her fingers tracing patterns on your back. "But I think we would have managed."

"We always manage," You said, your voice soft with affection.

Natasha's expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "We do," she agreed. "Because we have each other."

You leaned in and kissed her, a soft, lingering kiss. When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless. "That's the last of the sad stuff," You said, your forehead resting against hers. "I don't want to cry anymore today."

"Good," she replied, her thumb stroking your cheek. "I have plans for us today, and none of them involve tears."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? And what kind of plans might those be?"

Natasha grinned mischievously. "Well, our youngest daughter's tenth birthday is tomorrow. So we have to get planning. And we have a counseling appointment at ten.” 

“Oh, don’t remind me.” You sighed. “Can’t we just skip it?”

“You really want to?” She asked. 

“No, we can take it on.” You nodded. “Think we can sleep a little longer?”

“I’m betting on it,” Natasha got comfortable in teh sheets. “But I would like some of the cheesecake you made last night.”

“That was the bomb,” You nodded. “Oh, and maybe a bit of ice cream?”

“At six in the morning?” 

“Oh, that’s where you draw the line?” You shook your head. You stood up, stretching along th bed before finding your panties. You pulled them on and then the oversized t-shirt. You began to pad out of the room, opening and unlocking the door, only to find Luke lying in front of it. He was curled into a fetal position, one thumb in his mouth, and the other hand gripping Midnight’s fur softly. 

The dog raised her head at you before lowering it again. 

“Tash,” You sighed. “You have a child out here.” 

You knelt, feeling Luke’s skin for any signs of a high temperature, before tapping him gently. “Luke, buddy.” You said softly. 

As if he weren’t asleep at all, his eyes fluttered open. 

“Mommy?” He questioned. 

“Hey, baby, what are you doing out here?”

Luke sat up slowly, Midnight moving with him. "My jacket."

"You were sleeping outside our door because of your jacket?" Natasha asked from behind you. She had the decency to wear more clothes. 

Luke looked at her. Then at you.

Then back at her.

Luke shook his head. "I couldn't sleep."

"Bad dream?" Natasha asked.

Another shake.

"Then what?"

Luke picked at a loose thread on his pajama pants. Finally, in a voice so small it almost broke your heart, he admitted, "I wanted to cuddle."

Neither of you said anything.

Luke immediately looked embarrassed. Then his little lip poked out. “I can’t find my red jacket.”

Natsaha closed her eyes, mentally slapping herself for forgetting. “Your red jacket is in the hamper. I completely forgot to start the laundry.”

“I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” He said. “So Midnight and I went to sleep right here.”

You didn’t want to question how long he’d been outside your door. You prided yourself on being discreet, especially with your bedroom being tucked off in a hallway behind the kitchen. 

The two of you had been so wrapped up in each other that neither of you had heard him.

"Oh, baby."

Before Natasha could move, you reached forward and scooped him up. At five years old, he was getting heavier every day, but he immediately wrapped himself around you like a koala. You carried him to the kitchen and set him on the counter. You made quick work of washing your hands before grabbing him again. You glanced at Natasha, and she was on it, grabbing two water bottles and a chocolate milk box from the fridge. 

You sat on the couch, propping your feet against the ottoman, as Luke lay against your chest. 

“I don’t wanna go to school,” He said. Again, you and Natasha shared a smile. 

“Well, you need to go to school to learn,” You reminded him. “Today’s Friday anyway.”

“I already know stuff,” He mumbled. 

“Well, how will your grandpa drop you off if you don’t go?”

“Deda’s dropping me off?” His eyes lit up thinking about his morning ritual whenever he went to school with Alexei. It usually involved some sugary breakfast. 

You groaned. “There it is.”

“There what is?” He asked innocently.

“The betrayal,” Natasha said dryly. “Your mommy and I spend ten minutes comforting you, and all it takes is one mention of Alexei, and suddenly we're chopped liver.”

“I don't know what chopped liver is.”

“You don't need to,” Natasha muttered.

Luke snuggled deeper into your chest, a sleepy grin appearing on his face.

“Can we get donuts?”

“No,” both of you answered immediately.

“See?” Natasha pointed. “Your grandfather is a bad influence.”

“He lets me get the chocolate ones.”

“Exactly.”

Luke considered this. “I think that means he's nice.”

You laughed as Natasha rolled her eyes. “Your deda is incapable of telling children no.”

“That is not true,” Alexei's voice boomed from the kitchen.

All three of you turned. When had he gotten there?

He stood there with a coffee mug in one hand and what appeared to be three strips of bacon in the other. “You gave James ice cream before soccer practice.”

“That was strategic.” You defended. “The kid needed motivation without being overindulged.”

“It was vanilla.”

“Exactly. Vanilla is not exciting enough to affect athletic performance.”

“That's not how sugar works,” Natasha sighed.

Alexei waved a dismissive hand before turning his attention to Luke. “You are coming with me this morning?”

Luke sat up immediately. “Yes.”

“Then we should leave early.”

“Why?”

Alexei looked around dramatically before leaning closer.“For reasons.”

Luke gasped. “What reasons?”

“Secret reasons.”

You watched Luke's entire body vibrate with excitement. He lifted from your lap and bounced. 

Natasha buried her face in her hands. “You're taking him for pancakes.”

“No.”

“Alexei.”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

Alexei smiled. Luke smiled—the exact same smile. And suddenly you understood why neither of them could be trusted.

Luke looked up at you. “Can I go?”

You pretended to think about it. “Hmmm.”

“Mommy.”

“Hmmm.”

“Please.”

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “I think school might be very difficult today if someone is full of pancakes.”

“Mommy.”

“Maybe impossible.”

“Mommy.”

You finally laughed and kissed the top of his head.

“You can go.”

“Come on,” Luke rounded the couch to pull his grandfather toward the stairs. “You can help me find clothes, but not my red jacket. Mama forgot it in the laundry.”

Natasha groaned. 

“Sure, maybe I can help your mom find clothes next,” Alexei mumbled as he followed Luke to the second floor. 

“I have clothes on,” You shook your head. 

“That t-shirt isn’t covering much,” Natasha slapped your thigh playfully. 

—-----------------

Dr. Aris’s office felt different this time around. The air felt breathable; it hadn’t felt like that last week when you’d come in. It was crazy to think that it had truly only been a short time between sessions. You felt as if you were healed. You’d spent more time with your wife this week than you had in months. You’d talked. You’d been scared straight, so to speak. 

“So, ladies, how has it been?” She asked, looking up from her notepad. 

“Good,” Natasha asked. 

“Actually, good,” You agreed. 

Dr. Aris smiled slightly. "That's wonderful to hear." Her smile lingered for a moment before she asked, "What was different?"

"We've been spending more time together," Natasha finally said.

"Intentionally," you added.

Dr. Aris nodded. "And what does that look like?"

You thought about the laundry room. The late-night conversations. The card game. The questions. 

"We've been talking more," you said.

"A lot more," Natasha added. “Your homework has helped.”

"That's great." Dr. Aris made a note. "And how has that felt?"

Natasha laughed softly. "Weird."

You laughed too. "Terrifying."

"Terrifying?" Dr. Aris repeated.

You rubbed the back of your neck. "I think I came in here last time expecting some grand explanation for why we got here. Something dramatic. A smoking gun." You shrugged. “There’s really no true rhyme or reason. Well, just one, I’m thinking. We got busy," you continued. "Then we got tired. Then we got hurt.”

Dr. Aris looked between you. "You know what's fascinating?"

Neither of you answered.

"You both entered the first session convinced the other person had withdrawn first."

The realization hung in the air.

"You thought Natasha stopped wanting you." She pointed toward you. "And Natasha thought you stopped wanting her. A lot of couples come into the practice with their egos, fears, and everything under the sun." Now she sat back. "Neither of you was actually rejecting one another. You were protecting yourselves from rejection." She looked down at her notes again. “How has communication changed?”

“With the homework you assigned,” You said. “Finding something you enjoyed with your partner during the day. I don’t think we’ve ever sat down and explicitly said it?” You looked to Natasha. “No,” She shook her head. “We’ve had moments here and there. Long conversations but never a simple ‘I enjoyed this moment with you here in this time.’” She paused. “At least not in a long while.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Hmm,” Natasha thought long and hard. “We’re just too busy most days. There’s always something that needs taking care of. Something always needs to be done, and it’s understandable. We chose this life.” 

Dr. Aris nodded, though not in complete agreement.

"Busy is certainly part of it," she said. "But I see couples with ten children who still find ways to connect. I see couples with demanding careers who still find ways to connect. So I don't think busyness is the whole answer."

You needed her to elaborate a bit more. 

"Busy is often the circumstance," she continued. "The question is what happened underneath it."

Natasha's brow furrowed. Dr. Aris looked toward you. "Let's say Natasha comes home from teaching her classes. The kids are loud. Dinner needs to be made. There's laundry. A million things competing for attention. In that moment, what keeps you from turning to her and saying, ‘I liked hearing your laugh today'?"

The answer felt embarrassingly simple.

"It feels silly."

Natasha looked over at you.

You shrugged. "It does. It feels obvious. We know we love each other. We know we enjoy each other. So why say it all the time?"

Dr. Aris smiled."Ah."

The sound made you immediately suspicious."What?"

"That's a very long-married answer."

Natasha laughed despite herself. "It is?"

"It is." Dr. Aris crossed one leg over the other. "Early in relationships, we narrate everything. We tell each other every thought. Every observation. Every feeling. If we don’t, we’re convinced the other person is not that into us. Maybe they’re seeing someone else, or maybe they’re just an idiot." She gestured between the two of you."Then we become comfortable. Comfort is good. Comfortable is safe. But eventually, many couples start assuming."

You found yourself looking at Natasha. She'd gone strangely still.

"I think," she began slowly. "I think I stopped saying things because I thought if I had to ask for them, they didn't count."

Dr. Aris nodded immediately. "Now that's interesting."

Natasha looked down at her hands. "If I told her I needed more affection, then she was only doing it because I asked. If I told her I wanted more time together, then she was only doing it because I asked. It felt pathetic."

Your heart sank. "Nat."

"I'm being honest."

"No, I know." You rubbed your palms together. "I just didn't know that."

"Because I never said it."

Dr. Aris let the silence settle. "And you?" she asked, turning toward you.

You took a breath. "I think I stopped asking because I was afraid of hearing no."

Natasha's head immediately snapped toward you. "What?"

"Every time you were tired. Every time you rolled over. Every time you said maybe tomorrow. It wasn't your fault. You were exhausted. But after a while..." You shrugged. "I stopped wanting to find out."

The realization crossed Natasha's face in real time.  Dr. Aris finally broke the silence. "See, now we're getting somewhere. Y/n, I know you said a pain point for both of you is your work. Why do you think that is?”

You pushed the sleeves of your cardigan up to your elbows. “I used to say I don’t know. I work in corporate law now. Nine to five. Paid Time Off. Workable caseload. Ideally, this is what I was running from when I quit as ADA in New York.”

"You quit because of the workload?"

"Partly." You nodded. "We were getting around to adopting Luke. Natasha hadn't retired yet. One of us needed to be home with them."

"And that was a mutual decision?"

"Completely."

Dr. Aris nodded. "And what did you think you were gaining?"

"Time." You said. "Time with my family. Time with my wife. We were living in New York. The kids had no privacy. The house felt too small. Everything felt cramped."

"And did you get those things?"

You hesitated."Some of them."

Dr. Aris waited.

"I think the version of me who left New York would be surprised."

"In what way?"

You laughed softly. "A lot of ways."

"Pick one."

You looked down at your hands."How far apart we got."

Natasha looked at you.

"I stopped telling her things about my life. The birth control. Getting my nails done with Leslie. Little things."

You shook your head."I can take accountability for that. I should've told her. I just... didn't."

"And why didn't you?"

You frowned.

Because for the first time, you weren't sure. Finally, you sighed."It was easier not to have the conversations. I feel like I'm in this constant cycle of pushing myself too hard at work, burning out, and then coming back to... nothing."

"What does 'nothing' mean?" Dr. Aris asked.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again."I don't know." There was a long pause. "Cara leaving for college was a new adjustment."

Natasha's gaze softened."I didn't realize how much that affected you."

"I didn't either."

You rubbed your palms together. "Then I'd come home and..." You laughed humorlessly. "I truly don't know."

Dr. Aris leaned forward slightly."When you say you came home to nothing, do you mean an empty house?"

You shook your head. "No. I think I felt empty. It wasn't just Cara leaving. It wasn't just work. I felt this overwhelming emptiness. Like, I didn't know how to connect anymore."

Your eyes drifted toward Natasha. "We fight. We have sex. We make up." You shrugged. "That was the cycle for a while. I mean, when was the last time we took a vacation together?"

Natasha let out a breath."I thought this would be the season where we found each other again."

You looked over. She was staring at her hands.

"The kids got older. They needed us less. We finally had more time. "A sad smile crossed her face."And every time I looked up, you were working." She immediately shook her head. "That sounds unfair."

"No," Dr. Aris said gently. "It sounds honest."

Natasha sighed. "I didn't tell her I missed her."

"Why not?"

The question hung there. Eventually, Natasha shrugged.

"Because I wanted her to want it too. I didn't want to ask my wife to spend time with me."

Dr. Aris nodded slowly. "So y/n stopped asking because she was afraid of rejection." She looked toward Natasha."And you stopped asking because you thought asking would make it less meaningful."

Neither of you argued. Because neither of you could. Dr. Aris glanced at the clock.

"We're almost out of time.” She closed her notebook."The good news?" For the first time all hour, she smiled. "Neither of you seems particularly interested in staying distant."

That earned a laugh from Natasha. "No."

"No," you agreed.

"Good." Dr. Aris stood. "Then this week, I don't want either of you trying to fix the marriage."

You immediately frowned. "That's literally why we're here."

Dr. Aris laughed. "I know." She gathered her things.

"For homework, Natasha, I want one direct request a day."

Natasha groaned.

"No hints. No, hoping she'll figure it out." Then she looked at you. "And y/n, I want you to hear the request you're being given. Not the criticism you think is hiding underneath it." You winced.

Fair. 

“Also, take some time for yourself, y/n. No work. No kids. No wife. Just one hour to yourself.” Dr. Aris opened the office door. "Most couples think marriages struggle because of the big conversations they aren't having." She paused. "In my experience, it's usually the little ones."

Her eyes drag over you in a slow, reverent sweep. First the heels, then the legs, the dress, the wine, your lips, and finally, your eyes. Her mouth parts slightly, a sound escaping her, small, stunned.

"Oh," she breathes, like the word was dragged from her chest. Her jacket slips from one shoulder, then falls completely from her arm to the floor.

She doesn't pick it up. She doesn't look away.

You smile, slow and knowing. "You're home late."

Your voice is soft, but there's something beneath it, velvet and smoke, a teasing curl of control. Her pupils dilate. The air in the entryway shifts.

Wanda swallows hard, takes a step forward like she's moving through a dream. "If I knew you'd be standing there like that," she murmurs, voice husky, "I would've run every red light in the city."

Her fingers twitch. You see it, a flicker of red at her fingertips, fast and unintentional. Stress. Or need. Or both.

You move closer, slowly, one foot in front of the other, not to meet her, but to make her come the rest of the way. The wine glass tilts in your hand as you lift it to your lips.

Wanda's breath catches.

Then her hand grazes your arm.

The glow sparks again, red and soft at first, then brighter, a crackle of power that zings against your skin. She flinches, like she's afraid she's burned you.

But you take her wrist gently and guide her hand lower, to your waist. Firm. Assured. Grounding her. Claiming her touch.

Her eyes flutter closed, a shaky breath slipping from her lips.

"Better?" you whisper.

Wanda nods, helpless.

"Good," you murmur, leaning in just enough to feel the brush of her breath. "Now take off your boots."

She doesn't move at first. Her hand stays on your waist, fingertips warm, too warm. Her magic thrums there, just under her skin, pulsing with every shaky breath she takes. You feel the smallest flare of it against your side, like the air itself stutters when she exhales.

"Boots," you remind her, voice still low. A little silk, a little dangerous.

Her mouth twitches, half a smile, half a plea. "You're evil," she whispers.

"You like me that way."

She leans in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest second. "Too much."

Still, she steps back. Barely.

Bends down.

You watch her fingers, usually so precise, fumble slightly at the laces. Her hair falls forward, curtain like. She mutters something in Sokovian under her breath, you catch moya lyubov' in it, and chto ty so mnoy delayesh',  what you're doing to her. You smile into your wine.

She stands again, a little breathless, boots kicked off to the side. Now sock-footed and somehow smaller, more here, but no less intense.

You tilt your head, eyes dragging over her. "Hard day?"

"The worst." Her voice is rough. "But right now I can't remember a second of it."

Your free hand brushes lightly over the lapel of her shirt, just a teasing touch, enough to make her muscles go rigid under your fingertips. Her breath catches again.

"You look like you haven't slept in days," you murmur, trailing your fingers upward now, just enough to graze her collarbone. "You look like...."

"Like I'm starving?" she says it with a breath of laughter, shaky, heat laced. Her hand tightens at your waist, just slightly.

"Like you'd kneel for a taste," you counter, voice soft but firm.

Wanda's pupils blow wide.

Her grip on you flares hot, literally, magic sparking again from her skin in a flash of instinct. Her power coils around your hip like it wants something.

"I would," she says, barely audible.

Your gaze sharpens.

"Not yet," you say.

And Wanda, Wanda moans. Quiet. Barely a sound. But it's real, and raw, and desperate.

You lean in again, nose brushing hers. "Take off your shirt."

Wanda stares at you like she didn't hear. But she did.

She just can't move. Not yet.

Your words settle into her skin like a spell, low and electric. Take off your shirt. You didn't say please. You didn't need to.

Slowly, almost reverently, her fingers rise to the buttons of her shirt. Her hands are shaking. Not from fear. From the sheer effort it's taking not to devour you where you stand.

You sip your wine, watching her like art, like something rare and beautiful and meant to be unwrapped slowly.

Her fingers fumble the first button.

You don't help her.

The second opens more easily. Then the third. Her breathing hitches with every one, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. You can see the curve of her collarbones now, the edge of lace beneath black fabric, the red glow under her skin like her power is leaking from her bones.

You reach out, only once she's undone the last one, and slide your hand lightly across her bare chest, not quite a caress. More a claim.

She exhales so sharply it's almost a whimper.

"You're still tense," you murmur, fingers dancing up the line of her neck, not quite touching her pulse point. "You're always tense, when you come home from missions."

"I'm tense because you're--" She swallows hard, voice catching. "--standing there like that."

You lean in, lips grazing her ear. "Like what, baby?"

She shudders.

"Like temptation," she whispers, eyes fluttering shut. "Like a fucking trap."

You smile. Drag your lips across her jaw, not kissing, just tracing heat. "Maybe I am."

Wanda's hand twitches at your waist, her fingers curling like she wants to grab, to take, but she doesn't. She can't. Not unless you let her.

Her voice is breathless. "You're killing me."

"No," you hum, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. "You're doing that all on your own."

You run your hand down the front of her shirt, slow, letting the open fabric fall away completely, exposing the long line of her torso, the lace of her bra, the heat in her skin. She's still not touching you fully. You haven't let her.

"You know what I think?" you ask.

She nods -- then shakes her head. She doesn't know anymore. Her eyes are glassy, lips parted. She's gone.

"I think," you whisper, "you don't deserve to touch me yet."

Wanda makes a sound like she's breaking. Not loud, something deep and strained, caught in her throat like a sob made of want.

But she still doesn't move. She's so good. So patient. For now.

Your fingers skim the waistband of her pants. And then you step back.

Her hands reach for you instinctively, the smallest movement, like she forgot where she is.

You raise a brow. "Did I say you could touch?"

She freezes.

Her hands fall back to her sides.

Barely breathing now, chest rising in slow, desperate gasps.

And you?

You just take another sip of wine. Still in that red dress. Still calm. Still in control. And she's shaking in front of you, half undressed, burning alive.

Your hand comes to her chest first, not soft, not cruel, just firm. Guiding. You turn her gently, steering her back until the backs of her knees hit the chair.

"Sit," you say.

Wanda does. Immediately.

The chair creaks under her weight as she drops into it, breath uneven, shoulders bare, shirt discarded somewhere behind her like it never mattered at all. Her skin is flushed now, chest, neck, cheeks, that familiar heat blooming beneath pale skin when she's overwhelmed.

Her hands don't know what to do with themselves.

One grips the edge of the chair.

The other slides instinctively to her thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, like she's trying to anchor herself to something. Anything. Her leg bounces once, then stills when you look at it.

She looks up at you.

Big mistake.

You're still standing there in that red dress, composed, unhurried, watching her like this is exactly where you want her. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes again. A soft, broken sound slips out of her anyway.

"Oh--"

You turn away from her just long enough to set the wine glass down on the table. The quiet clink is deafening in the room. Final. Intentional.

When you turn back, you don't go to her.

You let your hands slide down your own body instead.

Slow. Deliberate.

Palms smoothing over your waist, your hips, following the curve of the dress like you're reminding her exactly what she's not allowed to touch. The fabric catches under your fingers, clings, accentuates every movement.

Wanda's breath stutters.

Her eyes widen like she's just been struck.

"Oh my--" She cuts herself off, jaw tightening as another sound tries to escape her. Her grip on her thigh tightens, knuckles whitening, muscles flexing under her skin.

The air around her thrums.

Red flickers at her fingertips again, brighter this time, magic bleeding out of her control in soft pulses. The chair legs scrape faintly against the floor as she shifts, torn between sitting still and lunging for you.

You stop in front of her.

Close. Close enough that your knees brush hers.

You tilt your head, studying her, the bare skin, the tension in her shoulders, the way she's holding herself back with everything she has.

"You're so affected by me," you murmur, almost fond. "It's adorable."

She lets out a shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a whine. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Yes."

Her eyes flutter shut for half a second.

Then open again, dark and wrecked and hungry.

"I can't--" she starts, voice breaking. "If you keep-- I'm not going to be able to--"

You lean in. Just enough for her to feel your breath.

"Good," you whisper.

Her head tips back against the chair like she's been struck, throat exposed, chest heaving. The sound she makes this time is helpless, gone, like her body is already giving in even if her hands haven't moved.

She looks at you like she's begging without saying the words.

And you? You're still standing. Still untouched. Still in control.

And Wanda Maximoff is unraveling in front of you, sitting, shaking, magic glowing, completely, utterly in love and on the edge of losing her mind.

You don't touch her.

You don't need to.

She's already trembling in the chair, half dressed, thighs pressed tightly together now, both hands gripping them like restraint is the only thing she has left. One knuckle is glowing red. Just one. But it pulses with power, soft and steady, like a heartbeat.

Your hips shift slowly as you stand above her, framed by the low golden light from the kitchen. The shadows kiss every inch of your figure, catching the curve of your thighs, the swell of your chest, the place where the dress dips low and clings high.

Her gaze eats it all. She doesn't blink.

Not once.

"Wanda, baby," you say, softly. Like her name itself is something sacred. Something sharp.

Her eyes snap up to yours, wild and drowning.

"Watch closely."

You reach behind you. Fingers to zipper.

The sound is impossibly loud in the stillness, a soft, slow drag of teeth down fabric, deliberate, controlled. The dress loosens instantly. Gravity takes hold. You don't rush it.

You let the straps fall from your shoulders.

First one.

Then the other.

Then.. the entire dress slips down, cascading over your body like water. It pools at your feet in a crimson puddle, and you're left bare beneath the soft light, bathed in your own intention.

Wanda gasps.

Audibly. Like you just struck her.

And then she curses, a cracked, strangled "Fuck," like the word was ripped straight from her lungs.

Her eyes glow. Not a flicker. Not a pulse.

They ignite.

Red, raw, unhidden, the chaos magic coiling behind her gaze as every unspoken desire floods to the surface all at once. Every image. Every filthy thing she's imagined doing to you while lying alone in cold SHIELD safehouses or blood slick debriefing rooms. Every memory of your taste, your sounds, the way your body moves under hers. All of it, alive in her eyes.

She doesn't move.

But her jaw clenches. Her legs press tighter. You can see the restraint, not noble, not gentle, desperate. Like she's seconds from snapping and hurling you both into the wall, into the bed, into the floor, into anything just to get her hands on you.

"You look like you want to ruin me," you say.

She exhales harshly. Her hands twitch.

"You have no idea," she growls, voice hoarse. "I could tear this house apart if you let me. I could--"

"But I haven't let you," you interrupt softly.

Wanda shuts her eyes, like it physically hurts to hear that.

You step closer, barefoot now, and her breath catches when your knee brushes hers again. She's burning up, body taut like a live wire, eyes still glowing even behind her lashes. One flick of a finger and this entire room would bend under her power.

But you're the one bending her.

Still standing. Still untouched.

And she's sitting, shirtless, shaking, glowing red at the seams with everything she wants to do to you and can't.

Not yet.

You lean down just slightly, whisper against her lips:

"Do you want to touch me, Wanda?"

She opens her eyes. Glowing. Ruined. Gone.

"Yes."

"Then beg."

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

She swallows, and you can see it,  that thick, hot wave of want crashing through her system, knocking all her composure sideways. Still, she hesitates. Still, she tries to hold on to what little control she has left.

You tilt your head.

"I'm waiting," you say softly. Almost sweet.

And that's it. Something inside her cracks.

She exhales like she's been holding her breath for hours. Her legs part, just slightly, enough to show the way she shifts against the chair, seeking friction, release, anything. Her eyes are glowing bright and steady now, locked on you like you're the only thing in the universe.

"Please," she whispers.

You don't move.

"Louder."

She draws in a shaky breath, her voice rough and low when she speaks again, every syllable drenched in need.

"Please," she repeats. "Let me touch you. Let me put my hands on you, let me worship you. I've thought about this all day -- no, every day. On missions. Between missions. Every fucking second I'm away from you I--" She breaks off, teeth sinking into her lip to stop the rush of it. Her hands are trembling now. "I want you. I want to taste you. I want to drop to my knees and stay there."

