𝗜𝗻𝗳𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 || Marvel One-Shots

Dance Me to the End of Love (N.R) (GN)

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The morning was a warm, sunny one. The sun's beams glowed with an angelic hue that flooded the living room, just as it did to every room in the house, even the bedroom you shared with the woman you were lucky enough to call your wife: Natalia Romanova, or how she prefers being called, Natasha L/N.

You never really knew how or why in God's green earth such a stunning woman grew interested in you, let alone marry you; You weren't complaining, though.

Natasha fell head over heels over you — something that you reciprocated thoroughly — and you couldn't wrap your head around that. Her infatuation grew to such degrees that so far as leaving the bed was a seemingly impossible task. You would always wake up the same way: with your wife wrapped around your torso, head over your shoulder, chest, or buried near your neck, and her arms instinctively tightening their grip upon any slight movement, not wanting to let you go under any circumstance. You always got up the same way too: by having to slowly inch your way out of her arms, all while trying not to wake her up. All that was just so you could get up, now picture when she gets REALLY needy.

After a solid 10 minutes of your escape technique, you successfully freed yourself from the red head's grip without waking her up.

You immediately headed over to the kitchen and prepared your daily routine: Bring all the ingredients over to the kitchen island, turn the stove on, bring the bowls out, and lastly — and what you deemed the most important and necessary of steps — prepared the music. Music was always your escape from reality, your drive, and your go-to comfort mechanism, apart from your bride, obviously.

You scrolled through your infinite galleries and lists of songs until finally reaching the one you had desired. Natasha had introduced you to the artist a fair amount of years back in the first few months of your relationship, and ever since, you've grown very fond of his music. His words, the meaning behind every lyric, the atmosphere of them, and the message they all convey left you in addiction to said artist's songs; It was none other than Leonard Cohen.

Once you found the song, you pressed the play button and immediately went on to preparing Natasha's favorite breakfast: Pancakes. YOUR pancakes, to be exact.

As you began preparing the mix, you heard attentively to the piano quietly playing in the back of the kitchen.

The beat was instantly followed by the chorus you've heard a dozen times before, and at last, the vocalist.

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin...

Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in...

Lift me like an olive branch, be my homeward dove...

And dance me to the end of love...

Yeah, dance me to the end of love...

You hummed to Leonard's voice, entranced by it. You prepared the meal almost robotically since it had become a weekly tradition for years now.

Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone...

Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon...

Show me slowly what I only know the limits of...

And dance me to the end of love...

Dance me to the end of love...

The violins came along, and now your body swayed to the rhythm. Natasha waking up would be inevitable, with the smell of the pancakes, the sound of the music, not to mention the fact that she was a spy, hence, she could pick up the most minuscular of details, even asleep. But you couldn't care less. In fact, her presence would only make the moment much more heavenly.