Writing Blog

Requests are open - I do not write fem reader

[dannyboy-writes]

Masterlist

Agent Carter

Agents of SHIELD

Alice in Borderland

ATLA + TLOK

Doctor Who

Euphoria

Fear Street

Game of Thrones

Greys Anatomy

Harry Potter

Legacies

Lucifer

Marvel

Merlin

Movies

Peaky Blinders

Star Wars

Stranger Things

Supergirl

Teen Wolf

The 100

The Flash

Titans

Yellowjackets

Updated 01/02/2026

List of shows I’ve seen

[dannyboy-writes]

Hiya! Please could I ask for a fic where reader is Nat’s younger brother and just how their bond changes over the show?

Hello! What Nat are you asking about?

[thewitchandtheassassin]

When in Vegas (Lena Luthor x Reader)

Summary: What happens in Vegas...

Words: 601

Warnings: Mentions reader and Lena being naked, uh... getting drunk on Irish beer??? No smut

A/N: Trying to get back in the habit of writing. I'm starting to feel better. It's a work in progress.

-X-

It had started a joke. Or… you think it did? The exacts were a little hazy.

You’d gone with Lena to a tech conference in Las Vegas. It was supposed to be simple. Quick. Two days of you exploring the strip while Lena networked, meeting up with your girlfriend for meals after her meetings ended and making sure you didn’t miss her “TED talks”.

What you hadn’t anticipated was you and Lena getting a little too drunk on authentic Irish beer in a bar four doors down from a wedding chapel headed by Elvis—or an impersonator?

Or maybe his name was Elvis and he dressed like the rockstar?

Fuck, what was in that beer?

Lena was giggling, pressed against your side. “Can you imagine it? Getting officiated by that? God, do you think it smells like peanut butter sandwiches? If they’re going for authentic, of course.”

Arm looped around her shoulders, you swayed slightly on your stool, her laughter infectious. “That sounds actually horrific. Trying to explain to your parents you got married by Elvis while it just reeks of peanuts and sweat?”

Staggering up out of her seat, Lena was the most disheveled you’d ever seen her outside of the bedroom and honestly? It was attractive as hell.

“We should—we should go check it out. So we can report back to Kara and Alex. Tell them how ridiculous it all is,” she suggested, offering you a hand.

In the back of your mind, you knew this was a terrible idea. Utterly, significantly terrible and yet… you still took her hand, following her out of the bar and four doors down.

-X-

When you woke up the next morning, comforter around your hips and your arm tossed around your very naked partner, you didn’t think much about it. Clearly you’d tied one on—

Until you lifted your hand to wipe the sleep from your eyes.

…why is there something on my finger?

Pulling your hand back slowly, it took one… two… three blinks to register what you were staring at. A ring. A gold ring.

A very nice, gold, shiny ring you’d never seen or worn before a day in your life.

“Oh no…” you muttered, lifting your hand higher to catch in the morning light, tilting your head like it was the most alien thing you’d ever come across (and you knew literal aliens).

Lena let out a pained groan beside you, the hangover slamming hard into her as she came back into consciousness and you jumped, momentarily having forgotten everything except the ring on your finger.

“Turn off the sun,” she mumbled against her pillow, trying to drag the blankets over her head.

Despite everything, you chuckled. “Uh… I don’t think that’s how this works, baby. But I… well… you may want to wake up.”

One bleary emerald eye peered over the edge of the fabric, studying your face. “Why?” she drawled out the single word warily.

“…look at your hand.” You lifted your own pointedly, not even attempting to hide the jewelry resting evidently on your finger.

There was a moment of stunned silence as that one eye—that one, gorgeous eye you could get lost in—stayed locked on your hand before she ripped the comforter down and threw her hands up to look at them.

“Oh. Oh.”

There, wrapped around her skin, was an identical ring.

“…do you remember if the chapel smelled like peanut butter?” you asked curiously after a moment of contemplated silence, yelping when Lena slapped a pillow across your chest, knocking you off the bed and onto the carpeted floor.

[supergirlimaginesfic-blog]

Lena Luthor x reader (I think I was made to love you; tell me it’s true)

Request: “ you touch her , I kill you ” and “ you act like you’re the bad boy , but you’re not ” with lena

a/n: y’know what this apparently calls for?? PINEY CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS TIME. BECAUSE I’M IN THE MOOD FOR LIKE, the smallest amount of angst and I just wanted to suffer through it. Because like, imagine Lena interacting with someone who has just as much of a guilt complex as she does… HOPELESS.

I was definitely in some sorta mood… really couldn’t tell you why. I shall take this prompt and run with it! It’s a little cute and dumb. I was like, probably at the half-way mark of this before I looked at it all and went wtf are you even talking about? LOL, but I’ve finished it, so I’m definitely happy about it. I figured there’s not enough campy, YA-esque romance stories starring you as the useless protagonist, so I just HAD to do this… there was no other way lol. This one’s a bit of a monster. Hope y’all like it, and I hope the wait was worth it!! Thank you so much for reading :D

- - - - -

Throughout most of your formative years, you were always underestimated. Your teachers would first look at you on the first day of school every year and even at your young age, you could tell they were eyeing you with some level of wariness and suspicion.

You’d always taken great pleasure in proving them wrong, proving to be not the troubled delinquent they thought with unfailing frequency you would surely be, nor no more than the above-average student either.

You simply just were, and for so often in your life you merely drifted through and participated when it was really demanded of you.

As such, your parents and whoever else decided to give a damn whenever they so happened to remember you would comment on your penchant for underachieving, would state their desire for you to do more, to do better, and this was a surefire way to antagonize you more than you’d care to show.

It was the principle of the thing, really - to think they’d know you well at all to make such valuations like that, as if they had any real sway in shaping you into the person you are now; that annoyed you to no end.

The only thing you could say with confidence that any significant person in your life contributed to your personality was your disgruntled irritation at most figures of authority.

You attributed your affinity for letting most things simply wash over you to them as well - you’ve spent a good portion of your life letting half-baked words of love and affection fall on deaf ears, the pressure and expectation of achievement and this sole importance it held with your parents, and their legacy, and the shame that you weren’t as invested in doing good for the family as they wanted you to be was just begging for you to deflect with cynicism.

You wouldn’t say it made you apathetic, you would rather say it made you jaded and pragmatic. If you could achieve things in a way that was the total opposite of your current disposition and act out of the sheer force of spite rather than deflate with self-sabotaging indifference as is your natural reaction, you would certainly have chosen that instead.

All things considered, this surely lent itself to the ever-evolving mystery that was your entire relationship with Lena Luthor, and you always wondered just how it was you landed yourself into a role in her life; even more so, you wondered just how it was you even got to call yourself anything of hers at all.