You breathe in slowly, watching her squirm, watching the magic flinch and twitch at her fingertips like it's begging too.

"I want to put my mouth on you until you're shaking," she says, voice rising with every word, "until you forget your own name, until your knees give out and you have to hold my hair just to survive it."

You exhale, soft, pleased.

Wanda's gone now. Fully gone.

"I want to make you cry with how good I'll be," she gasps, a hand twitching upward, stopping halfway like she's reaching for you before remembering the rule. "I want you to use me. Sit on my lap, ride my fingers, make me beg with your hand around my throat if you want. Just-- fuck, just give me something. Anything."

The red in her eyes flares brilliant, casting soft shadows across her cheekbones. She looks almost fevered with it, glowing with power and desperation and reverence.

You crouch slightly, just enough to bring your face closer to hers. She inhales sharply, pupils blown wide, lips parted, she's seconds from breaking.

You ghost your lips along her jaw, close but not touching, and whisper:

"You poor thing."

She shudders, a wrecked, involuntary whimper tearing from her throat.

But she doesn't move.

Still so good. Still waiting. Still not touching.

You smile against her skin.

"Keep begging."

She doesn't blink. She can't.

You're still standing over her, bare and glowing like sin in soft light, and she's sitting there like a supplicant at the altar, her body a live wire, her hands clenched so tight on her thighs they're trembling.

You just whispered Keep begging. And she does. God, she does.

Her voice is hoarse, thick with need. Her mouth opens and the words fall out like a confession, like a spell unraveling.

"I'll fuck you with my mouth until your thighs are soaked," she says, eyes locked on yours, glowing brighter with every word. "I'll spread you out and keep you there, tongue deep and starving, until you're sobbing and grabbing at my hair, until your legs are shaking and your voice is gone."

She swallows hard, like she's dizzy from the images. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven gasps.

"I want to bend you over the kitchen table and eat you from behind until you scream," she breathes, jaw tight, eyes wild. "Want to fuck you on every surface in this house tonight -- the counter, the stairs, the window, let the neighbors fucking watch."

The pulse between her fingers flares again, a crackle of red at her fingertips that singes the air.

"I want your thighs around my head so tight I choke on you," she growls, voice breaking now. "I want you riding me until your makeup's running, until your nails are down my back, until you don't care what my name is as long as I don't stop."

You watch her.

Still calm. Still untouched.

She's panting now, frantic, pleading, sweat beading on her neck.

"I'll put your legs over my shoulders and fuck you slow," she whispers, eyes wild and glowing. "Make you feel every inch of me until your back arches and you scream so loud the walls shake. I want your moans echoing in my skull tomorrow, haunting me in meetings, in briefings--"

Her voice cracks. She bites her lip, hard, to keep it together.

And then, quieter, more vulnerable, but no less filthy:

"I want you to sit on my face and grind, don't even let me breathe unless I've earned it. I want you using me until your cum's dripping down my chin and I thank you for it."

A broken breath. A tremble.

Her thighs are clenched tight now, rocking slightly against the seat of the chair like she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

And then, the final truth, the softest one....

"I need you," she says, voice raw. "I always need you."

And that? That's not begging. That's religion.

Her pupils are blown so wide they eclipse the red glow bleeding into every corner of her eyes.

Her magic buzzes against the walls, climbing the furniture like a rising tide, restless, ready, hungry. The room crackleswith it, vibrating at the edge of reality. And still, she hasn't moved. Not one inch.

Not until you lean in, so close your lips ghost over hers without touching.

She whimpers, quiet and wrecked, the sound barely holding itself together.

You exhale one breath. Hot against her mouth.

And say it. Soft. Deadly.

"Fuck me."

The snap is instant.

She doesn't ask. She doesn't pause. She erupts.

The chair slams backward and topples as she surges up, grabbing you, hands in your hair, around your waist, on your thighs, she doesn't even know where to start. Her mouth crashes to yours like it's oxygen, like she's been dying and you're the only thing keeping her alive.

Her magic flares, a shockwave of red that throws the wineglass off the table, shatters something in the kitchen behind you, neither of you care.

You gasp, and she takes the sound into her mouth like a prize.

"You--" she growls, lips trailing fire down your neck, "you don't get to say that and expect me to be gentle."

"I don't want you to be," you gasp, fingers already tangled in her hair, nails biting at her back. "I want you wild."

And fuck, does she give it to you.

She lifts you like you weigh nothing, slamming your back against the nearest wall with a grunt, mouth never leaving yours. Her hands are everywhere, rough, frantic, worshipful. Palming your breasts, squeezing your thighs, holding your hips like she's trying to mark you.

"I begged," she snarls against your skin, breath hot. "I begged and begged, and you just stood there looking like sin."

Her hand slips between your legs.

You cry out.

"I dreamed about this in enemy safehouses," she growls. "Tried to make myself cum thinking about your voice, your thighs, your fucking smile--"

Another surge of magic, the walls vibrate. The lights flicker.

She sinks to her knees like she's been pulled there by divine gravity, and when she looks up at you from the floor, flushed and wild, mouth open and fingers digging into your thighs?

You know exactly what she's about to do.

"Now," she growls, voice wrecked, magic pulsing under her skin. "Let me prove it."

Her fingers flex, and she grabs you, palms dragging down your thighs, digging in, spreading you open. There's no gentleness in her grip. Just need. Claim. Hunger.

"Don't run," she murmurs, voice gravelled and low.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Her smile is feral. "Good."

She leans in and drags her mouth up the inside of your thigh, slow, hot, open mouthed,  and you flinch like she's branded you. Her nails bite into your skin. Holding you down. Holding you open.

Your hand slips into her hair before you realize it, fingers threading through wild auburn strands, gripping tight. She groans when you do it, like you've pulled something out of her soul.

"You feel that?" she whispers, breath hot against where you're soaked for her. "That shaking in your legs? That's mine."

And then she licks you. Long. Slow. Deliberate.

You cry out, a ragged, breathless sound, hips jerking forward into her mouth, but she's ready. She growls and presses her forearm across your stomach, pinning you to the wall.

"Stay. Right. There."

You nod, wild, eager, wrecked.

But she doesn't look up. She just devours.

Tongue firm and slow, dragging through you again and again, no teasing, no testing, just knowing. She knows exactly how to make you fall apart. You're soaked, open, aching, and she's feasting like it's the first real thing she's tasted in weeks.

Your hips buck again, helpless, and she moans into you, moans, and you feel it, the vibration buzzing straight through your core. Your hand tightens in her hair, pulling harder.

She doesn't flinch.

She presses in closer, mouth moving rougher now, not faster, still that maddening, thorough pace, but she's not letting you go. Not for a second.

Your thighs are trembling. Your breath is a sob.

And Wanda's grip only tightens.

Her magic flares again, flickering up your legs like red lace, warm and dizzying, and it feels like her power wants to taste you too.

You whimper, wrecked. "Wanda-- please--"

She pulls back just enough to speak, her mouth shiny, flushed, her eyes molten.

"No," she whispers. "I begged. Now I take."

And she dives back in.

Her mouth is locked to you, tongue moving slow and hard in devastating strokes, no rhythm but hers, no mercy, no space to breathe between one pull and the next. Her grip on your thighs is bruising now, fingers pressing deep into your flesh like she's trying to anchor herself to you while she destroys you.

Your hand is still in her hair, clenching so tight your knuckles ache.

You don't even notice.

Your head slams back against the wall, once, then again, eyes fluttering wildly, then rolling up when she does something with her tongue that makes your knees buckle.

"Wanda-- fuck--fuck, oh my god--"

She groans, loud, filthy, primal, and the vibration is so deep, so sudden, you scream.

It slips out of you helplessly, broken, high, wrecked, and her fingers dig in harder when she hears it. You can feel her shaking now, the wet heat of her breath, the frantic pull of her mouth like she's trying to memorize you from the inside out.

And then... you lose control.

Your free hand comes up, slaps to the wall for balance, but your voice is gone, reduced to pleading, gasping, begging like she did.

"Please," you whimper, hips rolling into her mouth, grinding now, unable to stop. "Please, Wanda, don't stop, don't stop--"

She growls. Loses it.

You feel her moan against you, her tongue push deeper, her grip flex, and then she drags you lower by the hips, pulling you further into her mouth until her nose is pressed against your skin.

Your vision whites out.

You sob.

"Wanda, oh my god, I'm gonna--"

Her nails dig in. Her magic sparks. Her name is a prayer on your lips now, over and over, gasping, whimpering, chanting:

"Wanda, Wanda, Wanda-- please--please, I need--fuck--need you--"

She's devouring you. Wrecking you.

Her mouth doesn't stop, even as you fall apart, even as your hand yanks her hair so hard she should flinch, but she moans instead, drunk on it, like your begging is the only thing she's ever wanted to hear.

She's not eating you out. She's consuming you.

And when you finally break, when your orgasm slams through you so violently your whole body goes rigid, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream, thighs clenching tight around her head, she doesn't stop.

She licks you through it, rough and slow, growling into your heat, your taste coating her mouth, your cries tangled in her hair.

She's not done. Not even close.

You're still pulsing, sensitive, raw.

Wanda rises from her knees like she's lifting herself from worship, mouth slick, eyes feral, cheeks flushed, magic snapping in the air around her like static.

You sag against the wall, body wrecked, legs trembling, chest heaving. And yet,  you're still reaching for her. Still begging.

"Wanda--" you gasp, your voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, I need--fuck, I need you--again--"

Her hands are on you before you finish the sentence. One under your thighs, the other wrapping around your back, lifting you like you're weightless. Your legs wrap around her hips without thought, your arms winding around her neck as you drag her closer, mouth on hers, instantly.

The kiss is messy. So messy.

All tongue and teeth and moaning, your taste still on her lips, your fingers yanking at her hair, her hands digging into your skin like she wants to leave prints there for days.

She stumbles forward with you in her arms, kissing you like she'll never get enough, knocking into the hallway wall hard enough to make a frame rattle. Neither of you stop. Neither of you can.

You break the kiss only to whimper, voice shattered:

"Need you to fuck me, Wanda--please---please--I can't wait--"

She growls low, a guttural, possessive sound, and kisses you again, rougher now, pushing through the bedroom door with her magic before kicking it closed behind her.

"I'm going to ruin you," she mutters against your lips, breath shaking, pupils blown black. "You're mine. You understand?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, baby, I'm yours--just please--please--fuck me, I need you--"

"Say it again."

"I need you," you choke out, hips grinding down against her stomach, desperate. "Wanda--need you inside me--need you so bad--"

She throws you onto the bed like a claim.

You land on your back with a gasp, already reaching for her, eyes wild, hair mussed, body begging to be touched again. You're aching, still so wet, your thighs sticky from what she's already done, and you still feel empty without her.

She shrugs out of her pants in a single flicker of red, bar long forgotten in the hallway, her body glowing in the dark like something divine.

She crawls over you, slowly, like a predator who's already caught her prey and is just deciding where to bite first.

You arch up, helpless, your hands framing her face as you pull her mouth to yours again.

"You're all I ever want," you whisper, breath broken.

"I know," she breathes, kissing you until you can't think.

"Then take me," you gasp. "Wanda, please--take me--make me yours--"

Her magic flares. Her hands find you.

And when she finally presses her fingers inside you, slow and deep, your mouth falls open on a gasp so wrecked it's not even human.

And Wanda? Wanda smiles.

Like she finally came home.

Your head falls back with a cry, back arching, thighs clenching around her hips as she fills you, her thumb rubbing slow, devastating circles against your clit.

"God, you're so wet," she groans, kissing down your throat as her hand works between your legs. "You're already shaking-- I barely touched you--"

"You're talking too much," you pant, and then grab her, hands curling around her hips, dragging her down until her heat is pressed against your thigh, soaked, needy, waiting.

She gasps, her breath stuttering out as you slip your hand between her legs, bold, rough, hungry, fingers sliding through slick heat, finding the tight, swollen place that makes her hips jerk against you.

"Oh fuck--" she shudders, voice breaking.

Your fingers press into her, just as hers press into you again.

And suddenly it's chaos.

You're on your back, but your hand is inside her, pushing deep and curling slow, your palm grinding against her clit as she moans into your mouth, and she's fucking you just the same, rough and steady, her fingers pounding into you while her lips drag down your neck, sucking bruises that'll last for days.

You cling to her hair, to her shoulder, your mouths clashing in messy, gasping kisses between the moans and please, don't stop--oh my god, Wanda--right there--

It's not clean. It's not gentle.

It's filthy.

Your hips are rocking against her hand, grinding, chasing every stroke, and she's grinding down on your fingers in return, rutting into your palm like she's starved for it.

The bed is shaking under you.

Magic pulses around the room, red threads curling across the sheets, crackling against the headboard like the world is coming apart with you.

Her forehead presses to yours, your mouths open, panting, breath mingling, sweat sliding down both your bodies.

"Don't stop," she begs, voice ragged, ruined. "Don't--don't you dare stop--"

"I won't," you gasp, curling your fingers just right, and she screams, hips stuttering, thighs clenched around your wrist.

You can feel her starting to fall apart, can see it, her eyes rolling back, lips trembling, the magic around her sparking out of control.

"I'm gonna--fuck, I'm gonna cum--" she chokes, but she's still fucking into you, still giving it back, still pushing

"So cum with me," you whisper, pulling her into a brutal kiss, "cum with me, baby-- fuck me while you do--"

And then it hits, together.

Your cries tangle into each other, hands holding tight, bodies locked in rhythm as you both break, hips jerking, mouths gasping, thighs clenching, your orgasms crashing like waves between you.

She bites your shoulder. You scratch her back.

She cries out your name. You scream hers.

And the bed?

It creaks, shifts, moans with you, like even the walls want to fall.

Then the room is quiet.

But not still.

Your chest rises and falls against hers, both of you breathing like you've been running, like the act of coming down is a battle all its own. Wanda's skin is flushed and dewy, her collarbone slick with sweat, her mouth parted against your shoulder.

Your hand is still tangled in her hair. Her fingers are still inside you.

Both of you too ruined to move just yet, not out of laziness, but out of awe.

Wanda shifts first, slow, careful, and slides her fingers from you with a reverence that makes your thighs tremble. She groans softly when she feels how wet you still are, how your body clenches even now at the loss of her.

"Jesus," she whispers, kissing your temple. "You're unreal."

You don't speak. Can't. Not yet.

Instead, you just run your hand up her back, slow and tender now, dragging your nails gently through sweat-damp hair, feeling every ridge of muscle under skin that just spent the last hour taking you apart.

Wanda nuzzles into your neck like it's instinct. Like it's home.

She's trembling.

Not from exertion. From the intensity.

Her body is still vibrating with the magic that crackled through her when you came around her fingers, when she came on yours, when your voices blended into a shared cry that still echoes in the air between you.

"I love you," she murmurs, like she didn't mean to say it, like it spilled out of her.

You close your eyes.

"I know," you whisper, wrapping your arms around her tighter. "I felt it."

And you did.

Every thrust of her hand, every desperate grind of her hips against your palm, it was never just about getting off. It was need. It was worship. It was Wanda coming home from war and finding salvation in your skin.

She shifts again, just enough to lay half on top of you, skin to skin, thigh between yours, forehead resting against yours.

You open your eyes, and she's already staring.

Messy hair. Swollen lips. Red eyes glowing faintly even now, like the magic hasn't fully left her. Like it's curled into youand plans to stay.

"I don't think I'll ever get enough of you," she says quietly, voice thick with emotion.

You smile, and your thumb brushes along her jaw, slow. Gentle.

"You don't have to," you whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her breath hitches. That same look returns, the one she gave you the second she walked through the door.

That look like you're everything.

And then her lips are on yours again, soft now, sensual, like she's sealing something sacred between you.

You kiss her back, slow and lingering, letting the silence wrap around you like a blanket.

No urgency. No chaos.

Just you and her, soaked in each other, in love and sweat and the echo of everything that just happened.

Safe.

You told yourself you would not do this.

You would not get used to the way it felt to be surrounded by her and her things - one of her leather jackets slung over the chair, a pair of her boots by the door, the faint scent of her shampoo still clinging stubbornly to the pillows around you.

And yet... here you were anyway. 

Pathetically laying in her bed... Curled up beneath her blankets, your head buried in her pillow, surrounded by traces of her that made the absence somehow worse. 

Missing her.

The thing was, you had spent years learning how to be alone. It had never bothered you before. You liked your own company. Liked the quiet, liked having your own space.

Then Natasha had happened.

And somewhere between late-night takeout, stolen hours between missions, and waking up tangled together more often than not, your definition of normal had shifted without asking permission.

"You’re such a traitor." You murmured quietly as Liho, her black cat, shifted slightly against the side of your head and let out the biggest sigh known to catkind.

Her tail flicked in response, unimpressed, before settling more comfortably against you, warm and solid and very clearly thinking the same as you.

You sighed as well, letting your head tilt to the side as you glanced down at her.

"You're supposed to make this less pathetic, you know?" 

Liho blinked at you slowly, greenish eyes looking at you as if she were waiting for something.

You reached down absently, gently scratching behind her ears. She leaned into it immediately, purring, and you could not help the small smile that tugged at your lips even if you tried. She always seemed to have that power over you. And her owner too.

"Yeah, yeah. I know," you mumbled, pursing your lips. "You miss her."

Because that was the thing, it was not just you. Perhaps the situation would be easier if it had been the case.

The whole room felt like it was waiting. Like it was holding its breath until Natasha walked back through the door and everything clicked back into place.

You let your gaze drift towards the nightstand - everything exactly where she left it, like she will be back any second.

Except she will not.

Not tonight.

Not for a few days, at least.

Solo missions would do that.

Liho shifted again, stretching this time, one of her paws pressing lightly against your ear.

You exhaled slowly, staring back up at the ceiling.

This was stupid.

You were being stupid. And you knew it, but apparently reason had no play in your feelings.

She was fine, after all. She was always fine.

You did not need to...

But your hand moved before you fully decided to, reaching for your phone where it rested on the mattress beside you. You stared at the screen for a second, the background picture greeting you not helping to talk yourself out of doing what you wanted to. Still, you paused for a second, teeth grazing your lower lip as you forced yourself to think rationally about this.

She was on a mission, after all. She did not need distractions.

She definitely did not need you calling in the middle of the night because you... Well, because you what? Missed her? Wanted to see her? Heard her voice? Make sure she was okay?

That felt... dangerously close to something neither of you were ready to unpack right now. Liho let out a small, impatient sound, nudging your hand with her head.

You glanced down at her, eyebrows raised.

"...You’re not helping." You grunted, closing your eyes before letting out yet another sigh. 

God, you were so pathetic.

Liho was still staring at you when you opened back your eyes, you rolled them before hitting the call button.

It rang once... Twice... You almost talked yourself out of it and hung up but by the third ring, the line clicked.

"Yeah?" Natasha's voice answered, slightly hoarse, a little quieter than usual.

Relief hit you so fast it almost made you dizzy and angry at yourself. One word, one raspy, sleep-roughened word, and suddenly the knot that had been sitting beneath your ribs for days loosened.

Were you this desperate and gone for this woman? You hated that, hated how immediate it was - as if some part of you had been waiting for proof that she was still there. Still breathing. Still okay.

The realization hit a second later and made you want to throw your phone across the room. Because, God, you really were gone for this woman. You needed to get a grip on yourself, and that as soon as possible. And preferably before she found out as well.

"Hey, you..." You replied, smiling at the ceiling, scrunching your nose as Liho's snout nudged your chin.

There was a faint rustle on the other end - movement, maybe. Fabric shifting. The soft, distant hum of a foreign location you could not quite place.

"You okay?" Natasha asked immediately, worry lacing into her voice.

Of course she did.

You huffed a small breath, glancing down at Liho as she curled tighter against your shoulder, ears shifting at the voice coming out of your phone.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine."

There was a beat of silence where you could practically hear Natasha thinking.

"Then why are you calling?" Straight to the point, not hitting around the bush with her - you always liked that. Usually.

You hesitated, because you did not actually really have a good answer. 

"Can't I just call m-" You stopped yourself just in time, clearing your throat. Logically you knew she was your girlfriend. You had been on too many dates together if that was not the case. But you never said the actual word. There was actually more than one word you had not said yet. "Can't I just call you? It's been almost a week, I wanted to hear your voice."

Natasha let out a faint exhale on the other end, almost a huff.

"Of course you can call me, I just thought something was wrong at first," she grumbled, stopping as she heard you shift. "You're in my room."

It was not a question, it made you blink, caught off guard by her words. 

"Wha-how did you even know?"

"Background noise," she replied, a smile in her voice. "And... you just confirmed it."

You shifted slightly, pulling the blanket up a little higher as you rolled your eyes at her smug tone. 

"Well, for the record, I’m here for a very important reason."

There was a soft, amused sound from Natasha on the other end.

"Huh uh, sure."

"It's true. You said Liho needed supervision and she doesn't wanna leave your room, so... here I am." You replied, chuckling when the cat let out a soft chirp, shifting closer to the voice.

"Alright, turn the camera on." Natasha asked, waiting.

You smiled, turning on your side and putting the phone on the other pillow to make sure she had a good view of Liho too. 

Natasha's face appeared on the screen seconds later, her hair pulled back in a neat braid. 

"There are my girls," she smirked, the corner of her mouth softening as she took in Liho's curled up position next to you. Her gaze flicked briefly to the side - like she was taking in the angle, the background, the way you were positioned. "You're on my side." She hummed, one eyebrow raising knowingly.

You narrowed your eyes, biting down the inside of your cheek. 

"What?"

Natasha's smirk deepened, slow and knowing.

"The bed... you're on my side." She repeated, voice dropping just slightly as she raised both eyebrows this time.

You froze, because... you were. Without even thinking about it. 

"It's... more comfortable." You said quickly. 

Natasha did not respond right away, just looked at you like she knew that was not the real reason. Or to the very least, not the only one.

Your pulse picked up slightly at the look on her face so you quickly cleared your throat, looking down at the cat. 

"Liho chose it first." You added, gesturing vaguely to the cat as backup. But of course, the traitor that she was, barely even reacted, simply staring at the screen while licking her paw absently.

Natasha chuckled, low and warm.

"Of course she did." She looked at the cat with playful suspicion before her eyes slid back to you.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, nodding. 

"Yeah, she’s been complaining. A lot. I think she misses you."

Natasha pressed her lips together, taking in the sight in front of her.

"How is the roommate's situation going?"

"...She knocked over a glass earlier." You glanced down at the cat again, making a face. 

Natasha sighed, glaring at Liho through the screen. 

"I chose her name so well." She shook her head, but there was unmistakable affection in it.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

And she saw it.

Of course she did.

Her gaze lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.

"Why did you call?" And there it was, the question you knew was coming again at some point.

You hesitated, because the real answer was sitting right there, obvious and inconvenient and a little too honest for comfort.

Because you wanted to see her.

Because you missed her.

Because her room felt too empty and wrong without her in it.

Because ever since you met her, she was always in a corner of your mind and these last couple of days you went back to that place more times than you would have liked - and actually needed to hear from the real her before turning completely crazy.

You shifted slightly, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. 

"Just checking in, you know..."

Natasha’s expression did not change but you could tell she did not buy it.

"Okay, and now the truth?"

"Hey, that's mean. I am checking in too." You grumbled, frowning at her.

She leaned closer to the camera, her face taking up more of the screen. The way she called your name always got you, and this time was no exception.

"You would check in if you knew I could actually talk about the mission. Which I can't. Which you already know. So...?"

"Wow. Okay. Read me like a book, why don’t you..." You huffed a small breath, rolling your eyes.

Natasha gave a small, smug shrug.

"I am."

You glanced back up at her. And unfortunately, she was still watching you like that. Too focused, too attentive, like she was waiting patiently for you to find the words.

Your chest tightened.

"...Couldn’t sleep." You admitted instead, softer this time.

It was not the whole truth but it was not a lie either.

Natasha's face softened.

"Yeah? Even if you're in my bed, surrounded by all my things... And wearing my shirt?" She sounded almost amused.

You glared at her, frowning. 

"Stop being mean, I'll hang up."

"Okay, okay." Natasha held up one hand in mock surrender.

She looked genuinely amused for a minute though. But then silence settled again, not the same as before. It felt heavier now. Charged with something you could not quite name, only feel.

You watched her for a second. The way her eyes scanned the area behind the camera. The way her shoulders stayed just a little too tense, even when she was standing still.

She was working.

Even now.

Always.

"But I will anyway, you should get back to it..." You added quietly, offering her a gentle smile.

Natasha exhaled, and for a moment you thought she might actually protest.

"Yeah, probably." But she did not move, did not end the call, neither did you.

Your heart was beating a little too fast. There was something sitting in your chest again - that familiar pressure, that weight that had been building for weeks now, threading itself through every moment like this.

You swallowed.

"I-" You started, breaths burning your lungs.

Natasha stilled, eyebrows raising as you suddenly stopped talking.

"Yeah?" She prompted.

Your fingers tightened around the phone as you brought it closer. God.

This was stupid.

It was just words.

Just three words.

You could say them.

Right now.

She was right there. Looking at you like that. Like... like she was waiting. Like she could see the battle happening behind your eyes, like she was standing at the edge of the same cliff.

"I... I l-" The words caught, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you drew in a breath before panic slammed into you. You saw it then, so clearly, the possibility of silence. Of surprise. Of not hearing it back... And suddenly every survival instinct you possessed grabbed the wheel. "I mean I... You know,Liho is being very well taken care of. And I'll keep on doing that," you finished abruptly, the words coming out too fast. "Just so you know. Don't have to worry. About anything." You added with a smile.

Natasha blinked, then her face did something complicated, and suddenly she looked like she was the one whose air had been punched out of her chest even though you were the one actually out of breath. 

"Yeah... I can see that."

"Good," you murmured, nodding a few times, hesitating again before clearing your throat. "Stay safe, okay?"

Natasha nodded slowly, eyebrows furrowing. 

"...I will," she said finally, her gaze lingering on you for a second longer than it should. As if she were suspicious. "I’ll call you when I’m done."

You smiled, even though the motion felt rushed and out of place. 

"Yeah. Okay."

Neither of you hung up immediately.

You just sit there for a second, looking at each other through the screen, waiting for more. Like there was something else to say.

Something just out of reach.

But then the screen went dark.

And the room felt just a little too big again, leaving you with words too big to deal with.

⧗

The plan had been simple on paper.

It always was.

In reality, however, it had dissolved into noise, smoke, and the kind of chaos that made your ears ring and all your carefully constructed thoughts scatter like startled birds. 

Somewhere above you, something heavy collapsed with a metallic shriek, sending vibrations through the whole floor. The lights flickered twice before settling into a dim, unreliable pulse that painted everything in uneven shadows as dust fell from the ceiling like dirty snowflakes.

You pressed your back against the cold concrete pillar behind you, forcing yourself to breathe through the adrenaline clawing up your throat after taking down five other men. Your comm crackled with overlapping voices - Sam swearing, Tony complaining about power surges, someone yelling coordinates that immediately got drowned out by static.

Your earpiece buzzed again after another slow breath, and this time Natasha's voice came through clearly: "Status?" 

Her voice was calm and grounded. Far too calm for the situation.

You exhaled sharply, something in your chest loosening just from hearing her - the sound of her voice hit you with embarrassing force. The building was still trying its absolute best to collapse on top of you. Your ears were ringing and your shoulder hurt and there were armed men somewhere in the vicinity actively trying to kill you. And yet the moment Natasha spoke, something inside your chest loosened.

You actually hated that she could do that, like some part of your brain had quietly filed her under safe, under trust, under the person you wanted beside you when everything else went to hell.

"Took down most of them but pinned on the lower level, door won't fucking open," you muttered, glancing around the corner before quickly ducking back as a burst of gunfire shredded the wall where your head had been a second ago. "Shit, three hostiles, maybe more. You?" There was a brief pause when you could practically hear her calculating.

"On my way." Natasha replied, voice steady despite the gunfire echoing faintly in the background of her comm. 

You huffed a breath that was half relief, half exasperation, dragging the hand that was not holding your gun through your damp hair as dust still rained down from above. You perked by the wall, shooting one of the three guards. 

"Nat, you’re not exactly in a position to be detouri-"

"I said I'm on my way." She cut in sharply before you could get another word out. 

That tone meant she was not taking anything for an answer besides what she had already decided.

You rolled your eyes - even though she could not see you - before dodging another bullet as you ducked into another corner, firing two more back and hearing a groan as one bullet touched a shoulder. 

"Yeah, okay, Romanoff. Because this mission hasn’t gone off the rails enough already, let’s just add 'reckless heroics' to the list."

"Shut up and hold your fire," Natasha scoffed, appearing on the other end of the hallways and taking down the two men before quickly jogging back to your side. "Well, you're welcome." She breathed out, bruised lips forming a small smile.

Before you could fire back, another explosion rocked the building, way too close this time. The wall at your back shuddered violently, cracks splintering up its side. You stumbled as the floor shook, catching yourself just in time, heart slamming hard enough to make your vision blur as the ceiling above the three guards lying on the floor suddenly collapsed on them.

"Fuck-" You gasped, pushing off and moving quickly to a slightly less terrible piece of cover with the redhead following. "Okay, that was... not ideal. Like at all." You added, one arm extended in front of Natasha - even though no one was coming your way as she stopped at your side. 

"No shit." She grunted, scanning the area before tugging on your wrist to urge you to follow her.

"Took the long detour to come to me, huh." You joked as you carefully climbed back the stairs to find yet another issue.

"Traffic." She replied dryly, already peeking around the corner, assessing, calculating. Always working.

And God, even now, even like this, even with alarms screaming overhead and dust coating the back of your throat, even while your heart was trying to punch its way through your ribs - your eyes kept finding her. 

The steady set of her shoulders. The quick, efficient movements of her hands. The way she assessed every angle, every exit, every threat in a matter of seconds.

Natasha always looked like she belonged in chaos, like she had made peace with it years ago and simply learned how to move through the storm, or perhaps had made a pact with it and already knew nothing would happen to her.

It should have been terrifying, instead it made something warm and painful unfurl beneath your ribs. Because every impossible situation somehow became more manageable when she was standing beside you. Because she had come for you.

The mission had gone sideways and the building was falling apart. And somehow Natasha had still heard you were trapped and immediately changed course. No hesitation, no discussion.

Your chest tightened - not from fear this time, but something sharper, heavier. Something that had been building for weeks, months, quietly threading itself through moments each more inadequate than the last.

You swallowed hard, forcing your attention back to the situation at hand. 

"Hey, Nat," you said slowly, glancing up at the ceiling that was definitely not supposed to be doing that. "Tell me you have a backup plan."

Natasha glanced at you, lips pressed together.

"I do..." She grumbled, forcing a door open with her shoulder before quickly climbing up the next stack of emergency stairs. "Not sure you’ll like it, though."

"Natasha, I already don't like that we're going up right now..." You grunted, running to catch up with her.

She did not answer, just kept moving. The stairs were narrow and creaky underfoot. 

"Sam or Tony’s gonna catch us on the rooftop." She replied, frowning at the door that refused to open. She kicked the combination lock, hissing as she grabbed a bunch of wires, ignoring the look you gave her.

Another tremor rippled through the building, stronger this time. A section of the ceiling caved in somewhere nearby with a deafening crash, the sound echoing through the corridors like a warning bell.

Your pulse spiked.

This was bad.

This was really bad.

Not because of the collapsing building, not because Tony's voice had disappeared from the comms three minutes ago, not because every instinct you possessed was screaming that the situation was deteriorating faster than anyone could fix. But because, for one horrible second, you genuinely thought this might be it.

And suddenly, all the things that normally seemed important vanished.

And suddenly, all you could focus on was Natasha. Natasha, crouched beside a broken security panel. Natasha, covered in sweat, soot and bruises.

And suddenly, the words were there.

Right there.

Sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and insistent and impossible to ignore anymore - because the thought of leaving this world without telling her hit you harder than any fear you might have felt all night.

You took in another shaky breath, your eyes tracking the smudge of soot along her jaw, the way a strand of red hair had come loose and was sticking to her cheek, the dried blood on her chin, the sharp focus in her eyes even as the world quite literally fell apart around you.

God.

If there was ever a moment... If the building came down right now, if this was the last conversation you ever had, you might actually not bear the idea of her never knowing. 

"Nat," you started, your voice coming out tighter than you intended, almost swallowed by the distant sound of collapsing concrete. "If we, you know, don’t make it-"

"We will." She cut you off, the response immediate, like she had not even needed to think about it.

You blinked, lips parted as you observed her work on the colorful wires carefully.

"I... well, yeah, but like, if we don’t-"

"But we will," Natasha repeated, sharper this time, finally glancing at you. There was something in her eyes now - something stubborn, unyielding and fierce. "I won’t accept otherwise."

You stared at her for a second, incredulous, adrenaline and frustration tangling together in your chest. 

"Oh my god, I know," you shot back, gesturing vaguely at the crumbling building around you. "I’m just trying to tell y-"

"Dekta," she cut in, her voice dropping just slightly, softer but no less firm. "It’s me. I won’t let anything bad happen to us... If you let me work on those fucking wires."

And there it was.

That certainty.

That absolute, unwavering belief that she could hold the entire world together through sheer willpower alone if it meant keeping you safe.

Your chest ached.

Because you knew her.

You knew where that came from.

And you knew how dangerous it was.

You let out a breath that turned into a frustrated half-laugh, dragging a hand down your face. 

"Fuck, you’re so stubborn," you muttered, shaking your head at this impossible woman. "Whatever."

But the words did not go away.

They just settled deeper, heavier, waiting.

And the building gave another violent shudder, as if reminding you that time was running out.

⧗

It started as nothing.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

Just another debrief after another mission successfully wrapped. So, naturally, another cluster of agents and Avengers lingering a little too long in the common area with glasses in hands and loud music all around.

You noticed her by accident.

At least, that was what you told yourself later.

The truth was that your eyes had developed a bad habit over the past several months.

No matter how crowded the room was or who you were talking to, no matter how hard you tried to focus on literally anything else - they always found Natasha eventually.

Like a compass needle snapping north.

You could be in the middle of a conversation, could be laughing at something Tony said, could be halfway through a story - and somehow your gaze would drift across the room searching for red hair and green eyes before you even realized what you were doing.

Tonight was no different.

One second you were pretending to listen to Sam rant about government paperwork, leaning back against the counter with a drink you had half-drowned already, the next your eyes had wandered.

And there she was...

Beautiful.

Effortlessly, unfairly beautiful.

Standing a few feet away and talking to... someone.

You would not have thought twice about it, except... Well, she was smiling.

Not the polite, diplomatic curve of her lips she used when she was playing a role. Not the sharp, amused smirk she gave when she was teasing.

A real smile. Soft and easy and unrestricted.

Your stomach flipped, and not the pleasant kind of movements it usually did when it involved her.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, trying to focus past the noise in the room to get a better look at who she was talking to. Some agent, you recognized the face vaguely, newer, maybe. You did not really know. What you could decipher however was the confident stance, way too relaxed to be speaking with Natasha, and leaning just a little too close.

And you realized with anger seeping into your veins that your girlfriend was not stepping away.

In fact, she tilted her head slightly, listening carefully before saying something back. And God, the agent had the fucking audacity to laugh.

Your grip tightened around the glass in your hand.

It was nothing.

Right?

It had to be nothing. Natasha knew plenty of people. People you did not know yourself. It was part of her job, after all. And it was not fair, she was not doing anything wrong. It was fine, not a big deal. But your slightly inebriated brain was set on convincing yourself it was a very big deal.

You forced your shoulders to relax, dragging your gaze away.

She was allowed to talk to people, a completely normal activity that human beings engaged in every day.

She was allowed to smile, too. Hell, you loved her smile.

This was normal.

This was-

You glanced back before you could stop yourself, and they were still talking. God, how long was this discussion going to be?

Your eyes kept on tracking every movement for the following minutes while the rest of your face was still pretending to listen to Sam’s story.

Every smile, every second she remained standing there. The worst part was that you trusted Natasha completely. This was not about trust, it was somehow more embarrassing than that, it was wanting.

Wanting her attention.

Wanting that smile.

Wanting to be the person she looked at like that.

And watching someone else get it felt like tiny little paper cuts somewhere beneath your ribs.

Death by a thousand stupid insecurities.

You took another drink.

An excellent decision, clearly.

Natasha said something else, her expression shifted - something amused flickering in her eyes - and the agent reached out briefly, brushing her dirty, unworthy fingers against her arm as she responded.

Something in your chest twisted. 

Okay.

No.

Nope.

That was not happening.

You pushed off the counter before you could think better of it, crossing the room with the purpose you intended. You told yourself it was casual. That you were just... joining the conversation. Gathering information before actually stepping in.

Not interrupting.

Definitely not interrupting.

Natasha noticed you coming the moment your footstep hit a particularly creaky floorboard two steps to her right. Her gaze lifted, locking onto yours - sharp, assessing and aware like she always knew exactly where you were in a room. 

The... woman - whoever she was or thought she was - beside her was still speaking, oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere.

"Hey," you said, a little too quickly, stopping beside the redhead and leaning into her side more heavily than you intended, blinking a few times to stop the world from moving too much - perhaps you should have stopped at two drinks like Sam suggested earlier.

The agent turned to you and offered an easy smile, probably delighted to have two Avengers speaking to her. 

You nodded stiffly, barely acknowledging her before your attention snapped back to the person who actually mattered to you. 

"Didn’t know you were still in debrief mode."

Natasha's lips twitched at the contact, subtle but there, her hand spreading on the small of your back to steady you. 

"We’re not." She replied, her voice calm and even as always.

"Right," you said, glancing between them. "Just... chatting then."

"Yes." Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly.

There was a beat.

An awkward one, if you could say so yourself.

You did not like it.

"So," you added, forcing something casual into your tone that did not quite land the way you wanted it to. "What’d I miss?"

The unknown woman chuckled nervously. 

"Not much. Just telling Miss Romanoff about my upgrade ideas for her bites."

"Her bites?" You replied, eyebrows raised, ignoring the way Natasha's hand tightened on your back in warning.

"Yeah, you know... widow bites. They're impressive already but Mister Stark wanted my help to upgrade them and Miss Romanoff had some very good suggestions," she continued, praising your girlfriend like you were not standing right the fuck there. "Didn’t expect that kind of knowledge, actually. You know a lot about... well, a lot." The young woman giggled.

Something about the way she said it, like it was new, like she was just discovering something you had known for so long... it grated.

"Yeah," you said again, tighter this time. "She does tend to know a lot about a lot." You let out a snort, giving the young woman a look.

Natasha’s gaze flicked to you again, sharper now. Assessing.

The woman glanced between the two of you, clearly picking up on something. Finally. Tony had not picked the brightest one, it seemed.

"Well," she said, clearing her throat slightly. "I should, uh, let you t-"

"Yep," you cut in quickly. "Perhaps you should."

Natasha shot you a look at that, but the woman just nodded awkwardly and stepped away, muttering something about other projects.

You did not even watch her go, your focus was entirely on Natasha now.

The second she was out of earshot, the silence shifted.

Your redhead turned to you fully, arms crossing as she let go of you.

"Okay," she said, eyebrows raised. "What the hell was that?"

Your jaw clenched as you leaned against the wall for support, making a face of confusion. 

"What was what?"

Natasha exhaled through her nose. 

"That," she repeated, gesturing vaguely in the direction the agent disappeared. "Just now."

You let out a short breath, shaking your head. 

"Nothing, just... talked to your new friend, that's all."

Natasha's expression flattened, her eyes flashing with something that was both arousing and thrilling. God, whatever was in your drink really fucked you up.

"What is your problem?"

"My problem?" You echoed, incredulous. "I don’t have a problem."

Natasha stepped closer, lowering her voice. 

"Really," she said flatly, unimpressed. "Because you just interrupted a conversation for no reason and then acted li-"

"For no reason?" You cut in, the words coming out sharper than you intended. "Seriously?"

Natasha's jaw tightened, irritation flashing across her face.

"Yes. Seriously." She hissed back, keeping her voice low but making sure to send her point across.

You stared at her, incredulous.

"Wow," you muttered, running a hand through your hair. "Okay. Good to know then."

"Good to know what?" Natasha frowned.

"That you’re just... completely fucking oblivious." You grumbled.

"Excuse me?" Her eyebrows raised higher. 

You hesitated. Because saying it out loud felt... actually ridiculous.

And petty.

And yet...

"You guys were flirting." You said finally.

The words hung in the air for a moment, then Natasha let out a sigh, leaned back against the wall, and turned to face you.

"I really wasn't."

You let out a disbelieving huff. 

"Na-"

"I wasn't," Natasha repeated, firmer now, her gaze steady. "And if she thought I was, she's sorely mistaken."

You shrugged, the alcohol not helping you think clearly. 

"Well, you were smiling."

"I smile," she replied, voice cooling as something you could not quite understand shifted in her expression, her shoulders dropping. "Sometimes."

"I don't know, not like that..." You grumbled lamely.

Natasha stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled through her nose as her eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, like what?"

"Like-" You stopped, frustrated, gesturing vaguely because you did not even have the right words for it. "Like you meant it or something."

"And that's a problem?" Natasha huffed out a laugh.

You opened your mouth before closing it again.

Because no. It should not be.

She was allowed to smile. Allowed to talk to people. Allowed to-

"Let’s just forget it..." You muttered, shaking your head.

Natasha reached out, gripping your chin gently and forcing you to look at her.

"Nuh uh," she said immediately, lips twitching. "Don’t do that. You started this, now finish it. Even if you're drunk."

You let out a sharp breath, throwing her a dirty look at her last words. 

"Well, it’s just..." You cut yourself off again, jaw tightening. "It’s nothing, can we drop it?"

"It clearly isn't nothing."

"It is," you insisted, even though your chest felt tight, your thoughts a mess. "I just didn’t expect you to be so... friendly."

Natasha studied you, letting go of your chin to rest her palm on your sternum, thumb brushing the collar of your shirt.

"I'm friendly when I choose to be." She hummed.

"Yeah, I noticed." You chuckled, the words coming out more bitter than you intended this time. You reached for her hand with one of yours, keeping it on you - the touch grounding in a tilting world.

Natasha laced her fingers through yours, squeezing slightly.

"So what? I can't talk to someone now?"

"That’s not what I said."

"It’s what you’re implying."

"I’m not implying anything-"

Natasha sighed, cutting you off. 

"You walked over there and shut down a conversation because you didn’t like it," she replied, voice sharpening. "So tell me, what exactly is the issue here?"

You stared at her.

Because the issue was obvious.

At least, it was to you.

But saying it out loud? That was different.

"That woman was clearly into you." You said instead.

Natasha blinked at you before snorting. 

"Yeah, and?"

"And?" You stopped, frustrated, running a hand through your hair again. "And nothing. It’s just, like, obvious."

Natasha tilted her head, lips twitching. 

"So?"

"So-" You exhaled sharply, feeling stupid. "You didn’t seem to... mind."

Her gaze locked onto yours, amusement flickering there. 

"Yeah? Should I have?"

"I don’t know," you snapped, frowning at her, not understanding the funny aspect of this discussion like she seemed to. "Maybe... Probably."

Natasha leaned in closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her breath.

"Why?"

The question landed heavier than it should, the hair at the back of your neck standing up in alarm.

You hesitated.

Because the answer was sitting right there, at the front of your mind, loud and insistent and impossible to ignore.

Because you did not like seeing someone else look at her like that.

Because you did not like the idea of her wanting that from someone else.

Because you-

"Because I-" The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice cracking. "I just don’t like it, okay?"

Natasha hummed, lips curling into a satisfied smile, thumb brushing your hand.

You swallowed hard.

Your heart was pounding, she could probably feel it.

"I-I don't like seeing you like that. Imagining you with someone else." You grumbled, the words rough, pulled straight out of your chest.

Natasha pursed her lips, eyes on your frowning face.

"You think I’m 'with' someone else?" She asked, amused.

"No," you said quickly. "No, that’s not what I-just-" you shook your head, frustrated with yourself now. "Forget it. You can't understand."

Natsha hummed, looking at you with that familiar mixture of amusement and fondness, as if you were the most entertaining thing she had encountered all evening.

"Then explain it to me," she challenged, stepping closer and lowering her voice. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you got jealous over a conversation."

"I didn’t," you stopped yourself again, exhaling sharply. "You're enjoying this too much," you grunted, giving her a look. "Okay, maybe I did. A little."

Natasha smirked, really smirked, the kind that made your stomach flip.

"Good of you to keep up, I've been enjoying it for five minutes," she chuckled, tilting her head to give you a knowing look. "A little?" She repeated.

"Fine. More than a little." You grumbled.

Natasha's smirk softened into something warmer, almost fond. Her eyes flicked downward, kissing you before you could dig yourself into a deeper hole than you were already, lips smiling against yours as she tasted the remeanant of the alcohol there.

You closed your eyes, trying to keep your mouth shut too. Because the truth was right there.

Because you loved her.

It sat at the back of your throat, heavy, burning, ready. Pulsing in time with the organ in your chest.

This would be so easy, too easy, to whisper it against her lips and blame it on the liquid courage coursing through you. To gasp it into her mouth, letting her swallow the words and sealing them with your insistent lips on hers.

You were already here, already halfway there, already saying things you probably should not be saying.

What were three more words?

Your pulse pounded as she stepped away, deep green eyes opening to stare at you.

"Wait..." Your voice faltered, breath catching as everything crashed together at once. "You're, like... very... important," you frowned, confused about where you were going with that, the words coming out of your mouth not necessarily the ones you expected. "I mean, like... I love... that you're interested in me. Only me." You finished, weaker than what you almost said. 

Safer.

Natasha's eyes searched your face, like she was trying to find something you were not saying.

She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around your neck.

"Well, I thought that was pretty clear already, but I'm very much only interested in you, silly." She breathed out against your lips.

The words were steady and certain, making the hair at your nape raise again. But they did not quite settle the storm in your chest, even as your hands settled on her waist, heavy eyelids blinking to look at her.

Natasha kissed you again, softer this time, lingering. 

Her hands came up to cup your face, thumbs slowly brushing over the apples of your cheeks like she was memorizing them.

"Next time," she whispered, smiling softly. "Maybe try using words a little better before jumping to conclusions."

You huffed a small, humorless laugh. 

"Yeah. I’ll work on that, kinda hard after those insane drinks Clint wanted me to try, though..." You grumbled, staring into her green pools that lulled you closer, limbs melting into her.

And somehow you still wanted more.

Greedy and pathetic and hopelessly in love. The realization hit so hard it nearly stole your breath - well, that and her tongue tracing over your lips.

If only she knew the truth, though...

If only you could actually do that.

Said the words, the right ones, the real ones.

But instead, they stayed where they had been for weeks now, caught in your throat.

Unsaid.

⧗

Natasha woke you with a sound that did not belong in her bedroom.

Not a scream - Natasha Romanoff did not scream - but something very close to it. It sounded like a strangled inhale, like she surfaced too fast from underwater and forgot how lungs worked.

Your eyes snapped open instantly.

The room was dark except for the thin blue glow of the digital clock on the nightstand showing 3:13 AM.

Beside you, Natasha was rigid. Not sitting up, not moving, not one arm above her head like you caught her doing before. Just frozen flat on her back, chest heaving in shallow and uncontrolled breaths that were trying very hard not to become panicked.

"Nat?"

You pushed yourself up on one elbow when no response came from her, sleep dissolving immediately from your brain. The sheets were tangled around her legs, a sheen of sweat glinted across the exposed skin of her throat. Her hands were fisted at her sides so tight you could see the tendons straining.

"Natasha." You murmured, a little softer this time as you shifted closer, still careful, because you had learned to be careful with her.

Her eyelids finally fluttered open at the movemnt, eyes cutting toward you, green and glassy in the dark - but they did not really see you yet. They were still trapped somewhere else entirely, something years away from this room. The Red Room. A mission gone wrong. Or some memory she will never tell you about. There were ghosts living behind Natasha’s eyes sometimes. You knew that much.

And tonight they followed her into bed.

Your chest ached immediately - not because she looked broken, Natasha never looked broken, she looked exhausted like she had spent the last several hours fighting ghosts no one else could see.

"Oh, honey." The endearment slipped out before you could stop it and something in her expression cracked.

Not dramatically, because Natasha never broke dramatically either. But you saw it, that tiny flicker of exhaustion beneath the mask she was trying to pull back into place - tonight she was not fast enough. Tonight you caught the crack before the mask could close.

"’m fine..." She murmured automatically, her voice rough.

You almost scoffed at the lie, except there was nothing funny about the way her breathing still stuttered every few seconds.

"Yeah," you murmured instead, giving her a look. "Clearly."

Normally she would smirk at that. Throw something sarcastic back. Deflect. Tonight she just closed her eyes briefly like she was too worn out to actually pretend and let out a low sigh.

You hesitated for only half a second before reaching for her. That hesitation did not exist before. In the beginning, you touched Natasha carefully because you did not know if she wanted it. Now you hesitated because sometimes nightmares left her halfway feral with adrenaline and instinct. Once, months ago, she woke up swinging.

She cried afterward. 

Not visibly, but her hands shook while she checked your jaw for bruising, and she refused to look at you for the rest of the night and following day so you would not be able to see her glassy eyes.

You remembered holding her face and saying, "Nat, hey, it’s okay, it was an accident." You remembered her whispering, horrified, "I could’ve hurt you." As if she had not spent every day since trying to make up for it with hands gentler than ever before.

Tonight, though, the second your fingers brushed her wrist, she grabbed you. Hard.

Never enough to hurt, just enough to reveal how desperately she needed the contact.

Your breath caught.

Natasha turned into you so quickly, almost hopelessly, and pressed into you like she could not get close enough fast enough. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other hooked under your shoulder, and then she was burying her face against your neck with a shuddering exhale.

Natasha never clinged before.

Your heart practically fractured on the spot.

"Okay," you whispered immediately, wrapping both arms around her. "Okay, I’ve got you."

She said nothing, not that you expected her to talk right now, but her grip tightened.

You could feel the aftermath of the nightmare in the tension running through her body. Every muscle pulled taut. Every breath measured too carefully.

You started rubbing slow circles against her back, carefully laying back against the mattress, thumbs pressing gently into her sides. It took a while before she melted even a little.

"You wanna talk about it?" You asked quietly, lips brushing her hairline.

You only received a tiny shake of her head against your throat in answer.

"Okay. That’s okay too."

Another few minutes passed in silence. Outside the compound windows, rain tapped very softly against the glass - a reminder that the world kept on moving in small, ordinary ways while you held one of the deadliest women on the planet together with your bare hands.

The thought would almost be funny if it did not feel so devastatingly tender.

Natasha shifted closer even though you did not think that was physically possible. One of her legs slid between yours, anchoring herself there. Her fingers curled into the back of your sleep shirt like she was afraid you would disappear if she let go.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly, lips pursing. Most people only knew the polished version of Natasha Romanoff. The smirks. The sharp edges. The glares. The dry humor. The controlled, untouchable elegance.

The Avenger.

The spy.

The weapon.

But you knew this version too.

The one who woke up shaking. The one who hoarded affection like she did not know when it would be taken away again. The one who pretended she was not tired right up until she fell asleep on your shoulder. The one who quietly moved closer whenever a room became too crowded. The one who checked that you got home safely even when she was halfway across the world. The one currently curled against your chest as if your heartbeat was the only thing keeping the nightmares away.