Keep reading

[hugegaynerddd]

Don't Hesitate

Summary: Your first mission as an avenger, a changed hydra soldier. Too gentle for your own good. Nat comforts you after the mission didn't go as planned.

Pairing(s): natasha romanoff x exhydra!reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort, kinda fluff ig, not proofread (pls have mercy)

Word Count: ~1.2k

a/n: relationship with nat isn't really specified, but i like to think they're friends on the journey to finding out they both want more.

---

Your first mission as an avenger. Officially. You sit patiently in the corner of the jet, Maria maneuvering the aircraft. Being back in Soviet Russia brings back a few unwanted memories, but you’re tough enough to handle it. Or that's what you keep telling yourself over and over. 

Steve and Natasha are going over the mission plan again, but you can’t seem to focus on them. The engine hums too loud in your ears, turbulence shaking the jet, making you knock your head against the wall repeatedly.

“Hey, you listening?” you hear Nat asking. She’s turning to you, a hard look on her face, but laced with bits of concern. She was never too serious during missions, but this one was important. Taking down hydra’s main headquarters was going to be laborious.

“Yes, boss. The plan is still the same as the last hundred times you’ve talked about it,” you joke. Your relationship with Natasha was always like that. Soft, meaningless banter and maybe something more.

“Just making sure,” she starts. Her eyes were on you, but her hands were rolling up the blueprints of the headquarters. “It’s your first time after all, since… y’know” she continues. 

Since you’ve gotten all your memories back. Since you’ve no longer been a Hydra soldier, but an avenger. Since you’ve been able to make your own decisions instead of following orders due to fear.

“I’ll be fine. Lived in this place my whole life, so—” you say, but you can’t finish your sentence, unsure of what else to say. Before Natasha can say anything else, Maria’s voice interrupts.

“The base is a thousand feet down. Parachutes to your left,” she says. You never figured out how to read Maria. Her instructions were always clear, but her face never faltered from her cold gaze. Sometimes you wonder if she were even human, you still find that thought humorous at times. 

You’re the first one off the jet. “See you on the ground,” you half-shouted, but the rest of the team could still barely hear you due to the aerodynamic drag from around the plane. It’s cliché, but when you’ve had your whole life stolen from you, you have to find comfort in the little things, like movie quotes and dad jokes. 

The wind tears the breath from your lungs the second you jump. For a moment, there is nothing but air. No past. No future. No Hydra. No Avengers. Just falling.

Your body knows what to do before you do. Your hands steady, your legs angle, your fingers twitch toward the cord and you pull. The parachute snaps open above you, jerking you back into yourself. The ground rushes up slower now. The compound sits below like a scar carved into the earth. Gray. Familiar.

Your stomach turns. Home.

You land cleanly, knees bending with practiced ease. You unclip, gather, move. Always move. Steve lands beside you, then Natasha. She glances at you immediately, not checking the perimeter, but checking you.

You give her a nod. You’re okay, you think. The team moves quickly, clean and efficient—just like always. Hydra never expected you to come back. Not like this. Not wearing different colors.

The halls haven’t changed. Same concrete. Same fluorescent lights. Same smell—bleach, metal and ghosts. Your chest tightens. You know this hallway. You know every hallway in this goddamned place. You remember being dragged through them, screaming in them.

“Clear,” Steve whispers.

You nod while moving up ahead. You don’t hesitate. The door at the end of the corridor opens and he steps out. Older. Grayer, but the same.

Vasily Karpov. Your handler. Your torturer. His eyes widen, then he smile, that same awful smile. “Well,” he says calmly. “If it isn’t my greatest disappointment.”

Your body freezes. Your gun is already in your hand, already aimed straight at his head, but you can’t pull the trigger. You can’t breathe. Memories slam into you.

The chair. The straps. The screaming. Your screaming.

“You were always too soft,” he continues, voice almost fond. “Hesitating. Just as always.” Your finger trembles on the trigger.

Shoot him. You can’t.

“How predictable.”

The words hit harder than any fist ever did. He steps closer, but you don’t move. You can’t move, because some part of you is still that soldier. Still waiting for orders. Still afraid.

“Do it,” he says quietly, leaning into the barrel of your gun. “Or are you still my obedient little weapon?” Your vision blurs and your hands start to shake. You hate him. So why can’t you kill him?

“Agent!” Natasha’s voice, sharp and urgent.

He sees it. Sees the weakness and he laughs.

“You see?” he says, looking at Natasha. “Defective.” The word breaks something in you. You lower the gun slightly, but it’s enough.

Steve moves past you. One clean motion and you hear Karpov hit the ground. Unconscious, but still alive.

Your hands fall to your sides. Useless. Weak. Too soft, just like he said. The rest of the mission passes in a blur. You fight. You complete the objective, but you don’t remember any of it. Not really. All you remember is that you couldn’t do it. Couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t be what they needed, what you were made to be.

—

You don’t say a word on the jet ride back. You sit in the same corner. The engine hum fills the space where your thoughts should be. No one pushes you. Not Steve. Not Maria. Not even Natasha. But you can feel her looking at you. You keep your eyes on the floor. You don’t deserve her concern. You don’t deserve to be here. You failed.

The jet lands. Everyone files out. You don’t move. Footsteps approach, then stop. She kneels in front of you—Natasha. Her hands are gentle when they take yours. You hate how much they’re shaking.

“Hey,” she says softly. You shake your head.

“I couldn’t do it,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. You hate that too. “I couldn’t kill him.” The words taste like failure. She doesn’t respond right away. She just holds your hands tighter, grounding you.

“You didn’t have to,” she says. You laugh. Bitter, empty.

“That’s the job.”

“No,” she says firmly. Your eyes lift to hers. “It isn’t.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You showed restraint.”

“I showed weakness.”

“You showed humanity.” The word hits harder than anything Karpov said. You swallow.

“He said I was defective.” Her jaw tightens, eyes darkening.

“He’s wrong.”

You shake your head.

“I couldn’t do it, Nat.” Your voice cracks. “I froze.” She moves closer, forehead resting against yours.

“I like that you’re gentle,” she whispers. Your breath catches. “You don’t have to kill to be a good Avenger.” Her fingers lace with yours. “Your empathy is what makes you good.” You don’t believe her—not fully—but you want to. God, you want to.

“I was supposed to be a weapon,” you say.

She pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You’re not a weapon.” Her hand moves to your face. She feels warm. “You’re a person.” You break. The tears come fast and quiet. You hate crying. Hydra taught you to hate crying. But Natasha doesn’t. She pulls you into her arms, holds you together while you fall apart. Her hand rubs slow circles into your back. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs. Over and over. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time since stepping back into that place—you believe it. You’re not theirs anymore. You’re hers. You’re yours.

[dannyboy-writes]

Just kiss me III

Hello!! part 3 of just kiss me! as requested.. dont know how to finish this series so I might just flip a coin on it... requests are open

There was a sting in your side, burning your insides, tearing your tissue apart with each step you took.

Your boots left bloodied prints along the street tiles as you tried to escape questioning looks from the people on the road.

You ducked your head farther down. You didn't want to add your beat up face to the wobbly limp you were carrying down town.

The burning in your stomach exaggerated with every shoulder bump from mindless strangers and sweat dripping from your forehead. 

Your view was fuzzy but you swore you had seen Natasha around this block. 

You just had to remember where.

Walking with confidence gets you almost anyplace, so you strutted into the apartment building you thought was Natasha's. 

Your knees trembled whilst picking the lock and your hands had double the fingers from the dizziness, but you got inside.

You fumbled over the table and knocked over something, heading towards her kitchen to gather some supplies. Alcohol, a needle. A fucking medical kit. Anything.

Searched for some bandages in the bathroom and collapsed onto the bath to stitch yourself up.

-

Natasha came home to a disheveled apartment. 

She had her gun in her hand since seeing the bloodstains on the doorknob, but the mess she found inside worried her some.

The kitchen turned around, clothes everywhere and her furniture tripped over.

She followed the bloody trail to her bathroom and opened the door swiftly pointing the gun inside.

At you.

You were passed out in the bathtub, some alcohol and bandages you had gathered laid on the floor. Your wound still untreated and leaking blood.

A lot of blood, she noticed from your pale lips.

She put the gun away and scurried to treat you.

The bathtub made sewing your stomach rather difficult but she contorted into it, cleaning the wound in your leg next and patting you with a cold towel. 

You had new scars, she noticed.

One over your shoulder, all healed up. A bullet, she imagined.

Various bruises in different shades of green and purple, the newest one over your left cheekbone. 

Grazes in your legs and knees, and small cuts in your knuckles and forearms. Likely from glass, she thought.

What worried her most was your sickenly pale face.

She let you rest whilst pacing back and forth in her apartment, tidying up the mess you'd made in order to keep her mind off of your unresponsive face.

-

The bathroom lights were brighter than you remembered and you no longer laid in a pool of your own blood. As you reached towards your stomach you found your right hand cuffed to the sink. 

You twisted to take a look at the stitches you assumed Natasha had done.

"Not bad, right?" She asked from the doorframe.

"I've had worst surgeons…" You snickered. "The cuffs are a personal touch, though."

"Not everyday you find an international threat on the brink of death in your bathtub."

"It's nice to see you too, Nat."

She filled a glass with water from the sink, "Here, drink."

"What happened to you?" She asked as you chugged the water down.

"Meh, missions don't always go smoothly," you shrugged.

"How did you know where to find me?"

You groaned, moving around. "I care about you, I keep tabs."

She scoffed. "You care about me?"

"Of course I do," you defended.

"You left me."

"I know… It's not that simple, and you know it Nat. SHIELD will never stop chasing me, and you will never leave SHIELD behind." 

"You don't know that," she muttered.

"Like hell I don't. Besides, even if you left, Hill or Barton would come find you."

"They worry."

"They should."

She raised an eyebrow, "Not in the most lively position to make threats, are we?"

"It's not a threat." You mumbled. "Thank you for sewing me up." You switched topics.

She loosened her shoulders and sat by your side, tugging her knees close to her chest. Picking her nails for your dried blood.

"Did you only come here for me to bandage you up and leave?"

She searched your face intensely, almost begging.

"I don't know." You admitted. "It felt natural, coming to find you. But it changes nothing, truly." She looked down. "You either have to turn me in or you let me go."

"I know."

You grazed her fingers with your left hand, holding hers slowly. Rubbing small circles with your thumb.

Natasha softened the frown in her forehead, sighing with her eyes closed. "You are impossible to understand. You do know that, right?"

Her tone was low, defeated. Fighting a battle she had already conceded long ago. Sad eyes searching your face for something special.

You said nothing.

The only acknowledgement of her words was a little cease in the grazes of your thumb, that you continued almost immediately.

"I do wish things were different," you told her. Your eyes searching hers intently.

"But they aren't," she sighed, getting up. "Don't be a stranger." She said, dropping the handcuff's key to the floor beside you and walking out.

"See you around, love."

[mashup-writing]

What in the seven hells was that about? (Nora Darhk)

“I would knock but…. This is a tent flap so, hi.” Y/N pokes their head in the tent and gives it a once over before making eye contact with the witch the Legends sought after.

Nora has her senses on alert as something about this stranger screamed “DON’T TRUST ME” and she was right. As soon as the stranger stepped inside, the Time Bureau logo was visibly stitched onto their Bomber Jacket.

The Time Bureau agent sensed the other person’s discomfort and raised their hands up in the air. “Whoa wait, I didn’t come here to detain you for making soup-” they gesture to the steaming pot. Nora didn’t have the heart to tell the agent that the ‘Soup’ was a failed attempt at a potion.

“I came here looking for you because we- I mean the Legends, need your help. I can brief you on the way, but please, don’t have much time.”

The witch took a moment to think. This place surely didn’t believe that she had magic, going back to a life of crime was a big no-no, the legends need her help and she’s shit-outta-luck anyway so this may just turn that situation upside down, and plus, she’s trying to live an honest life now. As honest a life a witch can live anyway.

“Alright, let me grab my bag I came here with and let’s get going- and you can put your hands down now.” Y/N sighed in relief and they didn’t even notice their hands were still up in the air.

A few moments later the two exited the tent and made their way to a secluded spot so Y/N can teleport them to the Waverider. “So I heard the dude say something about a Lusty Witch? What in the Seven Hells was that about?”

[procrastinatorimagines]

Good Morning

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow

Series: One shot

Pairing/s: Nora Darhk x Reader

Characters: Nora Darhk, Y/N, Gideon

Word Count: super short

Warnings: none

Request:  Prompt 34 Soft moments in bed with Nora Darhk please?

Summary: what better way to wake up than next to someone you love?

“Morning,” you mumbled sleepily, rolling over and rubbing your eyes. The brunette next to you smiled softly, eyes still closed. Her hair was sprawled out across the pillow and you almost wished you hadn’t disturbed her, she looked so peaceful when she slept.

One eye peaked open after a second, noticing you watching her. She leaned forward and planted a light kiss on your lips. The memories of the night came into full focus with that kiss, you’d talked, laughed, ended up sat a little too close on the couch… You’d had feelings for Nora for quite some time now but had always been too afraid to make the first move, but after last night you wished you hadn’t waited so long.

“What time is it?” She asked, blinking in the dim light of the room.

“Only 8,” you checked, “but it feels later given what time we went to sleep,” you reminded her and she laughed, locking eyes with yours.