The one who pretended she did not need anyone while silently gravitating toward you over and over and over.

You planted a kiss onto her head, nose resting there as your lips stayed pressed on her temple. Immediately, impossibly, she softened further like that single gesture undid another knot inside her.

Your chest hurt so badly with it that you almost said it right then.

The three words rose so fast it scared you.

You stopped yourself so abruptly your breath almost caught audibly.

Natasha did not notice. Or if she did, she did not question it.

She was still tucked against you, eyes closed now, breathing gradually evening out while your heart absolutely lost its mind inside your ribcage.

Because holy shit.

Holy shit. You nearly blurred it out.

Again.

Panic bloomed instantly.

Not because it was not true.

God, that was part of the problem. It was too true. Because loving Natasha was not a choice you made anymore - it had never been your choice. It had become instinct. As natural as breathing, as inevitable as gravity. You loved all of her. The legend. The weapon. The woman.

Especially the woman.

You stared at the ceiling, fingers still moving gently through her hair while your thoughts spiraled violently out of control.

This was not the moment.

Actually, this would be the worst possible moment, if you thought about it.

She just had a nightmare. She was vulnerable and exhausted and clinging to you like you were the only solid thing in the world right now. Saying it now would be... unfair.

The realization landed heavy in your stomach - it would be unfair to put that on her now.

Natasha had spent her whole life with people taking advantage of vulnerability. Twisting soft moments into leverage. Making affection transactional.

You knew that.

You knew her.

The last thing you ever wanted was for her to think your comfort came with strings attached. Like she owed you something because she let herself need you tonight.

Your eyes stung suddenly.

God. And what if she panicked?

Not because she did not care about you - you knew she did by now, even if neither of you said it out loud - but because love was different.

Love was permanence.

Love was trust.

Love was something Natasha approached like a wounded animal approached an open hand: cautiously, suspiciously, waiting for the trap.

You could still hear her voice from months ago, quiet and strangely raw after a mission in God knew where left both of you bleeding in a safehouse bathroom.

"I’m not good at this."

You had looked up from where she was bandaging your ribs, eyebrows pulling together. 

"Stichting me up? Could have told me before I let you put your hands on me, huh."

"No, just... this," she had muttered with a roll of her eyes, making a gesture with her free hand between the two of you. "All of it."

Relationships, she had meant.

Feelings.

You remembered smiling softly. 

"Well, good thing you don’t have to be good at it, then."

Natasha had stared at you for a long moment like that answer genuinely confused her.

Sometimes you thought she was waiting for you to realize she was impossible to love.

The horrifying thing was that loving her was the easiest thing you had ever done.

You looked down at her now, at the red hair spilling across your shoulder. At the tiny crease still lingering between her brows even in sleep. Her plump lips partially parted, puffing air on your shirt.

At the way she unconsciously seeked your warmth even while asleep, fingers twitching against your back every few seconds just to make sure you were still there.

Your entire body ached with affection.

You wanted to say it so badly.

You wanted to whisper it into her hair and hold her until she believed it.

You wanted to tell her she was loved so fiercely and gently and without condition that it even terrified you sometimes.

But fear curled sharp beneath the longing.

Because what if she was not ready?

What if hearing it made her... retreat?

What if it changed this - whatever beautiful fragile thing the two of you had built together for months - into something frightened and uncertain?

Natasha did not do love.

Or at least she thought she did not, or to the very least act like she could not.

You had seen evidence of that belief everywhere: in the way she - most of the time - deflected sincerity with humor, in the way she usually went still when someone cared too openly, in the way she looked almost startled every time you chose her again.

As if she was still waiting for the moment you would not.

You could survive not saying it. You would rather swallow these feelings for another year than risk making her think she owed you an answer tonight, an answer given at three in the morning with tears still trapped behind her eyes would not really be an answer at all. However, you were not sure you could survive watching her pull away from you. Not over something like that. Not over timing. Not over words. So you swallowed the words down hard enough it hurt. And instead tightened your arms around her slightly and pressed another kiss into her red hair. Natasha made a small sound low in her throat. Contentment? Trust?

"You’re okay..." You whispered carefully.

Not I love you.

Even though every inch of you meant it.

"You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Her breathing evened out completely after a few minutes.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged at your own eyes again, but sleep came slowly. You mostly just laid there holding her, listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your chest.

You stayed. That was all. Stayed through the nightmares. Stayed through the sharp edges. Stayed through the parts of her she thought were too damaged to be loved.

You buried your face briefly in her hair, eyes burning.

"I’m here." You whispered.

Always, you almost added. But that was dangerously close to the other thing.

So instead you held her tighter and let the words live silently inside your chest a little longer.

⧗

You smiled against her insistent lips, blindly reaching for the handle of the door that was digging into your back, your other arm lazily draped around her shoulders.

Natasha chuckled into the kiss, breaking away just enough to push the door open with her hip.

She stepped inside first, pulling you along by your shirt collar before reconnecting your lips together the second the door of her quarters was closed behind you.

"Someone's eager." You mumbled between kisses, both arms wrapping fully around her neck now, back arching as you felt her warm hands on your hips.

Natasha bit your lower lip gently, hands sliding under the fabric of your shirt to press her burning palms against the shivering and bare skin of your back.

"Almost like it's been weeks or something." She breathed out, giving you a heated, amused look.

You shook your head, fingertips brushing along the loose curls of her braid. You tilted your face enough to look down at her cat who circled your ankles, purring at the contact. Liho meowed loudly at the lack of acknowledgement from both your parts, rubbing against Natasha's legs next.

The redhead ignored her, too busy nipping at your jaw instead, one of her hands tugging on the loop of your pants to bring you closer to her.

"She might be hungry..." You hummed, tilting your face back to give her more room, eyelids fluttering as you let your feet follow her wherever she was taking you.

Natasha grunted against your skin at your words, ignoring Liho entirely.

"She's always hungry," she muttered before pulling you in another heated kiss, hands gripping your hips as she walked backwards toward the door of her bedroom. "Plus, she already ate. Now's my turn." She smirked as she pulled you inside the room instead, closing the door before the black cat could enter.

"You’re so rude," you chuckled, leaning against the door, your hands feeling up her arms that quickly wrapped around you, refusing to let you go too far. "Slamming the door right into her face like that..."

Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes as she resumed her kisses along your jaw.

"Trust me you're not gonna want an audience," she said, lips hot on the hollow of your throat. "Know what else's rude?" Natasha asked, teeth grazing your skin, her eyes sparkling as goosebumps followed.

"Mhm, what?" You panted, already feeling yourself worked up, thighs pressed together for a semblance of relief, hands finding purchase at her toned shoulders.

Natasha smirked, pressing a slow kiss to your collarbone before biting down lightly, then soothing it with her tongue.

"You," she whispered against your skin, hands sliding lower. "You got no idea what you've been doing to me all day, huh? I couldn't stop thinking about you. During that meeting too," she grunted, nose nudging the collar of your shirt as far as possible. "Imagine that? Me? Distracted?"

"Well, I didn't do anything." You grinned, fingers slipping into her braid, purposely messing it up as you brought her lips back to yours.

Natasha groaned as you ruined her carefully braided hair - she hated when you did that. But she kissed you back anyway, hands fumbling and pushing fabric off your shoulders in a hurry.

"Liar," she accused between breaths. "You wore those clothes on purpose."

"My clothes? What about them?" You breathed out, helping her out of her own top.

Natasha kicked her shirt to the side, pressing flush against you, skin on skin now. 

"That shirt," she said, voice rough as her fingers traced the waistband of your pants. "That clings like that? Your chest looked heavenly. Called my name." Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose before claiming your mouth again with a low whine of frustration as she tried to push your pants as far as she could.

You could not help but let out a shaky moan, kicking your shoes and jeans off to finish the job, fingers curling in her hair.

"I think you're losing your mind if you hear my tits talking to you." You chuckled against her lips, walking her to her bed, mouths still sharing the same oxygen.

Natasha fell onto the bed with you, laughing into your kiss - actually laughing, something rare and light that made your inside flutter so violently your lips parted against hers.

"Oh, your tits definitely talk," she teased back against your mouth before letting her mouth trail lower once you were fully straddling her lap. "They say 'touch me, Natasha' all day. Can hear them through all these walls and layers." 

One of her hands slid up to cup your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra, her other one pressing down your lower back to make you arch it.

"You're such a dork." You grunted, hips rolling on her lap, your hand not in her hair working on her bra, letting it pool between you like a final motion. Natasha let out a small laugh, but the sound turned into a breathy moan she tried to immediately swallow as your hips rolled against her lap again.

Her hands immediately reached behind you to take off the last piece of fabric hiding your silky skin from her gaze, eyes sparkling as the sight of your bare chest finally greeting her.

"Well hello, ladies. Missed you too." Natasha smirked, ignoring both the amused and bewildered look you sent her as she leaned down to press a light kiss on your sternum, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts until your back arched against her on its own this time.

You let out a chuckle, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you gripped her toned arm, your fingers still tangled in her head guiding her face lower. Natasha did not need guiding, she was already moving down - her lips trailing fire over your sternum, nipping gently at the soft skin of your chest before her teeth grazed the swell of your breast. Her hands trailed lower, feeling your soft sides and committing it all back to memories.

"Sorry, I might be delirious," she murmured, voice muffled against your skin as she pressed warm kisses over your chest. "Like I said, s'been weeks." 

"Yeah..." You breathed out, eyelids heavy as you stared down at her. "...acting like you’ve been through withdrawal or something." You teased, though your chuckle died in your throat as her teeth grazed your sensitive skin in clear retaliation, piercing green irises looking up at you.

Natasha smirked against your skin before finally taking one of your nipples into her mouth, tongue swirling around it, slowly at first, teasingly. She could feel the way you tensed beneath her, how your breath hitched and fingers curled tighter in her hair. She hummed approvingly around the peak before sucking gently. Your hips jerked into her lap involuntarily as a reaction to her ministrations. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, breaths turning heavy as you tried to contain yourself even though her actions along with the faint friction happening between your thighs was making you dizzy with want for more.

Natasha immediately noticed the way you moved against her - subtle, involuntary, but so telling. She quickly switched to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention while one of her hands slid down your stomach and over your hipbone, tugging down the last fabric clinging to your body.

You let her roll you over and watched as she dragged your panties off your legs, her burning fingertips grazing your skin. You shifted on your elbows, giving her a heated look as you stopped her from laying back with a firm foot on her toned stomach.

The redhead frowned, confusion clouding her gaze for a second.

"Nuh uh, you're wearing far too many clothes." You smirked, licking your suddenly dry lips.

Natasha arched a brow, but the smirk on her lips grew as she understood your demand. Without hesitation, she took a step back. Her buttons popped open in record time as she kicked off the remnants of her clothes. She grabbed your extended leg with one hand, squeezing your calf as she drew closer.

"Better now?" She drawled in a hoarse tone that groped at your belly with a small smile on her face, her lips trailing over the inside of your leg, eyes never leaving your face.

You nodded slowly, your gaze never leaving her mouth as you tried your hardest not to melt too visibly under her ministrations. But it was harder said than done when your whole being filled with anticipation, your breath coming in faster before you could take the reins over it.

Natasha took her sweet time - kissing up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth of her mouth linger on your skin. She kept going until her nose bumped the apex of your thigh before finally reaching her destination, the first contact making every touch she did before small compared to the way her tongue eagerly seeked you out. Her eyelids fluttered for a second, a small sound escaping her parted lips as your grip in her hair resumed before tightening.

"Fuck-" You gasped, thighs already starting to tremble on either side of her head. "I almost forgot..." You stopped yourself, swallowing hard as her eyes snapped back to yours, her lips wrapping around your clit as she shot you a quick wink. "...how good you were at that." You finished in another gasp, letting the back of your head hit the mattress as you tried to keep the sounds in.

Natasha smirked - actually smirked, you could feel it against your folds - before diving back in with renewed focus. She alternated between slow, teasing licks and firm suction, like she had all the time in the world to relearn you - her tongue swirling expertly while one hand gripped your hip to keep you from bucking too much. The other slid up your stomach to pinch a nipple - multitasking like the terrifyingly efficient woman that she was.

"Inside-" You panted, back slightly arching off the bed while the hand not in her hair gripped the one that she rested on your chest for dear life, eyebrows furrowing as you focused on the pleasure she was making you feel. "Need you inside, Nat."

The redhead, your redhead, did not hesitate or drawled it longer than you thought she would - perhaps she did miss you as much as she claimed to - and slipped two fingers into you without warning, curling them just right on the first try like she knew your body better than her own. You rewarded her with a shaky gasp, unforgiving warmth spreading through you like wildfire.

Her tongue kept working your clit in perfect rhythm with her thrusting fingers, adding pressure exactly where it mattered. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet room, mixing with your gasps and Natasha's soft hums of approval against you as she stared at your body that chased the feeling she was giving you. And suddenly it was too much. Too many feelings. Natasha was all around you, everywhere - outside and inside. Her insistent hands, her heavy gaze fixed on you that you could not see but felt all the same, the scent surrounding the two of you. It was too much and you were right there, with the words ready to claw themselves out your chest and throat to finally slip past your parted lips. 

You let go of her hair immediately as a semblance of dangerous clarity reached you, your hand pressing flat against your parted mouth. And what if you stopped yourself from breathing that way? At least the words were going down with you, and you would not blur them out of the blue, in the middle of sex, mind you.

You let out a trembling moan, thighs starting to shake as you bit down the inside of your fingers.

Natasha felt the exact moment you tensed, the way your body coiled like a spring ready to snap. She doubled down with eyebrows furrowed in focus, keeping the pace of her fingers and curling them while her tongue pressed hard against your clit. Your muffled moan only spurred her on, she always loved making you fall apart beneath her. Loved being the reason for that desperate grip on yourself, for those half bitten-off sounds she could practically taste in the air between you two. And then here you were, your thigh jerking up by reflex as your walls spasmed around her fingers, sucking them in. 

She pulled back and took a deep, ragged breath, eyes traveling languidly over the faint sheen of sweat over your curves.

You opened your eyes again, face tilted to the side as you lazily reached for her with your hand, pushing the babyhair off her forehead with a faint, delirious smile on your face.

Natasha leaned into your touch, her damp lips curling as she kissed the palm of your hand. Her fingers, still glistening, brushed over your stomach as she crawled up to hover above you, arms caging either side of your head. She pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth first, then finally claimed it properly - slow and deep and so tender compared to what had just happened moments ago.

It made your toes curl.

"I love-" You stopped yourself just in time, gulping down, teeth grazing your lips as you tried to find something else to say. Something else than what you really wanted. Something that you might actually not regret saying. "I love, love when you do that." You finished in a lower tone, heavy eyes searching her face.

Natasha studied you, those green eyes always seeing too much, like she could read the hesitation in your chest, the words that did not make it out.

But she just kissed you again, slower this time, letting you taste the proof of your arousal clinging to her. Her hand came up to cradle your jaw as her thumb stroked your cheekbone gently, affectionate and warm.

"Yeah, I gathered as much." She grinned smugly against your lips.

You chuckled, pushing her away with one firm hand on her sternum before suddenly flipping both of you over, your body pinning her down on the mattress. You tried not to react too visibly as her hands immediately grabbed your hips by pure reflex.

"You know I don't like when you look too smug." You grunted, playfully rolling your pelvis into her lap, one eyebrow raised pointedly.

Natasha blinked up at you, almost surprised for once, her usually controlled expression flickering with something unreadable as your weight settled over her. A slow smirk curled on her lips, her hands traveling lower until she was cupping your buttcheeks. 

"Well hello," she breathed out, tilting her chin to press a kiss to your jaw. "Missed those too." She smirked, her hands squeezing the flesh, a small chuckle escaping her as the involuntary movement it caused you to make.

"Oh, shut up." You laughed, your hands cupping her face to pull her into a firm kiss.

Because if there was one thing you were good at, it was distracting you from telling too much. And what could be a better distraction than those plump lips, stealing all possible breath from you until you could not speak anymore.

⧗

It was quiet in the compound.

Not the half-expected, tense, waiting kind of quiet that came after a mission or before one, but something softer, lived-in... And an atmosphere that could only prevail in the late hours of the day, one that only night owls could understand.

Most of the lights were off, the common areas were empty. And you were sitting on one of the couches, half-curled into the corner, a blanket draped over your legs more out of habit than actual need. There was a book open in your lap, but you had not turned the page in... well, a while now.

You were not reading. You had not been for the past twenty minutes. Or maybe even longer. Your gaze kept drifting.

To the doorway. To the window. To the hallway.

You did not know exactly when she got back.

You just knew she did.

You heard the faint echo of a quinjet followed by footsteps earlier. The soft click of a door. The almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere that always seemed to follow her presence - like something settled into place because she was back in your orbit.

You did not go to her. Not immediately. You had an unspoken agreement whenever one of you would return from solo missions, you would not go looking for the one who had just come back. It was up to her to come find the other if felt the need. Otherwise, you had to give the other time and space - enough to take a shower and put herself together while wiping away all the blood that stained the skin - before either of you could face the world again as an acceptable person.

So, you told yourself you would give her time, like always. Let her decompress. Shower, change, whatever she needed.

Totally normal.

Totally reasonable.

And it definitely did not end up with you pacing your own thoughts into the ground for what had to be the past half hour.

You exhaled slowly, dragging your eyes back down to the book you grabbed again.

You froze in the middle of a mess of words you surely must have tried to read before as soft footsteps echoed in the hallway. They were quiet - of course they were - but you recognize them anyway. Measured and controlled in the way that let you know she was letting you hear her approach.

Your heart picked up instantly.

Which was very stupid. It was just her.

Just Natasha.

The footsteps stopped right behind you.

You did not turn around right away, but you did not even know why. Maybe because if you did, this became real - that aching missing feeling whenever she was not near you. The words that had been sitting in your chest for weeks now, building and building and building until it felt like they were going to spill out whether you wanted it to or not.

"Your book’s upside down."

You blinked, looking down with a frown.

It was.

"...I knew that." You mutter, flipping it to the side quickly.

There was a soft sound behind you, something between a breath and the ghost of a laugh. You finally turned. And there she was. Clean now, changed too, her hair still slightly damp, falling loose around her shoulders. She was dressed in comfortable clothes, like she had already shed the mission and stepped back into something more... normal.

Her eyes were on you before they flicked to the empty mugs sprawled on the small table in front of you, eyebrows raising faintly.

"You’ve been sitting here for a while." She noted.

You shrugged, aiming for casualness to buy yourself more time on your emotions. 

"Yeah. It’s a couch. That’s kind of what they’re for."

"Mhm." Natasha did not move closer, did not sit down next to you despite the empty place, she simply stood there, watching you. Like she was trying to figure something out.

You shifted slightly under the weight of it.

"What?"

"You’re weird again." Natasha tilted her head just a fraction. 

Your eyebrows shot up. 

"What!? Me? I’m not weird. What do you mean?"

"Yeah, you are," she replied simply with a scoff, like it was painfully obvious. "You keep almost saying something for weeks now."

Your stomach dropped, colors draining from your face.

Oh.

Oh, God, no.

You let out a short, awkward laugh, shaking your head. 

"I don’t... what are you talking about?"

Natasha did not seem to buy it, not even a little, as she arched an unimpressed eyebrow in your direction.

"I’ve seen you do it," she continued, stepping a little closer now, her voice quieter but more certain. "You can’t lie to me, you know?"

You looked away, suddenly very interested in a nonexistent wrinkle in the blanket. 

"I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re imagining things."

"I’m not."

"You might be."

"I’m not." She repeated, a little firmer this time.

You huffed a breath, rubbing the back of your book that laid on your side, upside down. 

"Okay, even if I were, hypothetically, almost saying something... it’s probably not even important."

Natasha stepped closer, close enough now that you could feel the shift in the air between you as she leaned into your space.

"It is, though." She said, lips twitching.

You shook your head, letting out a chuckle. 

"Nat-"

"Come on, just say it." The words landed softly, like a request. But solid with no room to dodge, no room to deflect anymore. 

You swallowed hard, your pulse picking up again.

"This is a bad idea." You muttered, mostly to yourself, looking up at her with almost pleading eyes.

"Why?" She frowned.

Because you might ruin everything.

Because she might not say it back.

Because what you have right now is good and safe and enough-

"Because..." You started, before stopping. You held your breath, expecting... something. But Natasha did not move. She did not push. She just waited. And somehow, that was worse.

"You’re not gonna let this go, are you?" You let out a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair in a nervous movement. 

"No."

Of course not.

You glanced up at her, she was closer than you realized. Her expression was not guarded, not like it usually would be with... anyone else. Anyone else but you. There was something open there, she let you see it, decipher it like it was yours to. She was curious. Maybe even a little cautious. Like she knew this mattered.

Your chest tightened.

God.

This was it then. This was the moment you had been avoiding for weeks.

You were sure you could still back out. Say something else, make a joke, deflect, kiss her until you were both too distracted to remember the discussion at hand. You had done it before. You could do it again.

But you looked at her now.

At the way she was standing there, waiting. At the way she was clearly not letting it go this time. At the way she came to you without any mask on.

The faint dampness still lingering in her hair, the patience in her eyes, the way she had not pushed you once - just waited, as if she trusted you to get there eventually.

And God.

Maybe that was what finally did it, because something in your chest just settled.

You exhaled slowly. Because the truth was the truth. The truth was painful to hold in. The truth was choking you alive. Perhaps it was killing you more to keep it in than scream it at her. Because the truth was the truth and it was inevitable - even though you tried to run away from it. It would always come back to here and now, it would always come back to her.

"I love you." The words left your mouth in an exhale before you could stop them, like they almost did too many times to count before.

You froze immediately as your brain caught up, your heart slamming hard against your ribs, every instinct screaming at you to take it back, to say something else. Anything.

But Natasha just... looked at you.

And for a split second, panic spiked, until a faint breath escaped her.

"Oh."

You blinked, your entire body went tense. The sound was not disappointed, it did not sound uncertain either. If anything, it sounded fond. Almost helpless. 

And you were fucking lost.

"Oh?" You echoed, suddenly very aware of how exposed you were right now despite the blanket covering your clothes. "That’s-well, okay. Cool. Good. Great response. I-I actually really love that for me," you started to ramble, because of course you were - already half-turning away like maybe you could just physically remove yourself from the situation. "I mean, not that you have to say anything back, because you don’t. I just, well, clearly picked a great time to-"

"No, no, I just... was expecting something else," Natasha replied, lips twitching. "I mean, I already knew that."

You stopped before fully turning back now, elbows planted on the back of the couch as you caught up with her words.

"...What?"

Natasha smirked, something softer in her eyes now.

"I know." She repeated, like she knew you needed to hear the words again.

"You know, what? You knew? Since when?"

"A while." She shrugged slightly, pinching her lips together to hold the laugh in.

"A while?" You repeated, incredulous. "Natasha, I’ve been internally losing my fucking mind over this for weeks, actual weeks-"

"Yeah, I noticed." She scoffed, reaching for one of your hands.

"-and you just knew!?"

"Well, yes. I knew you loved me."

You stared at her.

Because that was... That was so unbelievably her.

"Oh my God, you are actually unbelievable." You muttered, dragging your free hand down your face.

There was a faint flicker of amusement at the corner of her mouth as she stepped closer, fingers brushing hair away from your eyes so she could look into them.

"I love you too, by the way," she shrugged, lips twitching into a smirk. "In case you didn’t know."

You stared up at her, breath half caught in your throat. She loved you.

Of course she did.

The evidence had been everywhere.

You had just been too terrified to trust it.

"...You do?" You asked, because apparently your brain had fully stopped functioning as needed to hear things more than one time.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. 

"I just said that, didn’t I?"

"Yeah, I know, I just-" You let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking your head. "You could’ve, I don’t know, mentioned that before I spent months spiraling over it."

She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. 

"Well, you could’ve said it sooner.”

You stared at her, lips parted.

"...You’re really turning this around on me right now?"

"Mhm hm."

You huffed out another laugh, softer this time, something in your chest finally loosening after weeks of tension as she leaned in enough to press her smile against yours.

Around you, the city is a gray mouth held open by smoke. Night rain slicks the cracked asphalt and turns the gutters into thin rivers of ash. A siren wails somewhere in the distance, then abruptly cuts off like something reached up and pinched it shut.

The building ahead is a squat concrete block dressed up as a humanitarian front. The name on the sign is cheerful, rounded letters meant to reassure, RELIEF SERVICES, while the windows are blacked out and the corners are too sharp to belong to anything honest.

Inside, there are hostages.

Inside, there are armed men with cheap rifles and expensive confidence.

And inside, somewhere in the middle of all that human fear, is the reason SHIELD called in the Avengers in the first place an experimental power core stolen out of a secure lab, humming with the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms lift and your teeth ache.

You crouch behind the destroyed shell of a car, rain ticking softly on the roof above you. Your vest sits heavy over your chest, the ceramic plate reassuring in a way that feels almost superstitious. Your fingers are steady on your weapon. Your breathing is controlled.

You’ve been trained by the best.

And by her.

Wanda’s team doesn’t move like chaos; they move like a sentence written in sharp ink. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a job. Everyone knows the cost of getting sloppy.

There’s a shift to your right. A trainee, newer, younger, adjusts their grip too fast. Their shoulder jerks. Their eyes flick up and down the building like they’re trying to count threats by staring harder at them.

You catch it, because you always catch it. You do what you’ve been taught to do: you assess, you predict, you correct.

“Breathe,” you murmur, not into comms, just into the rain. “Slow.”

The trainee swallows and nods too hard.

Wanda’s voice returns, crisp and clean. “Natasha. East entry. Clint, overwatch. Steve, you’re with me on the front breach. Y/n--”

Your throat tightens a fraction. That pause before she says your name always does something to you, even when it shouldn’t.

“--you’re with the hostages,” Wanda finishes. “You prioritize them. You do not chase targets. You do not improvise.”

It’s direct. Commanding. Exact.

And underneath it, if you know her the way you do, there’s a second layer of meaning.

You come back.

You come back.

You come back.

Your lips part around a breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding. “Copy. Hostages first.”

“Good girl,” Wanda says, so quietly you almost miss it under the rain and the comms hiss. The words hit the inside of your ribs like a thumb pressed to a bruise--firm, intimate, grounding.

Across the street, Steve gives a hand signal and the front line shifts. Natasha slides like a shadow along the east wall, so smooth she might as well be the night itself. Clint is already a silhouette somewhere high above, bow drawn, watching.

Yelena’s voice crackles into comms like she’s leaning too close to the mic. “I am in position. And if any of you die, I will be very annoyed.”

“Comforting,” Natasha replies without missing a beat.

“It is my love language,” Yelena says, and you hear the grin in her voice.

You almost smile. Almost. You don’t let yourself.

Wanda doesn’t banter. Not before a breach. Not when civilians are involved. Not when there’s too much that can go wrong.

She is, always, control.

That’s what SHIELD saw in her when they asked her to supervise training rotations. That’s why they paired her with you when you arrived, half-broken and too useful to ignore.

You weren’t born into this world.

You were dropped into it.

One day you were somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t have streetlights, didn’t have coffee, didn’t have the mundane, stupid comforts of Earth. Somewhere the sky was too close and the air tasted metallic and your power felt like a sickness trying to crawl out of your bones.

You survived.

You adapted.

SHIELD found you because something bright and wrong lit up their satellites. They brought you in with a soft voice and a hard hand. They called you an asset and smiled like it was kindness.

Wanda was the first person who didn’t talk to you like you were a weapon.

She talked to you like you were a person holding a weapon, and there is a difference so sharp it still cuts when you think about it.

She corrected your stance with two fingers at your elbow, not a shove.

She watched your breathing when your power spiked, not your hands.

She kept you in training longer than anyone thought necessary, because she refused to throw you into the field until you trusted your own body again.

And when you’d flinched once, once, at a sudden sound and everyone else had looked at you like you’d proven them right about you being unstable, Wanda had stepped closer, gaze steady, and said:

“Again.”

No pity. No fear. Just expectation.

You learned to meet it.

You learned to become someone she could trust.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, somewhere between her hands on your wrists adjusting a grip and her eyes on you during a sparring match like you were the only thing worth watching, something in her shifted.

It wasn’t obvious. Wanda is not obvious.

But you noticed.

Because you notice everything about her.

The way her gaze lingers a fraction too long on your mouth when you talk.

The way she says your name when she’s angry, like it’s a restraint.

The way she is harsher with everyone else, and softer with you in the small places she thinks no one can see.

In the field, she never touches the other trainees unless she has to.

With you, she’s always one step closer than necessary.

Always within reach.

Like she’s afraid the world will steal you if she doesn’t keep a hand on the thread.

“Breach in three,” Steve says on comms.

Wanda inhales.

You hear it.

Even over the line, even through the static, you hear the control in it.

Then: “Two.”

You shift your weight, muscles coiling. Your path is mapped, west hallway, down to the holding room. Wanda’s intel says the hostages are in the back, behind a metal door. Your job is to get to them, shield them, get them out.

“One.”

The front wall explodes inward with controlled force. Not Wanda’s magic, Steve’s charge, clean and brutal. Dust blooms into the rain like a gray flower.

The world lurches.

You move.

Everything becomes sound and motion and training.

You sprint, low, weapon up, eyes scanning. The air inside the building is warmer, stale, smelling of sweat and fear and old concrete. A man shouts in a language you don’t understand. Another one screams.

Gunfire erupts, sharp, fast, echoing off the narrow hallways.

Your heart doesn’t race it works. Steady. Efficient.

You take the west corridor, boots splashing through rainwater tracked in, and you are halfway down when the trainee behind you does exactly what Wanda told them not to do.

They improvise.

They break formation.

They push ahead, eager, trying to be heroic, trying to prove something.

You see it like a slow motion nightmare: their shoulder breaks into the open doorway on the left, their body exposed, their weapon angle wrong.

And from inside the room, a muzzle flashes.

Hostages.

The shooter isn’t aiming at the trainee.

He’s aiming past them.

At a woman crouched behind a table, hands over her head, eyes wide and wet in the dim.

You don’t think.

You don’t hesitate.

You throw yourself into the line.

The impact is a sledgehammer to your chest.

Your vest catches the bullet, your plate does its job, so there’s no clean hole, no neat wound, no immediate red blooming through fabric.

Instead, the force drives into you like a car crash compressed into a single point.

Your ribs feel like they fold.

Your lungs forget how to be lungs.

You hit the floor hard enough that your vision whites out at the edges.

Sound becomes underwater.

You try to inhale and nothing happens.

Your body sucks at air like it’s never done it before, like the motion is unfamiliar, like you’re drowning in dry space.

A wet sound tears from your throat.

Blood spills into your mouth, hot and metallic, and you cough--instinctively, violently

and it sprays out in a dark arc across the concrete.

The smell is immediate.

Iron.

Panic.

You claw at your chest, fingers scrabbling over the vest like you can rip your way back to breathing if you just try hard enough.

The trainee screams your name.

You can’t answer.

Your world tunnels into the savage need for air.

Somewhere above you, Wanda’s voice slices through comms.

“Y/n?”

It’s not command.

It’s fear, sharpened into a single syllable.

You try to speak. You can’t. Blood bubbles at your lips instead.

Your hand lifts, weak, reaching for nothing.

“Y/n,” Wanda says again, and you hear her moving, fast, too fast. The air hums. The building itself seems to vibrate with the sudden flare of red.

Steve says something, your name, an order, but it’s swallowed by the roar in your ears.

Footsteps thunder.

And then Wanda is there.

She drops to her knees so hard the concrete should bruise her. Her hands are on you immediately, everywhere, too many points of contact, like she’s trying to anchor you to the world by force.

Her fingers find your jaw, tilt your face up. Her other hand grabs the front of your vest, yanks at the straps with violent precision.

“Look at me,” she says, breath trembling on the words. Wanda Maximoff’s breath does not tremble. She is the calm in the storm.

Except right now.

Right now her hands shake so slightly you feel it in the way her fingers press into your skin.

You try to open your eyes. Your lashes are wet, rain, tears, blood spray, you don’t know. Everything is blurry. Wanda’s face is a dark shape edged in red light.

You cough again.

Blood pours out, thick and relentless, and you make a horrible, choking sound because it’s blocking everything.

Wanda’s eyes widen, pupils blown.

“No,” she whispers, like she can refuse reality into changing.

Her magic flares, scarlet threads curling around your torso, probing, searching, trying to assess damage the way a medic would, except it’s Wanda so it’s like being touched from the inside.

You feel it catch on something, your ribs, your lungs, and her breath breaks.

“moye serdtse” she murmurs, voice cracking. Something soft and Sokovian, something that sounds like a prayer and a promise at once. “moya lyubov'… stay with me.”

You don’t understand the words, but you understand the tone.

You understand the way her thumbs stroke your cheeks like she’s trying to soothe you while you’re actively dying.

Your chest heaves. Your lungs flutter uselessly, bruised and flooding. The world tilts.

You can’t get enough air.

You can’t.

Your fingers curl into her sleeve like a child’s grip, desperate, begging.

Wanda makes a sound, small, broken, furious. Her gaze flicks once, sharp as a whip, toward the room where the shooter was.

There’s a man with a rifle staring in shock. There are hostages pressed into corners, crying.

And there--standing frozen in the doorway, pale as ash--there’s the trainee.

The one who moved wrong.

The one who made you throw your body into a bullet’s path.

Wanda’s face goes blank.

Not calm.

Blank.

It’s the expression she wears when she’s about to do something that can’t be undone.

Red light crawls up her fingers.

The air thickens.

The trainee whimpers.

“Wanda,” Steve says on comms, firm. “Stay with her. We’ve got--”

Wanda doesn’t answer.

Her gaze locks onto the trainee like a target.

And then Natasha is there too, because Natasha Romanoff misses nothing. She drops beside Wanda, one knee hitting the floor, and her hand clamps around Wanda’s wrist.

Hard.

“Maximoff,” Natasha says, low. “Eyes here.”

Wanda’s jaw flexes. Her nostrils flare. Her magic surges against Natasha’s grip like a living thing trying to lunge.

“You--” Wanda starts, and it’s not even aimed at Natasha. It’s aimed at the universe.

Natasha doesn’t let her finish.

“Later,” she says, like it’s a promise and a warning. “Right now, you keep her alive.”

Wanda’s eyes flick back to you.

The sight of your blood at your mouth, the way your chest won’t rise properly, the panic in your gaze, something in her fractures.

She leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. Her breath is ragged in your face.

“Breathe,” she says, voice shaking now. “Breathe for me, detka. Please.”

You try.

You cannot.

Your throat makes a horrible wet rasp.

You see it in Wanda’s eyes the moment she realizes the truth:

You aren’t just hurt.

You are going to suffocate.

Your airway is failing.

Your lungs are failing.

You are drowning in yourself.

“Nat,” Wanda whispers, and there is naked terror in it. “She--”

“I know,” Natasha says.

Yelena’s voice crackles through comms, suddenly sharp. “Why is everyone quiet? Who is bleeding? Is it you? If it is you, I will--”

“Shut up,” Natasha snaps, then immediately softens her tone like she remembers you can hear her. “Yelena. Med kit. Now. West corridor. Run.”

“I am running,” Yelena says indignantly, and you hear pounding footsteps in the background and the clink of something metal. “I am always running in this family.”

Wanda’s hands are still on you. She’s already ripping open the front of your vest. The straps tear. The plate shifts. Cold air hits your skin.

Your chest is already blooming with bruising, a dark, ugly spread under your collarbone. Wanda’s fingers trace it as if touching it gently might undo it.

She presses two fingers to your throat, checking.

Her magic pulses, probing deeper.

And then she goes still.

Her eyes flick up, meet Natasha’s.

A silent exchange passes between them, the kind only people who have seen too much can have.

Natasha’s voice is grim. “Airway’s going.”

You want to say something. Anything. You want to tell them you’re here, you’re trying, you’re not ready, your mind throws a thousand words at your tongue and none of them get past the blood.

Wanda cups your face with both hands now like she’s afraid your head will roll away if she lets go.

“Stay with me,” she repeats, and this time it’s not a command. It’s a plea. “Stay, stay, stay…”

Your vision swims.

The edges darken.

You hear comms like a distant radio in another room.

Steve barking orders. Gunfire. Hostages crying. The mission still happening around you while your whole world becomes the brutal, humiliating fact that you can’t breathe.

Wanda’s thumb presses at the corner of your mouth, wiping blood away with a tenderness that feels obscene in a battlefield.

“Please,” she whispers again, and you realize she’s crying, not openly, not dramatically, but there’s a wet shine gathering in her eyes that makes your chest ache even more than the injury.

Yelena skids into the hallway, breathless, and drops to her knees across from you.

She takes one look at your face, at the blood, the panic, the way your lips are starting to tinge wrong, and she loses her usual sharpness for a beat.

“Oh,” she says, very quietly. “Okay. This is bad.”

“Stop narrating,” Natasha mutters.

“I am not narrating. I am observing. There is difference.”

Yelena fumbles the med kit open, hands moving fast but not smooth. She’s excellent at violence. Comfort is… not her natural habitat.

“Hi,” Yelena says to you, and her voice does something awkward, tries to be warm, lands somewhere near blunt. “Do not die. It will upset Wanda and she will then kill everyone and I will have to clean up mess.”

You might laugh if you weren’t drowning.

Wanda glares at her without looking away from you. “Yelena.”

“What? I am soothing,” Yelena insists, offended. “This is soothing where I am from.”

“Not helping,” Natasha says.

Wanda’s magic pulses again, and you feel it coil around your throat. Not choking. Supporting. Trying to keep tissue open, trying to hold a pathway where your body is collapsing.

But magic can’t change blood flooding your airway fast enough.

Natasha’s eyes track your breathing, or lack of it, and her decision is immediate.

“There’s no time,” she says.

You hear the knife before you see it, the soft metallic whisper as she draws it from its sheath.

Your eyes widen.

Wanda’s head snaps up. “Natasha--”

Natasha doesn’t flinch. “Cric,” she says, like a code. “She’s obstructing. She’s going to suffocate.”

“No,” Wanda says, and you don’t know if she’s denying the plan or denying the reality.

Natasha’s gaze is steady. “Wanda. Hold her.”

Wanda’s face twists. Her hands tighten on your jaw like she’s holding you together by force of will. Her magic flares around you, red threads whipping, frantic.

“You are not cutting her,” Wanda hisses, voice low and feral.

Natasha leans closer, voice even lower. “Then watch her die.”

The words hit like a slap.

Wanda’s breath stutters.

Your chest convulses with another useless attempt at air. A wet gurgle tears out of you. Your vision spots.

Wanda makes a sound, raw, torn, and then she nods once, jerky, like it costs her everything.

“Do it,” she whispers.

And then, because Wanda Maximoff cannot help but be Wanda, she leans down and presses her forehead to yours, hands cradling your face so gently it hurts.

“Look at me,” she says, voice trembling like the edge of a breakdown. “Stay with me. I am here. I have you. I have you…”

Her words wrap around you like a blanket and a chain at once.

Natasha positions herself at your throat. Her movements are precise, practiced. She’s done this before. The fact makes something cold slide down your spine.

Your mind screams.

Your body tries to pull away.

But you can’t move. You’re too weak, too panicked, too trapped in the simple animal need for oxygen.

Wanda’s magic presses you down, not cruel, not painful, just… holding. Immobilizing. Protecting you from yourself.

“Detka,” Wanda whispers, and the pet name lands like a kiss on your forehead. “I am so sorry. I am so--”

The knife touches your skin.

Cold.

You choke on a sound that isn’t a word.

Pain flashes, white, brutal, immediate, as Natasha makes the incision. It’s sharp and clean and it tears a cry out of you so raw it doesn’t sound like you.

Wanda’s hands shake around your face. Her eyes are wide, wet, furious at the universe.

“Breathe,” she says, over and over, like a spell. “Breathe, breathe, breathe…”

Natasha works fast. The world is reduced to sensation: the sting at your throat, the pressure, the awful awareness of something opening where nothing should open.

And then air. Not perfect. Not gentle.

But air hits you like a miracle.

You suck it in through the new passage with a harsh, ugly gasp that makes your whole body spasm.

Your eyes roll back for a second.

You come back with a strangled sob.

Wanda’s face crumples.

She lets out a broken breath like she’s been holding her own lungs shut this entire time. Her forehead stays pressed to yours as if she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lifts it.

“That’s it,” Natasha says, steady. “Good. Good. She’s got air.”

Yelena swears softly in Russian--something that sounds like both relief and rage.

Wanda laughs once, a wet sound that isn’t humor. It’s hysteria brushing the edge of her control.

She kisses your temple--quick, fierce--before she seems to realize what she’s done.

Her eyes flick around.

The trainees nearby stare like they’ve just witnessed something sacred and terrifying.

Because they have.

Wanda Maximoff does not do tenderness in front of them.

She does not show weakness.

She does not kneel.

Except she is kneeling now, covered in your blood, hands cradling your face like you are the only living thing in the world.

Her voice drops, so low it’s almost not comms anymore--it’s just for you.

“My love,” she whispers in Sokovian, words trembling on her tongue. “My heart. Don’t you dare leave me.”

You can’t answer. You can’t speak around the tube and the pain and the shock.

But your hand moves, weak, trembling, and finds her wrist.

Your fingers close around her like a promise.

Wanda’s eyes snap to your hand.

She inhales sharply.

Her magic surges in response, filling the hallway with a low red glow that makes the concrete look like it’s bleeding too.

“Command,” Steve’s voice barks on comms. “We need evac on west--now. Hostages moving. Clint, cover. Natasha--”

“I’m here,” Natasha answers. “We’re stabilizing. She needs a bird.”

“On it,” Clint says. “Clear the roof.”

The mission continues, because it has to.

But Wanda doesn’t move.

Wanda’s world has narrowed to the pulse under your skin and the fact that you are still looking at her.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Even if it’s through a wound.

Yelena leans closer, awkwardly patting your shoulder like she’s trying to remember how humans work.

“You did very good,” she tells you, voice strained. “Very… heroic. Next time, do not be so heroic. It is very inconvenient.”

You manage a small, painful exhale that might be a laugh.

Wanda shoots Yelena a look that could kill.

Then Wanda’s gaze slides past you, past the blood, the shattered hallway, the hostages being guided out by Steve

to the trainee still standing frozen, shaking.

The one who caused this.

Wanda’s face changes again.

Her grief doesn’t vanish.

It weaponizes.

She lifts her head slowly, eyes locking on the trainee like a predator sighting prey.

The trainee flinches backward. “I--I didn’t-- I thought--”

Wanda rises in one smooth motion, still keeping one hand on you as if she refuses to break contact. Her magic coils around her arms in lazy, deadly ribbons.

Everyone in the hallway feels it.

The temperature dips.

Even Natasha’s posture shifts, ready, cautious.

Wanda speaks, and her voice is Supervisor Maximoff again--except now it’s laced with something ancient and cruel.

“You thought,” she repeats softly.

The trainee swallows. “I-- I was trying to help--”

Wanda steps closer.

Red light spills over the trainee’s face, painting them in the color of consequence.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Wanda says, tone calm in a way that makes your stomach turn. “You broke formation. You exposed civilians. You exposed her.”

The trainee’s eyes flick to you, wide, guilty, horrified.

Wanda follows the glance.

Her hand tightens on your shoulder, possessive even in your half-conscious state, like she’s claiming you with touch.

“She is not your lesson,” Wanda says.

The trainee’s lip trembles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry--”

Wanda’s gaze sharpens. “Sorry does not reverse bruised lungs. Sorry does not refill blood. Sorry does not stop her from drowning.”

The trainee starts to cry.

Wanda doesn’t soften.

Natasha steps between them, voice low. “Wanda. Not now.”

Wanda’s eyes flash. “Move.”

Natasha doesn’t move.

Wanda’s magic flares.

Natasha’s hand goes toward her own weapon, not because she expects to use it on Wanda, because she expects to need it to stop Wanda from doing something irreversible.

And then you make a sound.

A wet, rasping inhale through the tube.

A small, broken noise of pain.

Wanda freezes like the sound has struck her physically.

Her head whips back to you.

Your eyes are open, barely, glassy, unfocused, but they’re on her.

There is fear in them.

Not of the injury.

Of her.

The realization hits Wanda like a punch.

Her jaw clenches. Her breath shudders.

She turns away from the trainee like ripping herself free of a temptation.

“Get them out,” she snaps at Natasha, at Steve, at everyone. “Now.”

Steve doesn’t argue. “Moving.”

The hallway becomes motion again, boots, voices, the shuffle of terrified civilians being guided toward the exit. The sound of rain grows louder as doors open.

Wanda drops back down beside you like gravity pulls her there.

She presses her palm to your sternum, gentle, careful, feeling the horrible instability under your skin. Her magic threads into your chest again, soothing bruised tissue as best as it can, trying to reduce swelling, trying to keep your lungs functioning.

Her eyes never leave your face.

“Stay with me,” she says again, quieter now, stripped down to truth. “Please. Please.”

You want to tell her you’re trying.

You want to tell her she’s scaring you and saving you at the same time.

You want to tell her you’ve never felt so held.

Your hand moves again, trembling, and you touch her cheek.

Your fingers smear blood on her skin.

Wanda closes her eyes for half a second like your touch is the only prayer she believes in.

She leans into your palm, breathing hard.

Then she kisses your fingers.

Right there, in the hallway, surrounded by team and trauma and rain.

A small, instinctive act.

Claiming.

Comforting.

Love slipping out despite her iron discipline.

Natasha watches it, expression unreadable.

Yelena’s brows rise in silent, startled recognition, like she’s seeing the shape of something she suspected but never had confirmed.

And the trainees, your team, stare like they’ve just learned what it means to be hers.

Because Wanda has favorites.

Everyone knows she’s harder on some trainees than others. That she demands more, pushes more, expects more.

But with you it has always been… different.

With the others, she says Again.

With you, she says Breathe.

With the others, she corrects mistakes like they’re technical.

With you, she watches your face like she’s reading your soul.

And now, with you bleeding and broken on the floor, Wanda isn’t a supervisor.

She’s a woman on her knees in the rain, desperate enough to bare her heart in front of everyone.

The evacuation bird whirs overhead before you see it, the deep thump-thump-thump of rotors slicing through wet air.

A rope ladder drops down through an opening in the roof.

Clint’s voice crackles through comms. “Roof is clear. Bring her up.”

Natasha moves first, helping position you carefully. Yelena secures the tube and stabilizes it with rough competence, grumbling under her breath.

Wanda’s hands are everywhere again, supporting your head, your shoulders, your ribs, touching you like she can’t bear not to.

Every movement makes pain flare in your chest. Your body shakes with it, weak, helpless.

Wanda’s face tightens.

“I’ve got you,” she says, and this time the words sound like a vow. “I have you.”

You cling to her sleeve again as they lift you, because you don’t know what else to do.

Because your body knows her.

The ladder is a blur of motion and rain and dizziness. Your vision smears. Your stomach lurches. The night air is cold, sharp, and it burns your new airway with each harsh inhale.

Wanda climbs beside you, one hand on you the whole way, magic subtly supporting your weight like invisible hands holding you up.

On the roof, the world opens into rain and rotor wind.

The quinjet door yawns like a mouth.

Inside, medics rush forward.

Wanda doesn’t let them take you immediately.

She stiffens the moment a gloved hand reaches for you.

“Wanda,” Natasha says sharply, right in her ear.

Wanda’s head snaps to her.

Natasha’s gaze is fierce. “Let them work.”

Wanda’s throat bobs.

She looks down at you, your blood on her hands, your eyes half-open, your breathing harsh and mechanical.

She looks like she might refuse.

Then you blink, slow, exhausted.

And your fingers twitch, still holding her.

Wanda exhales shakily.

“Okay,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Okay.”

She lets the medics move in, but she follows like a shadow, hovering so close she might as well be part of you.

They lay you on a stretcher. Straps tighten. A monitor beeps, fast and angry.

Your body shakes with cold and shock.

Wanda’s magic wraps around you like warmth, subtle enough that no one calls it out, but strong enough that you stop shivering quite so violently.

A medic peers at your throat, grim. “We need to get her to the Tower. Now.”

Clint’s voice crackles. “We’re wheels up.”

You feel the quinjet lift. Your stomach drops.

Wanda’s hand finds yours again and this time she laces your fingers together like she’s claiming you, holding you, keeping you tethered.

Her glove is wet with rain and blood.

Her grip is firm enough to hurt.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

She leans down close to your ear, voice low, trembling.

“You did not have permission,” she whispers, and there’s something sharp and possessive in it that makes your exhausted mind snag. “Do you understand me? You do not get to throw yourself in front of bullets. You do not get to leave me.”

Your eyes flutter.

You try to swallow. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Wanda’s thumb strokes your knuckles like she’s soothing a wild animal.

“I know,” she says, as if answering something you didn’t say. “I know you did it for them. I know you would do it again.”

Her breath catches.

“But you come back to me.”

The words are softer now.

Not command.

Need.

Her forehead lowers until it rests against your temple, careful of the tube.

For a moment, the quinjet noise fades behind the sheer intensity of her presence.

The smell of her, rain, smoke, something faintly sweet and human cuts through the blood taste.

You feel tears burn in your eyes, sudden and useless.

Wanda presses a kiss to your hairline.

Then another.

Then she whispers something in Sokovian, rapid and intimate--words you don’t understand but feel in your bones anyway.

A promise.

A prayer.

A threat to the universe itself.

Natasha watches from across the bay, arms crossed, expression hard.

But her eyes flick to Wanda’s face, just once, and there’s something like sympathy there.

Because Natasha knows what it looks like when love becomes a liability in the field.

And she knows Wanda is losing the war against it.

Yelena hovers awkwardly near your stretcher, then leans in as if she’s about to say something kind and immediately regrets it.

“I will… kill the trainee,” she offers instead, quietly.

Wanda’s head lifts.

Her eyes are bright with tears that never fell, full of a rage that is still there, still simmering, waiting.

“Touch them,” Wanda says, voice low as thunder, “and I will stop you.”

Yelena blinks, offended. “I am being helpful.”

“No,” Wanda says, and it’s terrifying because it’s calm. “You are being reckless.”

Yelena’s mouth twists. “Says you.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t leave Yelena. “I have reasons.”

Yelena glances at you, then back at Wanda, and her expression shifts into something quieter, something like understanding.

“Ah,” she says softly. “Yes. Reasons.”

Wanda turns back to you, and the whole world narrows again.

Her hand squeezes yours.

Her voice drops into that intimate frequency again, meant only for you.

“I am here,” she says. “You are not alone. You are not allowed to be alone.”

Your vision blurs.

The monitor beeps.

The quinjet hums.

And you float somewhere between pain and relief and the strange, aching fact that Wanda Maximoff is holding your hand like she might never let go again.

You want to tell her you can’t handle how much she cares.

You want to tell her you can.

You want to tell her you’re scared.

All that comes out is a wet, rasping exhale through the tube.

Wanda smiles, small, shaky, broken with relief.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “That’s my girl.”

The words wrap around you like warmth and possession.

Your eyes close.

Not because you’re giving up.

Because for the first time since the bullet hit, your body believes, truly believes, that someone else will fight for your breath when you can’t.

The quinjet lands like a verdict.

The floor shudders under the skids, rotors still hammering the air, and the moment the rear hatch starts to drop, the med bay team is already moving, gloved hands, bright lights, a stretcher rolling forward like it has its own gravity.

You feel it before you see it: the Tower’s sterile cold reaching for you.