“No regrets though right?” She made it sound like a joke but you could almost hear a genuine question behind the words, so you laced your fingers with hers.

“Not a single one.” You replied seriously, and she snuggled closer to you. You wrapped your arm around her and stroked her hair.

“Could we just stay like this all day?” She asked hopefully, drawing the covers closer to you both. It was like you were the only people in the world lying here in this bed, everything else just fell away…

“I’d like that, I’d like that a lot.” She positioned herself so she was back looking at you, her face hovering inches from yours, and you stared into her eyes like she really was the only other person in the world. “As long as we don’t get any mission alerts I doubt anyone will even notice we’re not around.” Nora laughed and rolled her eyes, flopping back onto the bed next to you. “What?” You asked, unsure of what you said wrong.

“You’ve jinxed it now, you know that right?” She shook her head and you gave her a little shove.

“Oh come on, are you telling me that the powerful sorceress Nora Darhk herself believes in that sort of thing? I have not jinxed anything,” you argued.

“Actually-” Gideons voice appeared over the intercom and you groaned, “-Captain Lance is requesting everyone on the bridge immediately.”

“See.” Nora said pointedly, stretching and reluctantly pulling herself up from under the covers to grab her clothes.

“That was not my-” you tried but thought better of it, removing yourself from the warmth of your bed, “okay fine, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you I promise.” 

She gave you a quick kiss. “I’ll hold you to that.” She said in a suggestive tone that made you feel your cheeks go red. 

Yeah, definitely should have done this a long time ago.

[thebisexualdogdad]

Number 71 with Nora Darhk if that’s ok?

71  "Help me find my shirt I can't walk out of here half naked."

You and Nora had begun secretly dating a few months ago and while neither one of you wanted to hide your relationship, your team didn't exactly trust Nora yet so the last thing you needed was them scolding you for being involved with a Darhk while Damien was still on the loose. 

The night prior you had snuck her on the ship and she used a spell to soundproof your bedroom so no one could hear the late night activities you were about to get up to. 

After her multiple orgasms she ended up sleeping in later than she had intended to from exhaustion and was now hurrying to get dressed and off the waveriders before the rest of the Legends woke up. 

"Nora come back to bed," you said not wanting to say goodbye yet. 

"You know I can't stay," she sighed, pulling her pants on but unable to locate her shirt,  "now help me find my shirt I can't walk out of here half naked."

"I'd like that," you chuckled finally getting out of bed in just your boxers. 

"I know you would," she laughed. 

You spotted the shirt under your desk and handed it over to her, "found it, looks like you were a little too eager last night and ripped one of the buttons." 

"If I remember correctly you were the one who couldn't wait to get me into bed," she teased putting it on.

She tried to go towards the door but you pulled her back in for a kiss. 

"Y/N," she smiled between kisses, "I really have to go." 

"I know, I know, just trying to get in all the kissing I can before I see you again," you told her. 

She kissed you one last time and successfully made her way to the door. 

When it opened Sara and Nate were standing in the hall waiting for Mick to get out of the bathroom. 

"Really Y/N? Nora Darhk?" Sara glared at you. 

"Um Nora, you're missing a button," Nate said trying not to laugh at how much trouble you were in. 

[imagine-lcorp]

Trades With The Devil (One Shot)

A/N: Well hellooooooo, my dears! Gues who isn’t dead! Yes, that’s mee! so I’m back from these crazy times. As you well know I was down for a while due to covid but thankfully I’m recovered, I’ve been writing for a bit more on Patreon, so if you wanna see what I’m up to these days go to my page, promise I have some good stuff there, but most importantly dont think I’ve forgotten about you. You know how much I love you and I’m gonna try to be more active and of course finish the still long pending list of request I have. But in the meantime, please enjoy this little piece for out Halloween/Day of the Dead Celebration, which as you know, it’s tradition here in my blog. Pls enjoy and let me know what you think!! Love y’all!!

Lena Luthor x Demon!R//Word Count: 674 ——————————————————-

How do you convince someone to sell their soul to the devil? 

It is easy, most of the time. Whatever thing you can offer, people will take it. Fame, fortune, power. Have it all with no questions asked. They don’t care about what they could lose because they believe they have already lost. They only have one life so, what’s wrong with wanting to enjoy it without a worry in the world?

It is hard too, sometimes. Some people don’t want whatever it is you can offer at first try. They are thoughtful about their desires. Fame, fortune, power. They already have it, or they can get enough of that in their own terms. No need to pawn their soul for something so simple.

Keep reading

[ncsdlr]

Hello, would you write for Natasha being an absolute bottom? Kinda like Come on Baby(Regina). Dont be shy to put all your interested kinks. Also could r be Gip please.

You Won't Survive

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Smut - gripping

Natasha Romanoff does not get cornered.

She’s survived gods, monsters, men who thought they owned the world—and yet here she is, back pressed lightly to the kitchen counter in the Avengers Tower, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp but wavering. And the reason?

You.

“You’re hovering,” she says coolly, but there’s no bite behind it. Not really.

You lean in anyway, unbothered. Smiling like you already won. “I’m persuading.”

Her eyebrow twitches. That’s it. The tell. The microscopic crack in the armor.

“Persuasion usually involves facts,” Natasha replies.

“Oh, I’ve got facts.” You tick them off on your fingers, stepping closer with every word. “Fact one: you haven’t walked away yet. Fact two: you keep looking at my mouth like you’re deciding something. Fact three—”

“I am not—”

“Nat,” you cut in, soft but heated, eyes locked on hers, “you’re a world-class assassin and you’re scared of one date?”

Silence.

God, she hates that you see her.

Her shoulders loosen just a fraction, like she’s exhaling without meaning to. “I don’t date,” she says. “I don’t do… whatever this is.”

You tilt your head. “You mean feeling wanted? Because you’re doing a terrible job avoiding that.”

That gets her.

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, her gaze drops. Just for a second. And when it comes back up, it’s darker. Warmer. Less certain.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmurs.

You step into her space fully now—still not touching, but close enough that she can feel you there, like gravity. “I’m asking you to let me take you to dinner. Then maybe, afterward, you can be my dinner.”

Her mouth twitches. Almost lets out a whimper. Almost.

“And if I say no?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, easy, confident. “Then I’ll survive. But you won’t. You'll keep thinking about how you let someone stand this close and didn’t push them away.”

Natasha swallows.

For someone who controls rooms with a glance, she looks dangerously undone right now. Trapped not by you—but by how much she wants to say yes.

“You’re relentless,” she says.

You grin. “I promise, you'll like it, red.”

“I’m not interested,” she tells you, arms folded, expression locked down like a vault. “Drop it.”

You hold her gaze for half a second longer than necessary, searching for the crack that is there reminder or not. Then you smile—easy, unbothered, almost sweet.

“Suit yourself.”

And you walk away.