Your eyes flutter open at the first blast of white light. The quinjet’s dim interior gives way to the hangar’s harsh fluorescents, and everything becomes too sharp, every sound too close, every vibration too loud.

The stretcher jolts.

Pain spears through your chest, then blooms outward, a deep bruised agony that makes your vision pinch at the edges.

Your hand tightens, instinctively, desperately, around Wanda’s.

She’s there. Still there.

Still refusing to be anything but there.

“I’ve got her,” Wanda says immediately when a medic tries to step in between. Her voice is calm, controlled--so controlled it’s terrifying. “Move.”

“Ma’am,” a doctor says, already walking beside you, fingers checking the tube at your throat, reading your vitals off the portable monitor. “We need clearance. We need space.”

Wanda doesn’t give any.

She walks with the gurney as if she is part of it--one hand anchored to your wrist, the other hovering over your sternum like she can physically hold your lungs together if she tries hard enough.

The hangar doors slide open. Cold air knifes in. The corridor ahead is a tunnel of bright light and polished floors, and the sound of boots on metal becomes the sound of wheels on tile.

They rush you through the Tower like a storm with a purpose.

Your world is fragments.....

ceiling lights streaking overhead

voices calling numbers you don’t understand

gloved hands pulling at straps and fabric

the smell of antiseptic replacing smoke

your own breathing, ugly and mechanical through the new airway

Wanda’s fingers laced with yours like a vow

“BP dropping,” someone says.

“SpO2 is unstable.”

“Possible flail segment, contusion, internal bleed--get imaging now.”

“No,” the lead trauma surgeon snaps, scanning you once and deciding fast. “No time. Straight to OR.”

Wanda’s head whips toward him.

“We stabilize her first,” she says, like she’s used to the world obeying her. Like she’s used to being the final word.

The surgeon doesn’t even look impressed. He looks busy.

“We stabilize her in surgery,” he says. “That tube bought us minutes, not comfort. She needs a chest drain, possible thoracotomy, and we don’t do that in the hallway.”

Wanda’s grip tightens around your hand so hard your fingers ache.

Your gaze drifts to her face--blurred, trembling at the edges--but you see her eyes.

Green, bright, wet. Furious with fear.

The doors ahead are marked SURGICAL WING in big, block letters that look too clean for what they mean.

A nurse steps into Wanda’s path, palms out. “Only surgical staff beyond this point.”

Wanda doesn’t slow.

The nurse’s voice sharpens. “Ma’am.”

Wanda stops so abruptly the gurney nearly bumps her hip.

For half a second the air thickens, and you feel it--Wanda’s power rising like a wave beneath her skin. Scarlet threads gather at her fingertips, the room responding to her emotions the way it always does.

The nurse stiffens.

The surgeon finally looks up, eyes flicking to Wanda’s hands. “Maximoff--”

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “I’m going with her.”

“No,” the surgeon says. “You’re not.”

Wanda’s nostrils flare. Her jaw flexes. The red glow intensifies until the white walls around you seem faintly pink, like the Tower itself is blushing under pressure.

Your breathing rasps. Your vision dims.

Your fingers twitch in Wanda’s grip, weak, pleading.

Not for her to fight.

For her to stay.

Wanda looks down at you.

Your eyes are half-lidded, glassy. Your lips are wrong-colored. Your chest rises unevenly under the torn vest and torn fabric, every breath a battle your body is losing more than winning.

And Wanda...Wanda can tear reality open, can bend minds and space, can rewrite the world into what she needs

but she cannot brute-force a surgical wing into letting her love you back to health.

Not without consequences.

Her expression fractures.

“Detka,” she whispers, the word spilling out like she didn’t mean to say it where anyone could hear. Her thumb strokes your knuckles, frantic-soft. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You try.

You barely manage it.

Wanda leans closer, mouth near your ear, voice trembling so quietly the doctors don’t hear the words, only the shape of them.

“Do not leave,” she says, and the plea is stripped bare. “Please.”

A tear finally escapes her lash line. It trails down her cheek, hot against the cold air.

Then her gaze flicks up, hardening, locking back into something like command.

She squeezes your hand once. Firm. Grounding.

“Stay,” she repeats, softer now. “I will be right here when you wake.”

It’s a promise, and something in her eyes dares the universe to break it.

The nurse steps forward again, gentler this time, like she recognizes the edge Wanda is standing on. “Ma’am. You can’t--”

Wanda’s fingers loosen around yours.

Not because she wants to.

Because she has to.

The separation is immediate and brutal.

Your hand falls back against the stretcher. The air where Wanda’s warmth was feels suddenly empty, too cold, too wide.

Your eyes flutter.

Panic spikes, sharp and animal.

Wanda reaches for you again on instinct

Natasha’s hand appears on Wanda’s forearm.

Not grabbing. Not restraining.

Anchoring.

“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Let them work.”

Wanda doesn’t look at Natasha.

Her eyes stay on you as the gurney rolls forward, wheels squeaking softly. The surgical doors swing open like a mouth.

You disappear through them.

And for a heartbeat--just one--Wanda looks like someone has ripped out her lungs and left her standing upright anyway.

The doors close.

The corridor falls into a sterile, horrible quiet.

Wanda stands there, hands still half-raised like she expects you to reappear any second.

Her palms are smeared with your blood.

Her clothes are damp with rain and battle.

Her breathing is ragged.

And then, with a slow turn of her head, she looks down the hall.

The trainee is there.

Hovering at the edge of the corridor like a child waiting outside a principal’s office. Eyes red. Face pale. Hands shaking.

The sight of them is a match struck in a room full of gas.

Wanda’s face goes blank again.

Natasha feels it--because Natasha always does--and her posture shifts subtly. Ready.

“Don’t,” Natasha says, calm. Warning.

Wanda’s voice is ice. “Where is Director Hill.”

Natasha blinks once. “On a secure floor. Why.”

Wanda turns fully, cloak of control snapping back over her like armor.

“Emergency leadership meeting,” she says, and the Tower seems to listen. “Now.”

A nearby agent hesitates. “Commander Maximoff, we--”

Wanda’s gaze flicks to him.

The agent’s mouth shuts.

Her voice remains quiet. “Notify Fury. Hill. Medical chief. Training oversight. Bring the trainee.”

The trainee flinches like they’ve been slapped. “Wanda, I--”

Wanda takes one step toward them.

One.

They stumble backward.

Natasha moves with her, matching her pace, voice low. “Wanda. She’s in surgery. This can wait.”

Wanda’s eyes flash--bright, feverish with fear and rage. “No.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “This is you trying to control something you can’t.”

Wanda’s lips peel back in something that isn’t a smile. “Yes.”

Then she turns and starts walking, fast and purposeful, boots striking tile like a countdown.

Natasha follows. Yelena appears around the corner, still in tactical gear, brows lifted.

“What is happening?” Yelena asks.

Wanda doesn’t slow. “Meeting.”

Yelena’s eyes widen a fraction. “Ah. Someone is in trouble.”

Natasha shoots her a look. “Not the time.”

“It is always time,” Yelena murmurs, then falls into step anyway, because whatever this is--whatever Wanda is about to do--you don’t leave a hurricane unattended.

They move through the Tower’s arteries--security doors opening at the sight of Wanda’s face, agents stepping aside with rigid respect, conversations dying mid-sentence as she passes.

The whole building feels it.

The Scarlet Witch walking with purpose.

Not floating. Not dramatic.

Just… inevitable.

They reach a conference room on an upper level--one of the ugly, functional ones with reinforced walls and a table too large for comfort. A screen on one end displays mission telemetry still live. A thin smell of coffee lingers from whoever was here before they got summoned.

Director Hill is already inside when Wanda arrives, tablet in hand, expression tight. Fury appears a moment later, coat open, eye sharp.

Two training supervisors, a medical chief, and a security lead file in behind them.

Everyone takes in Wanda at once.

The blood on her hands.

The rain in her hair.

The look in her eyes.

Hill’s voice is careful. “Maximoff--what happened.”

Wanda doesn’t sit.

She stands at the head of the table like it’s her throne and the world has forgotten that fact.

“She is in surgery,” Wanda says, and the words are flat, like she’s saying the sky is blue, except everyone in the room feels the weight of it.

Fury’s jaw tightens. “Status.”

Wanda’s fingers curl against the tabletop.

Her nails are short. Controlled.

But the wood beneath her palm creaks faintly.

“Blunt-force thoracic trauma,” Wanda says, voice precise. Clinical. Like she’s reciting a report. “Pulmonary contusion. Internal bleeding. Airway compromise.”

The medical chief nods grimly. “We’re doing everything we can. She’s in the best hands.”

Wanda’s eyes snap to him. “She should not be in surgery.”

No one speaks.

Hill’s gaze flicks toward the trainee--who was brought in by an agent and is now standing near the door like they wish they could dissolve into the wall.

Hill’s voice is sharp now. “Was this a training failure.”

Wanda turns her head slowly.

Looks at the trainee.

The room goes colder.

“It was disobedience,” Wanda says. “It was ego. It was stupidity wearing a uniform.”

The trainee’s voice breaks. “I didn’t mean--”

Wanda’s hand lifts.

Not pointing. Not waving.

Just lifting.

The trainee’s mouth clamps shut like an invisible fist closed around their throat.

Yelena makes a small interested sound. Natasha’s posture tightens.

Fury’s voice cuts in, calm but edged. “Maximoff.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t move. “Do you know what I told them before the breach?”

The trainee’s eyes glisten with tears. Their hands shake harder.

Wanda answers her own question. “I told them not to improvise. I told them to maintain formation. I told them their job was support, not heroics.”

Her voice rises--not louder, but sharper. Each word a blade placed carefully on the table.

“They disobeyed. They stepped into an open doorway, exposed civilians, and forced her-” Wanda’s breath catches on the pronoun like it cuts her throat. “--forced Y/n to take the line.”

Hill’s expression hardens. “Is that accurate.”

The trainee nods frantically, tears slipping down their face. “Yes--yes, ma’am. I-- I panicked. I thought I could--”

Wanda’s hand tightens on the table.

The lights flicker.

A pen on the far end rolls, then lifts an inch off the surface like the room itself is recoiling.

“You thought you could,” Wanda repeats, and her voice---God, her voice is so calm it becomes the most frightening thing in the room.

Natasha steps closer, low in Wanda’s ear. “Wanda. Don’t.”

Wanda turns, just enough that Natasha can see her face.

And it’s not rage alone.

It’s terror. It’s grief. It’s love with nowhere safe to go.

Wanda looks back at Hill and Fury.

“You put her on my team,” Wanda says. “You assigned her to my supervision because you knew she was different. You knew she was… vulnerable.”

Fury’s eye narrows. “Don’t do this, Maximoff.”

Wanda’s lips part in a humorless exhale. “Do what. Tell you the truth?”

Hill’s expression is brittle. “Wanda--”

Wanda cuts her off.

“No,” Wanda says, voice finally cracking with heat. “No. You will listen.”

The room stills.

Even Fury doesn’t interrupt.

Wanda steps away from the table and paces once--one tight loop like a caged animal trying to find the seam in the walls.

“She came to us from somewhere none of you can pronounce,” Wanda says, voice low and venomous. “She learned our language. Our procedures. Our rules. She put her fear in a box and labeled it ‘handle later’ because that is what you asked of her.”

Her throat works.

Her hands tremble for half a second.

She curls them into fists to hide it.

“And today,” Wanda continues, eyes bright, “she bled out on a concrete floor because someone decided protocol was optional.”

The trainee makes a small broken sound.

Wanda whips around. “Do you know what it sounded like.”

Silence.

Wanda takes a step toward the trainee.

The air vibrates.

Natasha moves with her, ready to intervene if Wanda goes too far.

Wanda’s voice drops to a whisper that carries anyway.

“Do you know what it sounded like when she couldn’t breathe.”

The trainee sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I swear--”

Wanda’s magic pulses out involuntarily, scarlet pressure that makes the trainee’s knees buckle.

They drop to the floor with a choked gasp, palms braced on the tile.

“Wanda,” Hill says sharply, taking a step forward.

Fury’s voice is iron. “Enough.”

Wanda’s head snaps toward them.

Her eyes are wild now.

“Enough?” she repeats, incredulous. “Enough is what you say when someone breaks a vase.”

She points at the trainee--one sharp motion.

“This,” Wanda says, voice shaking now with restrained fury, “is what you say when someone breaks a person.”

The lights flicker again. The screen behind Hill glitches for a second.

Yelena mutters, almost reverent, “Oh, this is good.”

Natasha shoots her a look that could cauterize steel.

Wanda inhales.

Her chest rises, falls.

She forces herself back into control like it’s a physical act.

Then she speaks again, colder.

“This trainee is removed from field operations effective immediately,” Wanda says. “They will not touch a weapon on a mission for the next six months. They will be reassigned to support and simulation only. They will retrain from day one under direct observation.”

Hill opens her mouth

Wanda cuts her off again, eyes flashing. “And they will apologize. To her. When she wakes up.”

Fury’s tone is clipped. “You don’t get to dictate punishment.”

Wanda’s smile is sharp. “Then you do it. Right now. Tell me what consequence exists in this building that equals the sound of her choking on blood.”

No one answers.

Because there isn’t one.

The medical chief clears his throat carefully. “Commander… the surgical team will update us soon. This--this meeting--”

Wanda’s head snaps toward him. “I called you because I want you to understand something.”

She steps closer to the table again, palms flattening against it, leaning forward like she’s about to bite the world.

“If she dies,” Wanda says, and her voice goes so quiet it chills the room, “you will not have a Scarlet Witch problem.”

Everyone stills.

Fury’s eye narrows to a lethal slit. “Maximoff.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“You will have a Wanda Maximoff problem,” she corrects softly. “And I will not be reasonable.”

Natasha’s hand clamps onto Wanda’s shoulder--hard. Grounding. A warning only Wanda can feel.

“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”

Wanda blinks once.

A tear slips down her cheek.

She doesn’t wipe it away.

“I don’t care,” Wanda whispers, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t care about reasonable.”

Her eyes flick toward the closed door behind which your body is currently being cut open to keep you alive.

Her breath trembles again, and this time she doesn’t hide it.

“I told her to come back,” Wanda says, and the words are almost childlike in their rawness. “I promised her.”

The room shifts. Even Hill’s face softens for a fraction.

Fury’s expression stays hard, but his voice lowers. “Maximoff. Go to the waiting area. Let the doctors work.”

Wanda’s gaze snaps back, sharp. “No. I’m not leaving this floor.”

Hill exhales. “Wanda--”

Wanda turns, eyes cutting to the trainee one last time.

The trainee is still on the floor, shaking, tears dripping onto tile. Terrified. Guilty. Ruined.

Wanda’s voice is lethal calm.

“You will remember this for the rest of your life,” she says. “Because if she wakes up and asks me why she got hurt, I will tell her the truth.”

The trainee sobs harder.

Wanda looks back at leadership, and all softness drains from her face again.

“I am going to the surgical wing doors,” Wanda says. “I will wait where I can see her come back out.”

Fury’s jaw tightens. “That’s not how this works.”

Wanda’s eyes flash. “Watch me.”

And she turns on her heel.

Natasha follows immediately--because Natasha knows you don’t let Wanda Maximoff walk through a hallway like that alone. Yelena trails behind, strangely quiet now.

As Wanda strides out, the meeting room remains frozen for a beat.

Hill looks at Fury. “She’s in love with her.”

Fury’s expression doesn’t change. “I know.”

Hill’s voice is tight. “That’s a problem.”

Fury’s eye flicks toward the door Wanda left through, then toward the surgical wing down the hall as if he can see it through walls.

His voice is low.

“So is losing the girl.”

Wanda reaches the surgical doors and stops so abruptly it’s like she hits an invisible wall.

The corridor here is quieter. Cleaner. The air smells like antiseptic and cold metal.

A sign reads AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Wanda stands under it like a threat.

Her hands are still stained red.

Her breathing is too shallow.

Natasha stops beside her. Doesn’t speak. Just stands.

Yelena leans against the wall and folds her arms, eyes on Wanda like she’s watching a bomb and trying to guess when it will go off.

Minutes pass like hours.

Then the surgical doors swing open

and Wanda’s entire body snaps tight like a bowstring pulled to breaking.

A doctor steps out, mask lowered, eyes tired.

Wanda’s voice is barely a whisper.

“How is she.”

The doctor looks at her hands, at her face, at the blood, and seems to decide honesty is safer than soothing.

“She’s alive,” he says. “But it’s critical. We’re still working.”

Wanda’s knees almost buckle.

Natasha’s hand catches her elbow, subtle, quick, before she can fall.

Wanda doesn’t thank her.

She just stares at the doors like she could will them open.

Like she could climb inside and hold your lungs in place with her bare hands.

Her voice breaks, raw and quiet.

“Tell her,” Wanda whispers, eyes shining. “Tell her I’m here.”

The doctor nods once--because even if he doesn’t know how to handle gods and witches, he knows love when it’s bleeding in front of him.

“I will,” he says, and disappears back inside.

The doors swing shut again.

Wanda stands there, unmoving.

Waiting.

Breathing only because you are.

The minutes don’t pass like minutes.

They pass like punishment, each one stretched thin, each one sharp at the edges.

Wanda doesn’t sit.

Natasha tries once, quietly, to guide her toward the chairs in the corner of the corridor. Wanda doesn’t even look at them. It’s like the concept of resting has been deleted from her body.

She stands in front of the surgical doors the way she stood in front of you on the battlefield--like if she holds her ground hard enough, nothing gets through.

Not death.

Not bad news.

Not the universe.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles and then fades away. An intercom chirps and a voice calls a code you don’t understand.

Wanda understands nothing but the absence of you.

Her hands are still stained. Someone tried to offer wipes. She ignored them.

She keeps flexing her fingers like she can still feel your pulse in her palm.

Natasha leans on the wall beside her, arms crossed, eyes forward. The picture of calm--except every few minutes her gaze flicks to Wanda like she’s taking silent measurements: how close to the edge, how close to breaking, how close to burning the world down.

Yelena paces once, then stops, then paces again. Finally she mutters, “This is stupid. Humans are too fragile.”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

Wanda doesn’t move.

A nurse appears once, glances at Wanda’s face, and decides to walk the other way.

Time keeps dragging its nails down the corridor.

Wanda’s throat works around air that feels too thin. She stares at the surgical doors so hard it starts to feel like she’s trying to peel them open with her mind--not to invade, not to interfere, but to see you.

To confirm you’re real.

To confirm you didn’t evaporate into a nightmare the moment they took you away.

Her lips part on a whisper that is barely sound.

“Please.”

Natasha hears it anyway. Natasha always does.

“You did what you could,” Natasha says quietly.

Wanda’s eyes flick to her--bright, feverish. “I did not.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “Wanda--”

“I should have been faster.” Wanda’s voice is flat, merciless. “I should have seen it before it happened.”

“You can’t predict every idiot move a trainee makes,” Natasha says, controlled.

Wanda’s expression twists--pain, rage, grief, all braided together. “I can. I should. That is my job.”

Natasha exhales through her nose. “Your job is not to carry every loss like it’s your fault.”

Wanda’s gaze cuts back to the doors. “It’s not a loss,” she says, like the word itself is poison. “Not yet.”

Another stretch of silence.

Then, soft footsteps.

A shift of air.

The surgical doors swing open.

Wanda’s body reacts before her mind does. Her shoulders lift like she’s bracing for impact. Her hands curl into fists. The red in her veins rises, instinctive--protective, vicious, ready.

A surgeon steps out.

Mask lowered. Face drawn with fatigue. A smear of something dark on his sleeve.

Wanda’s voice comes out wrong--too quiet, too raw.

“Tell me.”

The surgeon looks at her like he understands he’s holding a match over gasoline. He chooses his words carefully.

“She’s alive,” he says.

Wanda’s breath leaves her in a sound that is almost a sob, almost a laugh, almost a collapse.

Natasha’s hand clamps on Wanda’s arm, steadying her without comment.

The surgeon continues, tone clinical, because that’s what he has to do to stay upright in a world where people break.

“Vest did its job. But the blunt force--she took significant thoracic trauma. Multiple rib fractures, severe pulmonary contusion. We placed a chest tube and stabilized internal bleeding. The airway incision bought us the time we needed.”

Wanda listens like a statue.

Like if she moves, the words will change.

“She’s sedated,” the surgeon says. “She’ll be in the ICU. We’re keeping her on oxygen support. She’s going to be in pain when she wakes up.”

Wanda swallows. Her eyes are wet, but her expression is fierce. “Can I see her.”

The surgeon hesitates--because they always hesitate with Wanda. Because she’s power wrapped in human skin, and people are never sure where the line is.

“Briefly,” he says. “One at a time. No touching the airway site. Keep it calm.”

Wanda nods once. Sharp. Immediate. Like she’ll obey any rule on earth if it gets her to you.

The surgeon steps aside.

The doors open wider.

And Wanda moves.

Not fast.

Not like the battlefield.

She walks like someone approaching a chapel, like the air itself might shatter if she breathes too hard.

Natasha follows a step behind, then stops at the threshold when a nurse lifts a hand.

“Only one,” the nurse says gently, and her eyes flick to Wanda with something like reverence and caution.

Natasha pauses, then nods once. “I’ll be right here.”

Wanda doesn’t look back.

She steps through.

The ICU is dimmer than the hallway, blessedly so. The lights are low, the air cool, the sound softened, machines humming and beeping in steady patterns, like the room itself is designed to keep panic from taking root.

You’re there.

In the bed.

Too still.

Your skin looks too pale against the sheets. Your hair is damp and tangled, a trace of dried blood near your mouth that someone tried to clean. Your chest rises and falls, shallow, assisted, stubborn.

There’s tape at your throat where the incision was. Tubing, oxygen, monitors.

A chest drain line curves from your side under the blanket.

Your hands are resting near your hips, palms slightly curled like you fell asleep mid-reach.

Wanda stops at the foot of the bed.

For a second she doesn’t move.

Like she can’t trust her legs to carry her closer.

Then she takes one slow step.

Another.

Her breathing catches on the sound of the monitor.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Life, reduced to electricity and rhythm.

She comes to your bedside and just… stands there, staring, eyes dragging over every bandage and tube like she’s memorizing them, like she’s counting proof that you made it through something that should’ve taken you.

Her hands hover in the air, unsure where to go. Wanda Maximoff--who can grab the fabric of reality and pull--looks helpless for the first time in a way that is almost unbearable to witness.

Her lower lip trembles.

She clamps her jaw to stop it.

A soft sound escapes her anyway, a broken little exhale.

“Oh, detka…”

She reaches out--slow, careful, obeying the rules like they’re sacred--and cups your cheek with the backs of her fingers, barely there.

Not touching the tape. Not tugging anything. Just… reminding herself you’re warm.

Your skin is warm.

You’re warm.

Wanda’s eyes close for half a second, and when they open there’s a shine in them that isn’t just tears.

It’s relief so violent it looks like pain.

She leans down until her forehead rests against the edge of the mattress near your shoulder, careful, controlled.

Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“You scared me,” she says, and it’s not an accusation. It’s a confession. “You scared me so badly I couldn’t think.”

Her fingers tremble against your cheek. She presses a kiss there, gentle, almost nothing. A brush of lips like a vow sealed in secret.

Then another, to your temple.

She swallows hard.

“You did everything right,” she whispers, like she needs you to hear it even through sedation. “You did what I trained you to do. You protected them.”

Her breath hitches.

“And I am so…” Her voice cracks. She inhales, tries again. “I am so proud of you.”

A tear slips down and drops silently onto the blanket.

Wanda doesn’t wipe it away.

She straightens slowly, gaze sweeping your face again, and her expression shifts, softness giving way to something possessive and resolute, the same steel that kept her on her knees beside you in the hallway.

She leans closer, mouth near your ear.

“Listen to me,” she whispers, voice trembling with the weight of command and love tangled together. “You come back. You heal. You wake up and you look at me, and you let me--”

Her throat works.

She exhales shakily.

“--you let me take care of you.”

Wanda’s hand slides down to your fingers. She doesn’t lace them. She doesn’t squeeze too hard.

She just places her fingertips against yours, like she’s afraid too much pressure will shatter the moment.

“You are not leaving,” she says, voice low and certain like she’s speaking it into existence. “Not on my watch.”

The monitor keeps its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

And Wanda stands there, breathing with you, eyes locked on your face as if she can will you awake through sheer devotion.

Outside the glass, you can faintly make out a dark shape, Natasha, waiting exactly where she promised, arms crossed, silent guard at the door.

Wanda doesn’t look away from you.

Not even once.

Because you’re here.

Because you made it.

Because for the first time since the bullet hit, the world feels like it’s stopped trying to steal you, and Wanda Maximoff, your supervisor, your shield, your secret, finally allows herself one fragile, trembling moment of peace.

Her whisper brushes your skin like a spell.

“I have you,” she says. “I have you.”

And she stays.

Right there.

It was a hard mission for Natasha.

No, it wasn’t just a hard mission; it’s been multiple. Over and over. Back to back.

She’s exhausted, and despite having just returned from one, she’s sure that tomorrow, she’ll be summoned for another. It seems like there’s just crisis after crisis these days. Infiltrate this organization, retrieve that intelligence data, handle and escort yet another asset across country lines… and do so through whatever means necessary.

She collapses onto the common room sofa, leaning back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.

It’s late. No one else is up. She just needs one moment to…

Natasha’s disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Her eyes reopen tiredly to find you gazing at her, confused and concerned. Well, no one else was supposed to be up.

“Rough mission?” you ask her.

She sighs. She doesn’t want to get into it.

You understand her exhale; you don’t push. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just coming to grab a glass of water. I’ll be out of the space shortly.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, and she’s not sure she wants to—she’s had quite the past 72 hours—but it’s you, and she’ll always be soft for you. “Anything in particular keeping you up?” she questions.

You hum. “Not sure,” you reply, “Anxiety, probably. Stress, maybe.”

Natasha gets that. “Wanna sit?”

“Sure.” You’re surprised at the offer—Natasha really looks like she’d prefer to be alone—but you accept anyway, unwilling to turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with some water before walking into the common room and settling on the couch beside the redhead, a comfortable amount of space between you two, perhaps a larger amount of space than usual for two friends.

Natasha’s not one for closeness, for intimacy, and she’s made that abundantly clear time and time again. It’s not uncomfortable, being this far from her, but you wonder what it would be like if she ever let you close the distance.

Her eyes fall closed once more, and silence blankets the both of you.

She looks so small right now. You want to offer something—anything—to comfort her, to soothe and alleviate whatever shadows from her mission may still be clinging to her.

But you don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk, and she’s always rejected physical contact before: Steve’s friendly pats on the back, Wanda’s hugs, your casual linking of arms as you walk side by side.

But tonight, she looks so small, so worn out. You can’t help but try, and you’re willing to admit that you could use some closeness as well.

“Do you maybe… want to come here?” you ask hesitantly, certain that she’s going to reject your offer, but your arms open to welcome her on the off chance she chooses to accept.

And although she doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even answer with certainty, to your shock, the redhead nods.

Maybe she senses that you need this, maybe it’s just for you, but she’s giving you it anyway.

It doesn’t take long.

Natasha’s head is pressed against your chest as she lets herself just be amazed by the steady sound of your heartbeat beneath her ear. Your arm is draped over her waist, keeping her flush against you, as you gently swipe your thumb back and forth across her hip. Your legs are tangled with hers as you two lounge together on the sofa, something on the TV playing quietly in the background, barely paid attention to by her in favor of reveling in your presence instead.

She’s trembling, everything within her at war. She’s never truly let herself get this near to someone else, and her instincts are both screaming at her to push you away and begging her to tug you even closer. Her nerves are on fire, every part of her body humming at the feeling of being in touch with another, and although lingering unease still swirls in her stomach, there’s also a sense of comfort that comes from being against you.

Everything is new, unfamiliar, and addicting.

She begins melting with each passing moment, relaxing into your hold, her tension unfurling as she surrenders to the sensation of just being held. Her own hands rise to settle around you, to grip at your shirt, the fabric clutched between her fingertips, and a soft sound escapes her, unbidden, as she nestles as if burrowing into your chest.

But it’s not enough. She needs to be closer.

So, Natasha situates herself more firmly against you, curling into you further, trying to gain even more physical contact. Her body moves without her thinking, acting on its own, shifting until she’s then fully on top of you, straddling you, her face soon back to being buried deeply into the crook of your neck, her nose nuzzling the curve of it, brushing the delicate skin there.

You suck in a surprised breath at the sudden change in positions, not having expected Natasha to make such a move. She’s been letting you take the lead, letting you guide her through all these new and hopefully gratifying feelings, but now, here she is, zero space between your hips and hers, her face tucked into you so close that you can feel every warm breath of hers on your throat.

Your hands instinctively grab onto her hips, trying to steady her, to settle her—you can feel the tremors in her body—and Natasha whimpers as the heat from your palms practically sears through her leggings.

You can sense the change, but you don’t understand it.

She grinds down lightly, testing without knowing it, and whimpers again at the ever so slight friction she receives. Her eyes flutter shut.

Your brows furrow at her neediness, but it’s not just neediness; it’s longing. Something is stirring within her, unlocking, making itself known, and you wonder…

You’re not sure you have a right to ask, not sure you have a right to know, but the way she’s acting right now—desperate, wanting, like she’s never felt the touch of someone who was touching her to simply worship her—makes you think. “Have you ever…” you trail off.

“What?” Natasha asks breathily, eyes opening to look at you, trying to focus on your face and your words despite her hips still lightly grinding into your own. She can’t stop them.

“Have you ever…” you try again before rephasing, “Has anyone ever made you come before?”

She stiffens in your arms, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve made so much progress with her tonight, gotten her to open up to you, to trust you, to let you touch her. You don’t want that to go away, but she does try to pull away, to sit up and move out of your arms, to remove herself from the vulnerable position she’s put herself in.

Your grip on her tightens minutely, attempting to keep her close, fingers resuming trailing soothing patterns along her as if that will get her to stay despite your misstep.

Neither of you two speak. You’re too worried about ruining what was already a fragile moment, and Natasha, she’s embarrassed, ashamed, not sure what she’s supposed to say in the face of the question that she is taking as an accusation.

She’s Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, known for using her body to get what she needs, known for seduction and sex and lust from others, and yet here she is, about to admit that she’s never been touched in a way that’s fulfilled her before.

“No,” she finally murmurs, quietly, almost inaudible, “It’s always just been a job. It’s always just been about the other person. I’ve never-”

You’re still silent, letting the new knowledge of how Natasha’s only ever been used sink in. You remember how her body moved against your own of its own accord, remember the whimper she made in response to her grinding. She needs this. You make a decision.

“Let me do this for you,” you murmur, pulling her upwards onto your stomach instead of your hips, beginning to mouth gently at the curve of her neck. You can feel her body still rigid in your arms, and although you don’t know if you should, you decide to press your luck, your tongue slipping out to hotly slide along her jawline. “Let me show you what real pleasure is. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.” Your words are said against her skin, and it makes her shiver with want.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut again, and for a moment, just like earlier when you offered her your touch, you think that she’s going to decline, that she’s going to roughly shove herself off of you and tell you to fuck off and never talk to her again, but then she breathes out a small “please”, and it’s all the permission you need.

You can already feel her pulsing along the muscles of your abdomen, so you waste no time. Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of her pants and underwear, dipping themselves into her folds, just feeling her wetness, taking in her heat, and Natasha shudders. It’s not the first time she’s been touched there, but it’s the first time it hasn’t felt like it was for somebody else.

You watch her expression soften as she surrenders to the sensations, and you soften as well.

“I’m going to show you just how good it can feel, just how good you deserve to feel,” you whisper to her, and Natasha’s body yields further, falling limp against you as she prepares herself to simply let herself feel and enjoy it this time.

It’s not a mission, not an assignment, not something that has to be done. This is a choice that she gets to make for herself.

“Tell me what you want. Anything you want, it’s yours,” you tell her as you start to circle her clit, just light circles before pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves more firmly, drawing a long whine from the redhead.

You continue teasing her, moving down to her entrance to gather more of her slick before returning to her clit, tapping lightly, swiping across it, using your two fingers to brush and skim and stroke with varying pressures.

For a while, Natasha is speechless, driven into an overwhelmed quiet by your ministrations, but her body aches, her pussy aches, and she needs you to fill her.

“Inside,” she finally gasps out, hips starting to rock up to try and get your fingers to slip into her hole, to delve into her and explore.

You immediately comply, your fingers swiftly entering her. You want to give her whatever it is that she needs. Tonight’s about her.

Natasha’s eyes roll back. She’s felt something similar to this before, felt the fullness and the stretch, but her pussy has never wanted to hold someone within, her pussy has never been desperate for more, her pussy has never throbbed for another person.

You drag your fingers out only to shove them back in, curling them to try and find the spot that the redhead needs, and a whine escapes her again.

Your eyes snap up to look at her face when she makes the noise.

“Right there?” you ask softly, and she nods, her head bobbing up and down multiple times.

“Right there,” she affirms, tone hoarse, voice shaky. Her hips are rolling to meet your every thrust, her body lighting up under your touch. Her hands grip at your shoulders as if that will stabilize herself as you continue pumping into her, and despite her thoughts scattering as the world blurs around the edges, she can’t help but think about one thing: she wants to kiss you.

One of her hands moves to tangle in your hair, to try and draw you closer, to try and pull your head toward hers so she can at first graze her lips against yours. It’s not that she hasn’t kissed anyone—she has many times before—but tonight feels different, this feels different, you feel different.

You acquiesce for a moment, dipping yourself forward until you realize what her goal is, and then you’re pulling away. Although there’s a smile on your face, it’s resigned.

You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Natasha whines for a third time, but this time, it’s out of petulance at being rejected, and she tries to tug your face back to hers again.

You speed up your motions to distract her from her current fixation on your lips, and Natasha’s body arches as you succeed. Despite your movements being restricted by her leggings, you’re quickly taking her up to the edge that she’s always heard contains nothing but pleasure, the pressure building fast and hot inside of her.

And then… it releases. It’s nothing like she’s ever experienced before. She wasn’t aware it could feel like this.

Natasha’s reveling, savoring, basking in the feeling that follows an orgasm—a real orgasm—but… it wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an orgasm given to her by you.

She’s almost recovered after a minute or so, her chest still rising and falling unsteadily, her heartbeat still thumping rapidly in her chest, and she falls back onto her side on the sofa to look at you, her eyes soft. You look so beautiful in front of her. Her hand comes up to frame your face, and you lean into the touch, smiling at the affectionate gesture.

Now’s the moment, right? You didn’t kiss her during the act, but that didn’t mean anything. You were busy; you were preoccupied.

“Can I kiss you now?” Natasha asks hopefully, gaze not leaving your face.

Everything about this moment is tender, the haze of all that has transpired still hanging over the two of you and throughout the room… or maybe just over her.

You pull away from her hand, and your eyes turn… not guarded, but acceptant of the belief you already have.

When you respond, your tone is still gentle, so gentle, but it makes the redhead flinch anyway. “Natasha,” you murmur, and she knows you’re going to reject her again before you even continue. “You’ve never had this before, never felt like this before. I know you needed this, and I’m happy to have given it to you, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you want me.”

Natasha’s heart breaks. After all this, you think she doesn’t want you?

When she doesn’t respond, you take her silence for confusion. “Don’t confuse your body’s need with what you want,” you explain more.

“No, no, that’s not-” Natasha breaks off, “I do want you. I do.”

You look at her with a mix of disbelief and sympathy, and it kills her. She doesn’t want your pity; she wants your trust.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone touch me?”

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone fuck me?”

“You’ve never-”

“It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been with someone like this before, I want you.”

“You’re just touch starved-” you protest.

“I’m able to tell the difference between touch starvation and feelings. You believe me. You have to believe me.”

She can tell by the look in your eyes that you don’t.

“Every other time, it’s always been for a job, with a goal in mind, but this time, it was a choice. I got to choose. Please don’t demean that; please don’t take that away from me.”

“Natasha,” you try one more time.

“After all that, don’t you… don’t you choose me too?”

You were on a redemption tour of sorts.

You wanted to be intentional with your family again. You needed to be.

Your kids were growing right before your eyes, and while you’d always been active and involved, that wasn’t necessarily what they appreciated most from you. Not really. Quality time had always been the thing that kept your family close. It was how you stayed in the know.

You’d always silently judged parents who didn’t know their teenager’s favorite music, best friend, or what they were nervous about lately. You’d scoff at the fathers at the firm who bragged about only paying a couple of hundred dollars in child support, like it was a badge of honor instead of embarrassment.

You weren’t that type of parent.

You never would be.

Today was about Paige.

Charlie had bragged endlessly about the basket she got when she first got her period. It had become somewhat of a tradition after Cara. But for Paige, you knew a basket alone wouldn’t really do it.

Which was how the two of you ended up at Off The Record, a small mom-and-pop record store tucked into the city, smelling of old paper sleeves and incense.

Paige was your youngest girl and, unsurprisingly, the most detached in a way. Independent. Reliable. Sometimes, too much so for a child who was only nine going on ten.

Sometimes you missed when she used to cling to your leg every waking second, wanting nothing except to be wherever you were.

Now she wandered.

Browsed.

Built little pieces of herself privately.

You looked over at her now as she stood at the counter, seriously explaining to the cashier what kind of music she liked while flipping through stacks of CDs. Paige was taller now. Long-legged and expressive with her hands when she got excited. Her hair was pulled into two pigtails that bounced every time she turned her head.

“…and my sister says Lauryn Hill changed her life,” Paige informed the poor cashier with complete seriousness. “So I probably need to hear that too.”

You smiled to yourself before looking away quickly, suddenly overwhelmed by how fast all of this was happening.

“Mom,” she called suddenly. “I’ve never listened to a full Mariah Carey album before, have I?”

“We’ve listened to some singles, but never a full album, no,” you shook your head.

Paige gasped softly like this was a genuine parental failure.

“So can I get that too?” she looked up at you with wide puppy eyes. “And maybe Taylor Swift? Oh, and Beyoncé. I’m old enough for her music now, right?”

“I’d say no, but I won’t deny you the queen,” you leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

Paige grinned triumphantly before immediately turning back toward the shelves.

“How much is all this going to cost me?” you muttered, finally glancing down at the price tag on a Michael Jackson Off the Wall vinyl nearby.

Your eyes widened. “Forty dollars for one record?”

Paige blinked innocently beside you. “You said whatever I wanted.”

“I always tend to eat my own words.” You mumbled. 

“You’re the best mom ever,” She bounced on her toes. 

You snorted softly under your breath, shaking your head as she carefully pulled another vinyl from the rack. Watching her here, excited, curious, growing into her own little person with opinions and taste and favorites, made something ache warmly in your chest.

This was what you’d been missing. 

The next stop was a boba tea shop. Boba was her new obsession, and though you weren’t a big fan, you wanted to indulge her. Paige amazed you in more ways than one. She and Charlie were little fashionistas in their own ways. While Charlie was more New York chic, Paige, meanwhile, took a softer approach. Vintage denim jackets. Colorful sneakers. Hair clips shaped like stars and butterflies. Though the purse she carried was no doubt her older sister’s. You wondered if Charlie even knew. 

You watched her now as she carefully stirred her drink with concentration, brows pinched. 

“What?” She looked up immediately, catching you staring.

“Nothing,” you smiled into your own drink. “You’re just getting big.”

Paige groaned dramatically. “You say that every five minutes now.”

“Because every five minutes you grow another inch.”

“That’s not scientifically possible.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she slurped loudly from her straw. “I’m literally in advanced science.”

You laughed softly, leaning back into the booth.

Outside the window, people passed by without much thought, the city moving around the two of you like always. But for once, you didn’t feel rushed to catch up to it. Cincinnati was supposed to be slower than New York. It was supposed to be your break from the big life you left behind. 

Paige reached into the record bag again, peeking down at her choices for what had to be the tenth time already.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I think this is my favorite day we’ve had in a while.”

“Yeah,” You nodded. “Me too.” 

Paige seemed to blush, then hid her curiosity by taking another sip of her drink. 

“You want to ask something?” You guessed. She seemed a bit surprised, but then rolled her eyes at herself. You’re her mom, of course, you could tell. 

“Do I look like her?” Paige asked, kicking her feet under the table. “My mommy. My birth mommy. Karen.” She felt the need to clarify. “Halmeoni always says I do, but I don’t know.”

You knew how important it was to answer truthfully. “Yes. You do.” You try to hide the sadness still in your voice. Thinking bout your best friend always brought a sense of melancholy. “You have her eyes, “ you continued. “Especially when you’re annoyed.”

Paige snorted softly.

“And your smile,” you added after a moment. A smile of your own spread wide across your face. “That little crooked thing you do when you’re trying not to laugh? That’s all her.”

Paige looked down into her drink, strangely shy now.

“She was really pretty,” she mumbled. “I mean, from all the pictures I have and the videos.” 

“She was,” you agreed instantly. “And loud. And dramatic. Like someone else I know.”

That earned you a laugh.

“She sounds fun.”

“She was,” you smiled softly. “She loved really hard, too. Especially you.”

The smile on Paige’s face faded into something smaller. More thoughtful.

“You think she’d like me?” she asked quietly. 

Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.

“Paige,” you reached across the table for her hand. “She would’ve been obsessed with you. She was obsessed with you. ”

Paige blinked quickly after that, looking away toward the window before you could fully catch her expression.

“And she didn’t die because she gave birth to me?” She asked. That question practically knocked the wind out of you. What was it with your kids and asking incredibly hard questions at random times?

But Paige was getting older now. Of course, the questions were changing too.

You squeezed her hand gently before answering.

“No, baby,” you said carefully. “No.”

Paige looked back at you immediately, searching your face to see if you were telling the truth or just trying to protect her feelings.

“Your mom got very sick after you were born,” you explained quietly. “And the doctors missed some things they shouldn’t have.”

Even now, years later, anger still flashed low in your chest when you thought about it too long.

“But you are not the reason she died.”

Paige’s eyes dropped again.

“Not even a little?”

“Not even a little,” you repeated firmly.

The boba straw bent between her fingers as she messed with it absentmindedly.

“I think about it sometimes,” she admitted. “Like… if she didn’t have me, she’d still be alive.”

You got up from your side of the booth before you could think twice about it, sliding in beside her instead.

“Oh, Paige,” you pulled her into your side immediately. “Listen to me.”

She curled into you without resistance, suddenly looking much younger than she had when walking through the record store earlier.

“Your life was never something bad that happened to her,” you murmured into her hair. “You were the best thing that happened to her. To all of us.”

Paige stayed quiet after that, small against your side as the city moved outside the window beside you.

“You really mean that?” she whispered eventually.

“With everything in me,” you answered.

“Sorry for making this sad,” She said. “I know that’s not how you want to spend your time off work.”

Your face softened immediately.

“Hey,” you reached up to move one of her pigtails from where it had fallen into her face. “This isn’t sad to me.”

She looked unconvinced.

“It’s important,” you corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

Paige picked at her straw. “I just don’t want you getting tired of me asking about her all the time. We don’t talk about her a lot anymore.”

“Oh, baby.” You pulled her closer again without hesitation. “I will talk about Karen with you for the rest of my life if that’s what you need.”

That seemed to hit her harder than expected. She blinked quickly, trying to keep herself together in the way your kids always did when emotions caught them off guard.

“You know what your mom used to say when she was pregnant with you?” you asked softly.

Paige shook her head against your shoulder.

“She said she hoped you’d be stubborn enough to survive this family.”

A tiny laugh escaped Paige before she could stop it.

“And look at you,” you kissed the top of her head. “Bossing me around in record stores and spending all my money.” 

“I’m glad you and Mama aren’t getting divorced,” She admitted. “We were really scared.”

“Me too,” you confessed. “Your Mama and I love each other and you guys too much.”

“Good,” Paige said. “Sometimes I miss it. Like when we first got here, and Cara was home. We would do all these things together.”

“Well, your birthday is next week, and I have it on record that we will all be together.” You promised. “Mama and I will try to make an effort to keep those family things going. Movie nights. Dinners. All those board games we have are collecting dust.”

“And Charlie hates me sometimes,”

You sighed softly through your nose.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” You nodded. “I’m not too happy with how that’s going between you two. I thought we solved it.”

“I guess,” Paige shrugged. “She acts like she doesn’t even want to be my sister sometimes.”

“You sound just like her with Cara,”

 Paige’s face twisted immediately. “That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

She groaned, already knowing where this was going.

“You and Charlie are a lot alike,” you continued. “Too alike sometimes. And when sisters start growing into different versions of themselves, there’s usually some bumping around.”

“She’s quitting ballet,” Paige frowned. “That’s something we always did together. I mean, I even joined because I wanted to be like her.”

You smiled at that. You remember Charlie being so excited to take her younger sister to school. 

Paige pushed her drink away.  “She’s changing,” she admitted quietly. “Everybody is.”

The honesty of it sat between you. You reached over, smoothing your hand over the top of her hair.

“Baby,” you said softly, “your sister growing up doesn’t mean she’s growing away from you.”

Paige looked unconvinced. “But things are different.”

“Yeah,” you nodded honestly. “They are.”

You looked out the window for a second before continuing.

“When Cara left for college, Charlie cried in her room for two days straight.”

Paige blinked. “Seriously?”

“She made Natasha drive her to campus three separate times in one month because she ‘forgot something.’”

“I did forget things,” Charlie had insisted every single time.

Paige smiled at the memory.

“Families change,” you continued quietly. “People get older. Interests change. Schedules change. But that doesn’t mean the love leaves with it.”

Paige rested her cheek against your shoulder then, quieter now.

“I don’t like it.”

“I know,” you kissed the top of her head. “Me neither sometimes. Neither do your siblings. But we’re working on it. Hey, ask her to help you with last minute things about your party. I bet she’ll answer.”

“That’s a good idea,” Paige nodded. “Can we go to one more place? The bakery on Scott?”

“Sure, we have time.”

“Great, I have ideas.” She said. You wondered what she was cooking up. 

—-----

It was a great day to be outside. For Natasha, this meant sitting on the sidelines, watching as Luke and James attempted to teach Max and Midnight new tricks. She sat stretched across one of the patio chairs with her bare feet tucked under her, a pen balanced between her teeth, and her yoga manuals spread out before her. Every few minutes, she would underline something, scribble in the margins, and then glance back out at the yard. 

“No, no, you have to say it with authority,” James snapped his fingers so Midnight would sit. 

“Midnight,” Luke squared his shoulders. He deepened his voice and said, “Roll over.”

The dog barked once and sprinted off in the opposite direction. 

Natasha smiled into her book. They’d be at this a little while longer. 

The backdoor slid open behind her.  Yelena stepped out carrying a bottle of water and one of Natasha’s protein bars she definitely hadn’t asked permission to take.

“You know,” she said as she settled into the chair beside her, “watching you become suburban has been one of the strangest experiences of my life.”

Natasha didn’t look up from her notes. “You say that every time you visit.”

“And every time it becomes more true.” Yelena gestured vaguely toward the yard. “You’re outside annotating yoga books while children train rescue dogs. You used to fall asleep in vents.”

“I’ve never fallen asleep in a vent,” Natasha scoffed. 

“Twice you did,” Yelena shrugged. “Once in Venice.”

“You and I remember that differently,” Natasha flipped through another page. “How long are you here for again?”

“Until Kate is done visiting with the Bartons,” Yelena tore open the packaging of the bar. She bit into it, her nose scrunching at the taste. “Tastes like chocolate chalk and ass.” She dropped it onto the table between them.

“You would know what that tastes like,” Natasha muttered without missing a beat. 

“You’re so funny,” She rolled her eyes.  “So,” She said casually. “I can’t help but notice your wife is not home,” Yelena looked around the yard. The boys were playing some kind of game of tug-of-war with the dogs and James’ t-shirt. “Again.”

“She’s with Paige,” Natasha closed the book against her knee. She looked at Yelena fully. 

“Funny, I didn’t see her kiss you goodbye this morning,” She said. 

“Why don’t you come out and say what you really want to know?” Natasha raised a brow. 

“No, ice cream together. No disgusting cuddling on the couch,” Yelena began to list off. “No displays of affection that make me want to hurl. I would say your marriage is in trouble.”

“You’d make a wonderful spy,” Natasha shook her head. She looked back into her chair. “My marriage is not in trouble.”

“But it’s not like normal? Tell me I’m wrong,” Yelena threw up her hands. 

“You’re not wrong,” Natasha sighed. “We’ve become disconnected. But we’re trying. Actually, we were supposed to have this talk with you together.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes.  “You think I couldn’t handle the truth.”

“I think you’re our child by proxy at this point,” Natasha shrugged. “You tend to dig your nose into our marriage anyway.”

"Hey, it's traumatic when you two stop flirting? The whole house becomes cold.”

Natasha laughed despite herself, shaking her head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am serious,” Yelena pointed at her. “You and Y/n are like… weirdly in love. It’s unsettling. So when that disappears everybody notices.”

That quieted Natasha a little. Her eyes drifted back toward the yard where Luke had now wrapped himself around Max like a backpack while James argued with him about “proper dog training techniques.

“It didn’t disappear,” Her voice was even softer now. “At least that’s what I keep telling myself. She’s been busy with work.” “So, it’s her fault?” Yelena tilted her head. 

“No,” Natasha denied. She fiddled with her hands. Very uncharacteristic. “I think it’s been building up for a while. Starting with me after that mission.”

“That was five years ago?” 

“She mentioned it in an argument,” Natasha nodded. “I mean, would you really expect your wife to get over saying you wanted to abandon her and the kids? Especially without telling them?”

“You did that?” Yelena gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I almost did,” Natasha said. “I wasn’t in the right headspace after that mission. Wanda had to step in and find me, but…there’s a reason I don’t like magic.” “But why didn’t you want to come home?”

“I didn’t feel like me anymore,” she admitted finally. Her fingers twisted together again. “And when I looked at them…” she swallowed. “I loved them so much it scared me.”

Yelena’s face softened immediately.

“I thought if I came home like that,” Natasha continued quietly, “I’d ruin everything.”

“But you still stayed,” Yelena pointed out gently.

Natasha looked back toward the house. Toward the kitchen windows. Toward the life inside it.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment.

A small, almost disbelieving smile crossed her face. “Because apparently I love my wife more than my own self-destruction.”

“And this now is payback?” “I think it was an indicator we needed counseling together,” Natasha breathed. “We still made time. We still had our moments, but we both got too busy. Too wrapped up in emotions and jobs and the kids.”

Yelena leaned further back in her chair, staring up at the sky dramatically. “This is all way too mature for me,” she declared. “I liked it better when relationship problems were just somebody cheating or getting arrested.”

Natasha snorted softly. “You’re thirty-four.”

“And still emotionally nineteen.”

“That explains a lot, actually.”

Yelena ignored her. “I just…” she sighed, glancing over again. “You two have always felt permanent to me.”

“You know what the weird part is?” Natasha asked after a moment.

“What?”

“I don’t think either of us realized how bad it got until we stopped touching each other.”

“No more couch cuddling?” Yelena grimaced. “Tragic.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it this time. “I’m serious,” she murmured. “We stopped reaching for each other.”

“When’s the last time you had sex?” Yelena asked. “Wait, too mature, again. Don’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Natasha laughed. Her sister was genuinely unbelievable at times. Though in her own head, she probably couldn’t tell her a date. There was still work to do. “I met this widow,” she changed the subject. “She has a kid, and she wants me to help her meet the kid.”

“Why you?”

“I asked the same thing…” Natasha exclaimed. She was happy for the topic change.