Natasha tells herself that’s that.

She is wrong.

--

The next day, the Avengers common area is loud—Tony running his mouth, Steve pretending not to judge, Bruce half-laughing into his coffee. Natasha is at the counter, focused, safe, invisible in plain sight.

Until you slide in.

Not next to her. Never next to her. Across. Leaning back. Casual.

“So,” you say, loud enough for everyone, eyes only on her, “does anyone here know if Romanoff likes her coffee black, or is she secretly a cream-and-sugar person?”

Tony snorts. “Ooo, personal.”

Natasha doesn’t look at you. “Drink your coffee,” she says coolly.

You hum. “Didn’t answer the question.”

Steve glances between you. “Do you two—”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

You grin. “Not yet.”

Her jaw tightens. She finally looks at you, and there it is—that look. The don’t you dare look. You raise your brows like: what?

Later—hallway. Empty. Or so she thinks.

She turns a corner and nearly collides with you. You don’t touch her. You just… stop her momentum by existing.

She exhales sharply. “You said ‘suit yourself.’”

“I did.” You lean back against the wall, blocking nothing, giving her space she absolutely does not need. “And I am.”

Her eyes flick to your mouth. Damn it.

“You’re being inappropriate,” she says.

“Inappropriate would be whispering,” you reply lightly. Then you soften, just a bit. “This is just flirting.”

“This is cornering.”

You tilt your head. “If I were cornering you, red, you’d know.”

Silence stretches. Charged. Heated. Not sexual—worse. Intent.

She steps closer despite herself. “Why are you doing this?”

Your voice drops, not soft—honest. “Because you said no like you wanted me to stop wanting you. And that’s not how this works.”

Her breath stutters. Just once.

Another day. Another chance encounter. Training room this time. You toss her a towel like it’s nothing.

“Careful,” you say. “If you keep glaring at me like that, people are gonna get ideas.”

She wipes her hands slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Mm. A little.” You meet her eyes, fearless. “But mostly I’m enjoying you pretending this doesn’t get to you.”

She steps in close—too close—and lowers her voice. “One day you’re going to push too far.”

You don’t back up. You just smile, warm and dangerous. “And on that same day,” you say, “you'll beg me to keep going.”

Natasha huffs and stands there—cornered again—not by your body, but by the fact that she hasn’t told you to leave.

--

The training room smells like rubber mats and sweat and focus.

Natasha’s alone—of course she is—moving through drills with ruthless precision. Punch. Pivot. Kick. Reset. She doesn’t hear you come in, not until the rhythm stutters.

She straightens slowly, towel over her shoulder, eyes already sharp. “If this is another—”

You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You don’t move closer.

You just say it.

“One dinner, Red.”

That’s it.

The room goes quiet in a way that means something.

Natasha blinks. Once. Like she’s recalibrating. “I said no.”

“I know.” Your voice is calm, steady, not chasing her anymore. “This isn’t chasing. This is an offer.”

She studies you now, really looks—like she’s trying to find the angle, the trick, the pressure point. There isn’t one. You’re standing easy, hands loose at your sides, already halfway prepared to walk out.

“And if I say no again?” she asks.

You shrug. “Then tomorrow it’ll still just be an offer.”

That does it.

Her shoulders drop the tiniest bit. The fight leaks out of her stance like air from a blade cut. She turns away, wipes her hands, buys herself time she doesn’t need.

“You don’t negotiate like anyone I know,” she says quietly.

You tilt your head. “That a complaint?”

She turns back. Her eyes are warm now. Dangerous. Soft in a way she never lets people see.

“…No,” she admits.

A beat.

“One dinner,” she says at last, voice low. “Public place.”

You grin—slow, satisfied, but gentle. “Of course.”

She exhales, something like a laugh trapped in her chest. “You’re insufferable.”

You take a step back toward the door, already letting her breathe again. “Yeah,” you say. “But you said yes.”

--

Dinner is supposed to be neutral ground.

That’s what Natasha tells herself as she sits across from you in a low-lit restaurant she definitely scoped three exits for. Candle between you. Wine she hasn’t touched. Posture perfect. Guard up.

You, on the other hand, look devastatingly relaxed.

“You clean up well, Red,” you say, eyes dragging over her just long enough to be rude.

She lifts her glass, buys herself a second. “So do you.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives you. And still—her ears are already pink.

You lean forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping just a touch. “I like this version of you.”

Her brow furrows. “This version?”

“The one who showed up,” you say simply. “Didn’t run.”

She opens her mouth to snap back, then stops. Closes it. Looks away.

Strike one.

Dinner comes. Conversation flows easier than she planned. You listen—actually listen—chin propped on your hand, eyes never leaving her face. When she talks with her hands, you track the movement like it’s choreography.

At some point, your knee brushes hers under the table.

Accidental. Totally deniable.

She freezes.

You don’t move it away.

Her breath hitches—barely—but you feel it more than see it. She shifts, like she’s deciding whether to retreat or press back.

She presses back.

You smile like you won the lottery.

“Comfortable?” you murmur.

She glares at you over her fork. “Behave.”

You do not behave.

When she makes a dry comment, you laugh and reach out—just fingertips—to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It’s brief. Intimate. Public enough to be insane.

Natasha stills completely.

“You had something—” you say innocently.

Her eyes darken. “You could’ve told me.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to touch you,” you reply, voice warm, unashamed.

She swallows. Hard.

“God,” she mutters, “you’re—”

“Persistent?” you offer.

Her lips part. Close. “Distracting.”

Strike two.

Later, you walk her out. City noise hums around you, but the moment feels sealed off. She stops short of the car, turns to face you.

“This was one dinner,” she reminds you, trying—failing—to sound firm.

You step closer. Not crowding. Never crowding. Just close enough that your hand brushes her wrist.

“I know,” you say softly. “I’m not asking for more.”

Your thumb circles once. Slow. Deliberate.

Her pulse jumps under your touch.

“But?” she asks, voice thinner now.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her lips and back. “But you’re allowed to want it.”

She exhales shakily, like the idea alone knocks the air out of her.

“I don’t—” she starts, then stops. Her composure fractures, just for a second. “You make this difficult.”

You grin, affectionate and lethal. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Then you kiss her.

Not gentle. Not testing.

It’s deep and heated and deliberate, like you’ve been building toward this moment for days and finally decided you were done being polite about it. Her surprise lasts half a second before she melts into it, hands fisting in your jacket like she needs something to hold onto.

She makes a quiet sound—frustrated, wrecked—and you feel it straight through you.

Your other hand slides up her back, pulls her closer. No hesitation. No mercy. She presses back without thinking, body betraying her composure completely.

When you break the kiss just enough to breathe, your forehead rests against hers.

“Still think this was a bad idea?” you whisper.

Her eyes flutter open. Glassy. Flustered in a way she never is.

“You—” she exhales, fingers tightening at your sides, “you don’t play fair.”

You grin against her jaw, brushing another kiss there—slower now, possessive. “You came anyway.”

She laughs softly, breathless, then groans when your hand slides down to her hip, squeezing just enough to make your point.

“God,” she mutters, clearly overwhelmed, “I said one dinner.”

You pull back just enough to look at her—really look at her—pressed against your car, lips swollen, eyes lit up like you just cracked something open she keeps locked down.

“And you survived,” you say gently. “Barely.”

She shakes her head, trying and failing to regain control. You lean in again, stopping just short of her mouth.

And you let her close the distance and kiss you back.

--

The back of your car is too small and somehow still not close enough.

Natasha is half-sprawled against the seat, jacket discarded, hair a mess, eyes blown wide like she can’t believe she let it get this far—and can’t believe she wants more. Her hands are everywhere, gripping at you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“Jesus,” she breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice wrecked. “You— you’re not fair.”

You smile against her jaw, low and dangerous. “You already said that.”

She lets out a sound that’s more frustration than words when you pull her back in, mouths crashing together again, all heat and hunger and zero patience left. Every touch lands heavier now—intentional. Claiming. She reacts to everything, like her body decided it’s done pretending.

Your hand settles at her waist, steady, grounding—and she melts into it immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission to fall apart. But you don't stop there. Your fingers trail lower, slipping under the hem of her dress, finding the heat between her thighs. She's already soaked through her panties, her pussy slick and swollen, begging for contact without her saying a word.

You push the fabric aside and slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, feeling her walls clench around you like she's trying to pull you deeper. Natasha gasps into your mouth, her hips bucking up instinctively, chasing the intrusion. Her breath hitches, ragged and desperate, as you curl your fingers just right, stroking that spot inside her that makes her entire body jolt.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, breath shaking, knuckles white where she’s clutching you. “Don’t stop. Please—”

That word hits harder than anything else tonight. You pump your fingers faster, your thumb circling her clit in firm, relentless circles. She's dripping now, her arousal coating your hand, the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting in and out filling the cramped space. Natasha's thighs tremble, squeezing around your wrist as she rides your hand, her head falling back against the seat with a soft thud.

Her first orgasm crashes over her without warning—her pussy fluttering wildly around your fingers, gushing hot and slick as she cries out, a broken moan that echoes off the car windows. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her body arching off the seat, every muscle taut and quivering. You don't let up, though; you keep fucking her through it, drawing out the waves until she's whimpering, oversensitive and gasping.

But she's not done. Not even close. You add a third finger, stretching her wider, and she sobs your name, her hips grinding down harder, like she can't get enough. The second climax builds fast, her clit throbbing under your thumb as you rub it faster, your fingers plunging deep and twisting. Sweat beads on her skin, her shirt clinging to her heaving chest, nipples hard and visible through the fabric.

“Fuck—yes, right there,” she pants, her voice raw, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure rips through her again. This time, she squirts, her release soaking your hand and pooling in the seat beneath her, her whole body convulsing in your grip. She's melting completely now, boneless and shuddering, but you keep going, slowing just enough to let her catch her breath before picking up the pace once more.

Her third orgasm hits like a storm, her pussy clamping down so tight it almost pushes your fingers out, but you're determined to keep them in, fucking her through the spasms. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the flush on her cheeks, and she buries her face in your neck, biting down on your skin to muffle her screams. Every pulse of her release feels like a surrender, her body yielding to you completely, emotionally and physically wrecked.

You stay close. You keep her there. Let her ride the feeling, let it crest and break and pull her under again, until she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. Your free hand strokes her back, holding her steady as she trembles in your arms, aftershocks rippling through her with every gentle thrust of your fingers.

When she finally slumps against you, breathless and stunned, she laughs softly—disbelieving.

“…I hate you,” she says weakly.

You brush your thumb along her cheek, gentle now, intimate in a way that feels almost worse, while your other hand eases out of her, slick with her cum. You bring your fingers to your lips, tasting her on your tongue—salty and sweet—before wiping them on your jeans.

“No,” you murmur. “You really don’t.”

She doesn’t argue. She just leans into you like she already knows this was inevitable. Her hand drifts down, fumbling with your belt, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and fresh hunger. “Your turn,” she whispers, voice hoarse but determined, as she frees your cock from your pants. It's rock-hard, throbbing in her grip, pre-cum beading at the tip.

She strokes you slowly at first, her touch tentative from the afterglow, but it builds quickly—her fist tightening, twisting just under your tip the way that makes your breath catch. The car feels even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of sex, her body pressed flush against yours. You groan, thrusting into her hand, watching her face as she works you over, that vulnerable spark in her eyes turning wicked.

But she wants more. She shifts, straddling your lap despite the awkward space, her soaked pussy hovering over your length. “Need you inside me,” she breathes, sinking down inch by inch, her walls still fluttering from her orgasms, gripping you like a vice. The stretch makes her whimper, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes you fully, bottoming out with a shuddering gasp.

“Oh fuck,” Natasha moans, her voice breaking as she settles there, your cock buried deep inside her. She's trembling already, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily around your thickness, like her body's overwhelmed by the fullness. She tries to move, to lift her hips and ride you, but she only manages a shallow rock before she freezes, a dazed look crossing her face. “I... I can't,” she pants, her hands pressing flat against your chest, nails digging in. “You're too much. Feels so good, I—please, just... fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me. Please, I need it.”

Her plea sends a jolt through you, and you grip her hips tighter, holding her in place as you buck up sharply, slamming into her from below. She cries out, her head tipping back, pussy squeezing you in response. “Yes! Like that—harder,” she begs, her words slurring with the haze of pleasure, completely lost to the sensation of you stretching and filling her. You set a punishing rhythm, driving your cock up into her slick heat over and over, the angle hitting deep, brushing that sensitive spot inside her with every thrust.

Natasha's breath comes in ragged bursts, her breasts heaving as she clings to you, unable to do more than grind down weakly to meet your movements. “God, you feel so good,” she gasps, her voice raw and needy. “Don't stop—I'm so close. Keep going, please...” The wet sounds of your cock pounding into her echo in the confined space, her arousal dripping down your shaft, soaking your balls. She's cock-drunk now, eyes glassy, lips parted as she murmurs incoherently, every upward snap of your hips drawing a fresh whine from her throat.

You feel her tightening first, her walls fluttering wildly around you as her climax builds. “So close—fuck, you're gonna make me cum again,” she sobs, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling desperately. You thrust harder, faster, one hand sliding up to pinch her nipple through her shirt, rolling it between your fingers. She shatters with a keening moan, her pussy convulsing around your cock, gushing hot and tight as waves of release crash through her. “Yes—oh god, yes!”