—-----

Paige stood right next to Charlie’s bedroom door for a long moment before finally knocking. She could hear music permeating through the door. It was slow and calm.  

“What?” Charlie called through the door. 

“It’s me,” Paige answered. 

“Go away,” Charlie said. 

Paige rolled her eyes. Typical. “I have something for you.”

“What kind of something?” 

“Open the door and see,” Paige knocked again. “I’m going to drop it.”

The door finally cracked open just enough for one suspicious eye to peek through. Charlie’s curls were piled messily on top of her head and she was sporting black eye liner and mascara. 

“You’re annoying,” she mumbled.

“And yet you opened the door.”

Charlie sighed dramatically before opening it wider. Paige stepped inside, balancing a box of macarons and two cups of matcha from the bakery. 

“I picked these up when I went out with mom,” Paige set them on the desk. “These are your favorite right?”

“They are,” Charlie’s eyes lit up. “So, did you do the whole period basket thing.”

“I got vinyls,” Paige shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Wait, that’s way cooler,” Charlie gasped.

“I know,” Paige grinned. 

 “I still think it’s weird you kept it a secret from everyone,” Charlie bit into a macaron with a frown. 

“It wasn’t really a secret,” Paige tilted her chin defensively. 

“Then what was it?” she asked. “I mean… weren’t you scared?”

Paige was quiet for a second longer than expected.

“A little,” she admitted eventually. “But mostly I just didn’t want everybody acting weird around me. I already knew what to do.”

“But you didn't come to me,” Charlie looked over at her. “We tell each other that stuff.”

“I don’t know,” Paige shrugged again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, okay,” Charlie let her have it. “Is that the only reason you came in here?”

“No,” Paige took another macaron for herself. “I wanted to talk about my birthday party. I was wondering if you could help me dye my hair.”

“You’re going to dye your hair?” Charlie’s mouth dropped. “Dude, moms will kill us both. You’re turning ten, not sixteen.”

“It wouldn’t be permanent or, like, my whole head,” Paige defended quickly. “Just maybe the front pieces. Or underneath.”

Charlie stared at her for another second before narrowing her eyes thoughtfully.

“…What color?”

Paige grinned immediately, knowing she’d won her over a little. “Maybe dark red?”

“Oh, that would eat,” Charlie admitted before catching herself. “Wait. No. I’m supposed to be responsible.”

“You literally have a Pinterest board called hair inspo.”

“That is private information.”

Paige laughed into her drink. 

Charlie watched her for a second after that. Really watched her.

“You’re getting big,” she mumbled.

Paige groaned loudly. “You sound like Mom.”

“Well, you are.” Charlie reached over, absentmindedly fixing one of Paige’s pigtails where it had started coming loose. “It’s weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“True.”

“Maybe we could do a little trim too. I’m good with scissors,” Charlie pretended to search for them. 

“No way,” Paige shook her head. 

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Charlie said. “But we have to ask Moms. I’m not getting grounded over this.”

“Fine,”

—----------------- —-----------------

The first thing Natasha noticed when she stepped into your shared shower was the delicate gold anklet wrapped around your left ankle. Tiny little charms glittered against damp skin every time the water hit it. It was new, and she wanted to question where you got it from, but it seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

You were carefully scrubbing around it as you hummed softly to yourself, completely unaware she’d followed you in.

For a second, Natasha just watched.

The steam curled around you, your braids pinned messily up away from your face, one of her oversized shirts abandoned somewhere on the bathroom floor outside the glass doors.

“Can I join you?” She asked, finally.

You jumped slightly, hand flying to your chest as she stepped inside anyway.

“Natasha!” you laughed breathlessly. “You scared me.”

“Mhm.” Her hands settled automatically at your waist once she was close enough. “That was the goal.” She didn’t mind the hot water splashing against her back.

You rolled your eyes, though the smile stayed as warm water splashed against both of you now.

Natasha’s eyes drifted downward again.

“When did you get this?” she asked quietly, kneeling so that her thumb brushed against the anklet.

You looked down like you’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh,” you smiled softly. “A few weeks ago. I picked it out when I went shopping.”

Natasha hummed at that, still tracing absent patterns against your ankle underwater.

You tilted your head slightly at her silence.

“What?” you asked softly.

Natasha just shook her head once before leaning down to kiss your calf.

“Nothing,” she murmured against damp skin. “You’re just pretty.”

“Just pretty?” You pulled her into your arms. The steam made your cheeks flush, or maybe it was the look in her eyes, or the feel of her bare skin against yours. “Nat, you’ve called me a lot of things over the years. Just pretty feels like an insult.”

A slow smile spread across her face. She reached up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Alright then. You’re devastatingly beautiful. You’re the kind of beautiful that makes people forget their own names. Better?”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your lip. “Hmm. Getting warmer.”

Natasha laughed, a real, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the glass walls. She pulled you closer, water streaming between your bodies. “Fine. You’re so beautiful it physically hurts me sometimes. There. Are we done rating my compliments now?”

“Depends,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss her jawline. “Are you trying to get lucky?" It sounded sexier in your head, and you both knew it, sharing a smile between the two of you. "It's been too long."

"Eight months," She said, closing her eyes after a particularly hard nip at her throat. "But who's counting?"

"Is that why you came in here?" You questioned. "To talk about my anklet and how pretty I am?"

"No. I came in here to see how long it would take to get you on your knees." Her response was quick, and you shivered despite the steam.

"It's a shame. You beat me to it." You whispered.

The water continued its steady rhythm against your skin, but Natasha’s focus was solely on the way your body moved against hers. She let out a shaky breath as your fingers traced the line of her collarbone, down between her breasts.

She bit her lip. This was what she had been wanting for so long. "I need..." The redhead started.

"I know, baby," you murmured against her skin. "I know."

Her hands tangled in your braids, gently guiding you back to her lips. The kiss started slow, a gentle exploration, but it quickly deepened into something more desperate. Months of unspoken tension, of carefully maintained distance, melted away under the hot spray of the shower.

Your hands roamed her body with a confidence that made her tremble. You knew every sensitive spot, every place that made her gasp into your mouth. When your thumb brushed against her nipple, toying with the jewelry piercing both ends, she arched into your touch with a soft cry.

"I've missed this," she whispered against your lips. "I've missed you. I wanted it to be more special for us. Dinner. Candles." Her speech was broken by pants as your other hand traveled lower, tracing patterns on her stomach.

"We can have dinner tomorrow," you murmured, nipping at her earlobe. "Or I could make you wait."

"You could," She nodded. "I came in here to be with you. Not for sex."

"Hmm," You nodded. Natasha pulled back slightly, her green eyes dark with desire and something deeper. That unwavering devotion that had defined your relationship from the beginning. She watched you for a moment, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"You still want me, right? Even after everything? After my stupid pride and the distance and..." Her words faltered as your fingers continued their torturously slow descent.

"Every day," you said simply, and it was the truest thing you had ever spoken. "Even when I was angry with you, I still wanted you."

That was all the encouragement she needed. Natasha surged forward, pressing you against the tiled wall of the shower as the water cascaded over both of you. Her kisses grew more demanding, her hands exploring every curve of your body.

"I love you," she gasped between kisses. "I never stopped. Not for a second."

Your response was lost in a moan as her teeth found your shoulder, biting gently before soothing the skin with her tongue. Your fingers finally reached where she wanted them most, and Natasha's knees nearly buckled at the contact.

You found her clit with ease, circling slowly at first, building tension with each pass. Natasha's head fell back against the tiles, water streaming down her face and neck as she surrendered to the pleasure you were giving her.

"Fuck," she whispered.

The water began to cool as you brought her closer to the edge. Your other hand came up to cup her breast, thumb and forefinger rolling her pierced nipple between them. Natasha's hands gripped your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as her hips began to move against your hand.

"Look at me," You commanded softly.

Natasha's eyes fluttered open, locking with yours. The intensity of her gaze nearly undid you. In that moment, there was no distance, no months of separation, no stubborn pride. There were only the two of you.

"I love you too," you murmured, and with those words, you increased the pressure, your fingers moving faster as she cried out your name.

Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body trembling against yours as she gasped for breath. You held her through it, your movements gentling as she came down from her high.

Natasha slumped against you, her face buried in the crook of your neck as her breathing gradually returned to normal.

"Wow," she finally managed, a weak laugh escaping her lips. "Just... wow."

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Yeah."

The water was definitely cold now, but neither of you seemed to notice or care.

"I came in here innocently at first," She spoke against your skin. "Just wanted to be with you."

"I know, Tasha," You kissed the top of her head. "Get out. I'll be there in a minute."

She pulled back reluctantly, her eyes searching yours. "Don't be long."

"I won't."

As Natasha stepped out of the shower, you watched her grab a towel, her movements slightly unsteady. She caught your eye before wrapping the towel around herself, and the look she gave you was full of promise for what the rest of the night might hold.

You finished washing up quickly, your mind racing. Eight months. Eight months of distance, of carefully constructed schedules, of avoiding the one person you needed most. And all it took to break through everything was one innocent question about an anklet.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped securely around your body, you found Natasha perched on the edge of the bed. She hadn't bothered dressing, just holding the towel around herself as she watched you approach.

"I was thinking," she said as you stopped in front of her.

"About?" You asked, reaching out to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. You stood between her legs, caressing her face.

"About how long it's been since we had a vacation," She said, tracing the back of your thigh with the tip of her fingers.

"Hmm."

"I booked us something for the week after Paige's birthday. Paris."

Your eyes widened. "Natasha—"

"Don't," She interrupted. "No excuses. Just say yes."

You studied her face, seeing the determination in her green eyes. "What about the kids"

"My parents can handle things for a week," She said dismissively. "And I've already cleared it with Yelena to help."

You laughed softly. "Of course you have."

"So?" Her fingers stilled on your leg. "Is that a yes?"

You leaned down, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. "Yes," you whispered against her mouth. "That's a yes."

Natasha's relief was palpable, her whole body relaxing as she deepened the kiss. When you finally pulled apart, she was smiling, a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes.

"I was worried you'd say no," she admitted.

"After what just happened in the shower?" You teased. "I'd say yes to just about anything you asked right now."

Her grin widened. "Good to know. You don't think it was too soon?"

"I think it was too quick," You clarified at her eyebrow arch. "I meant I want us to have the opportunity to go all night." You lowered your head to her neck. "Too soon isn't a thing for us after almost two decades in. That's our problem, we're working off what we think should happen or schedules and everything else. If I wanted to eat your pussy in the parking garage of the therapist's office, I would." You paused. "Don't get any ideas."

She laughed. "Noted. No parking garage cunnilingus." Her hands slid up your back, tracing the line of your spine. "But the bed is fair game?"

You hummed, leaning in to nip at her jawline. "The bed is very fair game."

Natasha's response was to capture your lips again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. Her hands roamed your body, mapping familiar territory. You responded in kind, your own hands exploring as you slowly backed her toward the center of the bed.

When the back of her knees hit the mattress again, Natasha fell back with a soft gasp, pulling you down with her. The towels between you felt like an unnecessary barrier, and she wasted no time in remedying that. She flipped the two of you, effectively pinning you.

"Much better," she murmured against your skin as she finally got you naked beneath her.

You laughed, arching into her touch as her mouth found your throat. "I agree."

Natasha took her time rediscovering your body, her lips and hands tracing every curve, every dip, every scar she already knew by heart. It was both familiar and new, like coming home after a long absence.

When her mouth finally closed around your nipple, you gasped, your fingers tangling in her damp hair. She teased with practiced skill, knowing exactly how to drive you wild with minimal effort.

"Natasha," you breathed, your hips rising to meet hers.

She lifted her head, her green eyes dark with desire. "I want to taste you," she said, her voice husky with need.

Instead of waiting for a response, she began her descent, pressing kisses along your stomach, dipping her tongue into your navel, smiling against your skin when you squirmed. By the time she settled between your thighs, you were already panting with anticipation.

She paused, looking up at you from between your legs. The intensity in her gaze made your breath catch.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered, and this time, the compliment felt like a revelation.

Then she leaned in, and all coherent thought ceased to exist.

The first stroke of her tongue against your clit sent a jolt of electricity through your body. Eight months of pent-up desire melted away in an instant. Natasha had always known exactly how to touch you, how to read your responses, how to push you to the brink and then pull you back, drawing out the pleasure until you were begging for release.

"Babe, we didn't lock the door." You didn't even know why the thought crossed your mind when she was tongue deep inside you.

"Then I'd guess you better be quiet so the kids don't come in," She mumbled without breaking her rhythm.

You rolled your eyes at her cockiness but didn't protest again, lost in the sensation of her tongue exploring your folds. Your hands found her hair again, guiding her as she built a rhythm that had your hips moving against her face.

When she added two fingers, curling them perfectly to hit that spot deep inside, you couldn't suppress the cry that escaped your lips. Natasha smirked against you, clearly pleased with herself as she increased her pace, her tongue working in tandem with her fingers to push you higher and higher.

The tension coiled in your stomach, tighter and tighter, until finally it snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your back arched off the bed as you called out her name, your fingers tightening in her hair as your body convulsed with the force of your orgasm.

Natasha stayed with you through it all, her movements gentling as you came down from your high. When your breathing finally returned to normal, she placed one final kiss on your sensitive flesh before crawling back up to lie beside you.

You turned to face her, a lazy smile playing on your lips. "Wow," you whispered, echoing her earlier sentiment.

She chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I thought we could be spontaneous for a change."

"So you came in from your little yoga reading session and thought, damn, I wanna fuck my wife?" You teased.

"Not exactly," She rolled onto her side to fully face you. "I wanted to talk to you about the trip, and then I saw your tits." She shrugged.

You let out a laugh, the sound filling the quiet room. "Always so romantic, Romanoff."

Natasha's smile softened, her fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "I want you again," she admitted quietly. "If you're up for it."

You raised an eyebrow. "Already?"

"It's been eight months," she reminded you. "I have a lot of lost time to make up for."

The thought of another round sent a fresh wave of desire through you. You leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. "I'm always up for anything with you," you murmured against her lips.

Natasha responded by deepening the kiss, her body pressing closer to yours as one of her hands slid down to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened under her touch. You arched into her, wanting more, needing more.

When her other hand slipped between your legs, you gasped into her mouth. She wasted no time, finding you already wet and ready for her. Her fingers explored with familiar confidence, stroking, teasing, building that fire in your belly all over again.

"I missed this," she whispered, her lips trailing along your jawline. "I missed being inside you."

"Then stop talking," you breathed, hooking your leg over her hip to give her better access. "And fuck me."

Natasha's response was to enter you with two fingers, slow and deliberate, drawing a moan from your lips. She set a languid pace at first, her thumb finding your clit as she moved within you. The familiar stretch, the perfect angle, it all came rushing back like second nature.

You met her gaze, seeing the raw emotion in her green eyes. Eight months of distance, of carefully maintaining space, all melting away with each thrust of her fingers. You reached up, caressing her face.

"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily now.

"I love you too," she replied, her movements gaining speed as her own arousal grew. "So much."

You could feel her need pressing against your thigh, and it spurred you on. You rolled your hips, meeting each thrust, encouraging her to take you harder, faster. Natasha obliged, her fingers moving deeper, her thumb working your clit with skilled precision.

The second orgasm built more slowly but was no less intense. When it finally washed over you, you cried out her name, your body trembling with release. Natasha didn't stop, continuing to move within you, drawing out your pleasure until you were completely spent.

Only then did she withdraw, gathering you in her arms as you both caught your breath. The room was quiet except for your ragged breathing, the cool air from the open window doing little to cool your heated skin.

"I think we're going to need two weeks in Paris," you finally spoke.

It’s initially just black, darkness surrounding her, Natasha simply reveling in everything happening to her… until a sudden, sharp stinging is felt on the inside of her thigh, your hand coming down and making firm contact with the plushness there. Her eyes shoot open, a cry of surprise escaping her mouth that progresses into a high-pitched whine when the first thing she sees is herself reflected back at her in the mirror.

God, she looks absolutely pathetic right now—fucked out in a way she’s not used to seeing, never having been forced to watch herself before—and she closes her eyes again in an attempt to avoid the sight.

“Eyes open,” you tell her, “Eyes on you, unless… you want me to stop?” It’s teasing. You know very well what the answer to that question is, how much she currently needs you to keep going, for the pleasure you’re providing her with to keep sparking under her skin and firing up and down her spine until it settles back in her core.

But still, despite her desperation, she doesn’t reply to you.

“Use your words, Natasha,” you demand, punctuating your sentence by bucking your hips up to push into her a few times.

Your actions don’t make it any easier, and you smirk as she moans, loud and uncontrolled, echoing through the room and off the walls in the way that means she’s close. You’re lucky that Tony soundproofed your quarters after the first time your and Natasha’s romps were heard throughout the night, keeping the other Avengers awake with sounds that they never wanted to become familiar with in the first place.

“No, please, please don’t stop. I’m so close. Please,” Natasha then begs, her hips rolling with urgency, her body eager for you to keep relentlessly pounding into her, eager for the heat that being so completely filled by you brings about, for the ache from deep within her that only you can soothe to lessen.

“Already?” you ask even though you’re well aware of how near she is to tipping, how near the redhead is to falling into sweet oblivion. You know the signs of Natasha’s pleasure better than she does, able to recognize every expression that twists her face, able to decipher every jerk and jolt of her body, well acquainted with every potential reaction you could receive whenever you’re fucking her.

She just nods her head, struggling to find her voice. There’s too much input, too many sensations for her to process all at once.

“I said ‘words’,” you remind her, and you decide to let up, transitioning from harsh thrusts to languid ones in order to help her answer.

It doesn’t work.

“Can’t-” She almost doesn’t get the word out. “Fuck, can’t, can’t- so close, can’t, fuck-”

You hum, the noise more mocking than understanding. “Let me help then,” you murmur, reaching your hand toward the bedside table, grabbing at the vibrator you had left there beforehand. You switch it on, and the low buzzing that begins to fill the room makes a soft, helpless noise leave Natasha as she realizes just what’s coming.

You slowly skim the vibrator along her inner thigh, dragging it lightly across the sensitive skin there, a trail of goosebumps following the path it takes. It feels like it’s miles away from where she’s throbbing for it, so her back arches and her hips buck up in impatience, trying to make contact with the toy. She lets out an unfiltered whine as the strap shifts and reangles itself inside of her, falling forward, her hands landing on your knees.

She tries to catch her breath, but you don’t allow her to.

It’s at the lowest setting, but that doesn’t mean that the vibrator’s first touch against her clit doesn’t cause her eyes to roll back in her head, her hands quickly moving from your knees to scrabble at the sheets, grabbing hold of them and crushing them between her fingers. “Fuck!” she exclaims, startled by the suddenness. Her entire being is feverish, overheated, hypersensitive. There’s both satisfaction as the vibrations finally rack through her frame but also a burning need for more.

“Keep moving,” you demand when you notice her motions falter, when she starts to let the vibrator do all the work for her.

With difficulty, she begins pushing herself up before dropping herself down, resuming burying your strap deeply within her sopping hole. Her breasts jump with every movement as she continues to impale herself on the silicone, riding you like you requested, her fingers clutching at the sheets as she rocks weakly, overcome by the feelings that make her body twitch and writhe on top of you.

“That’s a girl,” you praise, “Bouncing so sweetly on my cock. Do you see yourself? Taking me so well?”

Natasha nods, her ability to speak having been stripped away by the almost unbearable sensation of you—the one hand holding her hip feeling like a brand, your strap stretching her cunt out deliciously, the vibrator pressed firmly to her clit to the point where she doesn’t know if it’s making everything better or worse at this point.

Her eyes are half-lidded, her mouth parted with irregular breaths as she takes in the sight of herself in the mirror again. She can see every piece of her—or perhaps pieces, as it feels like you’ve torn her apart bit by bit and left her scattered around the room—laid bare before her. Her skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat, her chest flushed a bright pink as she clearly becomes fatigued from all the exertion, but she stays determined, nonetheless. She can easily make out the sticky mess between her legs in the reflection; she watches how the silicone shaft glistens with her juices every time she raises her hips up and comes off its length slightly before sinking back down.

And she begins working faster, harder, grinding in needy, clumsy circles, as if seeing herself only furthers the fire she has building inside. Her dignity was abandoned somewhere along the way, and she can’t bring herself to care when you’re stuffing her full like only you ever can.

You notice her gaze drop to where you’re both connected, staring fixatedly at how the strap rhythmically plunges in and out of her hole, slick noises mixing with her moans.

“Just look at you,” you say, “You’re dripping, soaked. This pretty pussy was just begging to be fucked like this, wasn’t it?”

Natasha warms at the vulgar way you’re talking about her, blushing at your tone, at your words, but her body betrays her, and she clenches down on the silicone unconsciously.

A coy smile appears on your face at her bashfulness, at how she tries to hide just how much she’s enjoying everything. You can’t help but tease her further. “Say it,” you request.

When she doesn’t answer, shaking her head, too embarrassed to do so, you repeat yourself.

It’s a command this time—you’re no longer asking—and she knows that, so she takes a breath in preparation to echo the crude words back at you, but you don’t give her enough time, turning the vibrator up to the highest setting, the touch causing her entire being to thrum.

Natasha jumps as the sudden increase, the switch from the soft and steady vibrations to the severe ones jarring, you giving her no warning or chance to adjust. “My pussy was begging for it!” she cries out, “Fuck! It was begging! I’m begging!”

You hum again in satisfaction when she finally gets the words out. “That’s right,” you agree, “And begging girls don’t get to come.” You turn the vibrator back down, a chuckle leaving you when you see how her eyes widen in desperation. She’s trembling with the need to finally make it over the edge you’re keeping her on; you’ve been tormenting her by dangling her release just out of reach.

“No,” she pleads, “No, please, I’m good. I’m good. I’m not begging, I’m good.”

You just shake your head, tutting. “You just said you were begging,” you remind her.

Natasha whines. It’s true. She is begging, but she’s willing to say whatever it takes right now for you to let her to come.

“I’m good,” she tries to convince you again.

You then shush her, taking pity on the redhead that’s currently been reduced to a simple, babbling mess on your lap.

“I know you are,” you reassure softly, “My good girl, always my good girl.” And then you turn the toy back up, letting the vibrations resume their assault on her sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that you know will send her careening in just moments.

When she feels the intensity spike, Natasha stops remembering how to hold herself together; she doesn’t want to hold herself together. She’s falling with no desire to catch herself as everything overloads her system and takes her apart. Her release crashes through her and makes her forget how to breathe altogether, both her inhales and exhales stuttering to a stop in her chest before she remembers that she actually does need oxygen.

It’s the best form of torture when you continue to hold the vibrator directly against her clit, not giving her any respite, and her body shakes and shudders as the onslaught remains rushing through her.

“Wait, no more,” she chokes out, “Can’t- no more.”

“Someone just told me she wanted this. Now you’re saying that your greedy little cunt can’t take it?”

“No- no,” Natasha keeps protesting as you don’t let up, “S’too much-”

“You can do it,” you encourage, knowing her limits, knowing when to push and when to pull away, and right now, despite her objections, there’s no way Natasha truly wants you to ease up. She craves another climax; her body craves another climax. It’s blatantly telling you so as her hips still rock back and forth on your strap, as her walls clamp down tightly on the silicone as if trying to milk every drop of pleasure from you that she possibly can.

You start moving with her, hard and forceful snaps of your hips into her squelching cunt as the vibrator still buzzes against her causing her to gasp at the dual sensations.

A moan catches in her throat, her breath hitching, overstimulation warring with the euphoria that always follows an orgasm given to her by you. She goes to protest again but is abruptly stopped when you shove two fingers into her open mouth, effectively cutting the redhead off, preventing her from voicing anything further.

“Hush,” you murmur, your voice just a soft whisper against the shell of her ear, the brush of your lips along her skin making her shiver. Her tongue instinctively swirls around your digits before sucking on them gently, soaking them with her saliva, a trail of it beginning to dribble out the side of her mouth.

“There you go,” you praise, “Just stay quiet and let me play with you.”

This time, Natasha complies, focusing now on you in her mouth, on the weight of your fingers on her tongue, trying to distract herself from the unrelenting pressure of the vibrator and the wet slide of the strap inside her.

She can tell she’s quickly approaching another peak, and she wants to tell you, to warn you, but with your fingers pushed to the back of her throat, all she can do is whimper around them.

Fortunately for her, she doesn’t need to say anything. You can see it clear as day on her face in the mirror, see it in the way her head is lolling from side to side against your shoulder as her back leans heavily against your front. The vibrator is still at the highest setting, persistent and ruthless in its stimulation, and Natasha, even though she was just overwhelmed with ecstasy, is back to feeling starving for more, hips still working.

“One more,” you tell her before asking a question even though you know she can’t respond with your fingers caressing her tongue: “You can give me one more, can’t you? Just one more?”

She groans, eyes fluttering shut, trying to nod as she continues to suck and lick at your skin.

“Then come for me again,” you command, “I want you to come again all over my cock.”

Those words are all it takes, Natasha never able to disobey you, and she’s thrown into yet another climax after only just having recovered from the first, a loud, keening sound getting ripped from deep within her chest. She’s engulfed by it, drowning in it, the entire room feeling as though it’s spinning as she becomes dizzy with pleasure, unable to find her equilibrium through the vibrations that you still haven’t yet turned down. The only thing holding her together right now, the only thing grounding her, is the feeling of you, stable behind her.

After a few seconds of tension, of her muscles pulled taut, she drops limply against you, hips finally going still, too exhausted to keep moving. You gently pull the vibrator away from the apex of her thighs, switching it off, the sensations still there but now dulled to residual, phantom tingles that spread from her core outward to the rest of her body in waves.

You let her settle, Natasha very obviously spent, unable to take any more for the time being, and she curls into you, the strap still buried between her legs as she shifts to press her face into the crook of your neck.

You brush a light kiss to the crown of her head. “Is it safe to assume you can’t handle another?” you ask playfully.