The vice-like grip of her orgasm pulls you under too. You growl against her neck, hips snapping up one last time, burying yourself to the hilt as you cum, thick ropes of your load flooding her pretty pussy, pulsing hot inside her. Natasha trembles violently, riding out the aftershocks with whimpers, her body milking every drop from you.

As the high fades, she collapses against your chest, still impaled on your softening cock, neither of you moving to separate. “Stay,” she murmurs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your collarbone. “Please... don't pull out yet. I want to feel you."

You nod, your hands stroking soothing circles on her back, keeping her close in the humid warmth of the car. The windows are completely fogged now, sealing you in your own little world. “I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”

She lets out a soft, shaky laugh, lifting her head to meet your eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Okay? That was... a lot. I've never felt anything like that.” Her fingers trace idle patterns on your neck, a tender contrast to the raw passion from moments ago.

“Yeah?” you smirk, your voice is gruff. “Your pussy feels so good, red. The way you begged... fucking hell.”

She blushes, biting her lip, but doesn't look away. “Shut up.” She shifts slightly, a small gasp escaping as your cock twitches inside her, still half-hard.

--

Morning comes in rude.

Sunlight slices through the car window, landing directly on Natasha Romanoff’s face like a personal attack. She groans, shifts—and immediately freezes.

Because something is very wrong.

The backseat is cramped. Her leg is draped over yours at an angle that defies physics. Your arm is still around her waist, lazy and heavy with sleep. She blinks once. Twice.

Then it all hits her at the same time.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice is hoarse, panicked, and barely above a whisper.

You hum, half-asleep, entirely too comfortable. “Mornin’, Red.”

She tries to move. Realizes she can’t. Realizes why. Goes completely still again.

“This—” she swallows, cheeks flushing hard, “this is not acceptable.”

You crack one eye open, grin already there like you planned this. “You say that like you didn’t fall asleep first.”

“I did not fall asleep,” she hisses. “I passed out.”

“On me,” you add helpfully.

She drops her face into her hands. “We’re still… like this.”

“Yeah,” you say, stretching just enough to make the situation worse for her sanity. “Turns out cars aren’t built for dignity.”

She peeks at you through her fingers. You look unfairly pleased. Relaxed. Smug.

“Don’t,” she warns.

You absolutely do.

“Well,” you murmur, voice warm and infuriatingly amused, “on the bright side—this might be the longest you’ve ever stayed.”

Her glare could cut glass. Unfortunately, it wobbles halfway through.

“This never happened,” she says.

You grin wider. “Nat, you drooled.”

Her eyes widen. “I did not.”

“Right here,” you say, tapping your shoulder. “Very vulnerable. Kinda cute.”

She groans again, but this time there’s a laugh tangled in it—quiet, betrayed, real.

“…We need to move,” she says, trying for authority and landing somewhere near flustered.

“In a sec,” you reply, entirely unhelpful. “I’m enjoying the view.”

She exhales, long and slow, then finally looks at you properly—hair a mess, lips soft, guard completely down in the early light.

“You’re unbearable,” she says.

You shrug. “And yet.”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. Just rests her forehead against yours for one quiet moment before reality kicks back in.

“…Next time,” she mutters, “we’re getting a hotel.”

You smirk. “Next time?”

She closes her eyes.

Damn it.

---------------

aye

[randomgirlduh]

The Moment She Didn’t Pull Away - Natasha Romanoff

pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

summary: Natasha Romanoff doesn’t fall easily. She plans, deflects, keeps control. You were never part of the plan — just the one moment she didn’t pull away.

tags/warnings: emotional slow burn, teasing / banter, emotionally guarded natasha, falling in love, denial of feelings, angst (?) with a soft ending, emotional vulnerability, internalized trauma (natasha)

author's note: hi 🤍 this fic is about the exact moment when pretending stops working.

i really wanted to explore natasha’s fear of things that rise too fast — of connection, of comfort, of loving someone who stays. this isn’t about a dramatic confession, just about the quiet realization that she’s already in too deep.

this was written based on this request, and honestly, i don’t know if this is exactly what you were expecting, but i hope you like it as much as i enjoyed writing it. (and yes, this was written while listening to Labyrinth on repeat.)

thank you so much for reading. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind. i’d love to know what you think, feel free to leave a comment.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t like surprises.

She liked control. Predictability. Knowing where the exits were before she ever stepped into a room. So when she walked into the briefing room and found someone already sitting in her seat—relaxed, leaning back, like the space belonged to them—her first reaction was irritation.

“You’re in my seat.” she said flatly.

You looked up at her, unhurried, eyes sharp but curious. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

She studied you for a second longer than necessary. New. Confident. Too comfortable.

“It’s implied.” she replied.

You stood without protest, stepping aside easily. No apology. No edge. Just a small, amused smile that lingered a second too long.

“Try not to do it again,” she added coolly as she passed.

She paused just long enough to glance back. “Dollface.”

Not kind. Not playful. A nickname meant to put distance where interest threatened to form.

She expected you to bristle.

You didn’t.

That was the first crack.

You integrated into the team faster than she liked. You were competent, focused in training, sharp on missions, observant without being overeager. And still, somehow, you flirted with her like it wasn’t a risk. Like it was inevitable.

Natasha met you with dry sarcasm and deliberate indifference.

“You always smile like that...” she asked once during sparring, circling you slowly, “or am I getting a special performance?”

You didn’t break eye contact. “You’d hate it if I said yes.”

She smirked. “Correct.”

But she didn’t step away.

That became the rhythm. You flirted forward. She deflected sideways.

A raised brow here. A dry comment there. Standing just a little too close under the excuse of strategy or timing. She told herself it was harmless. That she could stop whenever she wanted.

It only hurts this much right now, was what she told herself the first time she noticed her attention tracking you across a room.

She breathed in. Breathed through. Breathed out.

You never pushed when she shut down. Never mocked her walls. You stayed late, quiet when she needed it, sharp when she didn’t. You didn’t treat her like something fragile. You didn’t expect her to be anything other than what she was.

That scared her more than your confidence ever could.

One night, during a late debrief, you leaned close and muttered something stupid under your breath. Natasha laughed before she could stop herself.

The sound surprised her.

Uh oh, I’m falling in love.

The thought hit her like turbulence—sudden, unwelcome, disorienting.

She pulled back after that. Sharper. Colder.

“Careful, Dollface,” she said one evening, voice flat. “You’re getting bold.”

You studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

She scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her pulse betrayed her.

Weeks passed. Missions blurred together. And still, you were there. Consistent. Steady. You didn’t demand reassurance. You didn’t disappear when she went distant. You didn’t act like her silence was something to fix.

She hated that part the most.

She hated that everyone always expected her to bounce back. Just like that.

The night the compound finally emptied out, Natasha found herself alone in the kitchen, staring into her glass like it might offer answers. The quiet pressed in around her.

“You’re still up.” you said softly from the doorway.

She didn’t turn. “So are you.”

You joined her at the counter, close but careful. You’d learned how to stay without crowding her. It unsettled her more than persistence ever had.

“You joke when you’re nervous...” you said gently.

She exhaled through her nose. “You talk too much.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “But you keep listening.”

She turned to face you, ready with a sharp remark—and stopped.

You weren’t smiling. Not teasing. Just looking at her like she mattered in a way that had nothing to do with winning.

Her chest tightened.

Oh no, I’m falling in love again.

“Dollface...” she murmured, voice quieter than she meant it to be, “you should stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you asked.

She swallowed. “Like you’re not going anywhere.”

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.

“I’m not...” you said simply.

Something in her broke open.

Natasha reached for you—not urgent, not sharp. Just sure. Her hand settled at your waist like muscle memory, grounding herself before she tipped over completely. She leaned in until your foreheads touched, breath uneven.

“This is… not smart,” she whispered.

You smiled, warm and soft and devastating. “Since when do you only do smart things?”

That did it.

She kissed you.

Slow. Lingering. Nothing like the sharp, decisive kisses she’d used to shut people up before. This one felt like surrender. Like relief. Her thumb brushed your cheek, tender in a way she didn’t let herself be.

She kissed you again, deeper this time, a little breathless, a little messy—like she was trying to memorize the feeling. Like she was afraid if she pulled away too fast, gravity would take over.

I thought the plane was going down— how’d you turn it right around?

When she finally pulled back, she didn’t go far. Your noses brushed. Her eyes stayed closed for a second longer than necessary.

“This,” she murmured, almost laughing at herself, “is really happening.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “You okay?”

She opened her eyes. No sarcasm. No armor. Just her.

“Oh,” she breathed, a helpless smile breaking through. “I’m in so much trouble.”

Oh, I’m falling in love.

She leaned in again, softer this time—like a promise she hadn’t meant to make.

[natsgrave]

the labyrinth references is killing me 😭 i love this fic sm 🥹💗

[ornii]

She Likes to Flirt (A Lot)

Natasha Romanoff X Male Reader (Short & Sweet) (Yup, Like Nat)

You obviously have a thing for Nat, and Almost everyone sees it.

Being the Spirit of Vengeance you held within yourself the devils bounty hunter, making you one of the most powerful begins on earth and a potential Level 10 Threat. Obviously you were scouted by S.H.I.E.L.D and joined their marry band of heroes, the Avengers. And after the little stunt in New York, the rest was history. Mission after mission you slowly grew closer to Natasha. Seasoned Assassin and Spy, she was the first you met due to her doing recon for Nick Fury. Naturally you two grew to be good friends, perhaps, even more.

It was nearing Night, after another mission at Sokovia you headed back to Stark Tower to celebrate, the massive parking garage opens up and you park your chopper there. Following behind was Natasha as usuals, somehow the Jeep didn’t get demolished in the fight. You chucked as you walked to the elevator. Natasha follows, looking at the bike.

“Aren’t gonna take your keys?” She asked, “Trust me, that bike isn’t going anywhere without me.” You reassured her, tapping the upper floors you both stood there as it began to rise. She dusts herself off as you try to put the flames off on your coat.

“Good mission overall.” She said, “Yup, Bruce and Tony are in their nerd lab brooding or something. With them together I’m a bit worried.”

“Don’t be. We can handle them, well I can.” She said, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You respond and she keeps her eyes forward, smiling. She ignores your question.

“You stink.” She said.

“I Tore through hydra guards like butter with a hot knife, I’m gonna stink. I’m pretty proud of that.” You said, “You do have a lot of. Good assets.” Nat said.

“Well damn that’s a first. A compliment.” You said.

“Now you know Steve doesn’t like that kind of language.” She said jokingly, you bite your lip and look forward trying not to laugh.

“He’s never gonna live that down.” You said

“Ever.” Natasha comments.

“You know you stink too right? Gonna need to shower.”

“Obviously, we have a party tonight, plus I have to put my face on, or whatever normal women say.” Natasha looks at her reflection.

“You’re Normal Nat.” You said to cheer her up. She turns to you, smiling. “I’m an assassin and you’re a bounty hunter for the devil, we’re not normal.”

“Well obviously but, looks wise, you don’t need to put on your face, looks good as is.” You point out, poking her forehead. Before she can open her mouth for some cheeky response, the Elevator opens and you step out.

“See you tonight Red.” You give her a send off before heading to the one room you somewhat own in the Tower.

The Party Finally arrives and you’re mingling with Thor and Rhody, who’s giving an, interesting story.

“Well, you know, the suit can take the weight, right? So I take the tank, fly it right up to the General's palace, drop it at his feet, I'm like, "Boom! You looking for this?" He explains, (Y/n) and Thor exchange glances and then back to Rhody. "Boom! Are you looking..." Why do I even talk to you guys? Everywhere else that story kills.

“That's the whole story?” Thor asks.

“Yeah, it's a War Machine story.”

“Well, it's very good then. It's impressive.”

“Yeah the Tank Part was really cool.” You said, Rhody sighs. “Okay fine, what did you do that was cool?”

“Uh, recently? By myself? A meteor was gonna hit Sweden so, I flew into the air and used my chain to pull the meteor back and hurl it into the atmosphere.” You casually explain, Rhody looks flabbergasted. “It was a Tuesday, I think.” You said, Rhody walks off as Thor Pats you on the shoulder. “That’s, very impressive.” And walks off, maybe you were going a little too high, you finished your beer and looked to the bar for more, what caught your eye was the redhead in a perfectly fitting white dress, you mosey over and casually slide down on a seat. Your eyes and Nat’s lock, and she smiles.

“Come here often, handsome?” She was the first to lay the foundation for the chat and you went right along with it.

“No, first time, but I saw this beautiful bombshell working the Bar and I had to see her.” You reply, Nat couldn’t hide her smile.

“Now what kind of man would leave a woman like you all by your lonesome, must have a bad taste in them.” You added on.

“He's not so bad. Well, he has a temper. Deep down he's all fluff. Fact is, he's not like anybody I've ever known. All my friends are fighters. And here comes this guy, trying to actually do the right thing. Even if he screws if up sometimes.”

“He…Sounds amazing.”

“He's also a huge dork.” She adds in, (Y/n) looks blindsided, Nat shrugs, “Chicks dig that. So what do you think should I fight this, or run with it?”

“Well, the guy really likes you.. I say give a chance, see where it goes? Is that, wrong to ask?” He asks, so hopeful. Nat smiles and sits up from the bar.

“Not at all, but, I think she likes you too, it may not look like it now... But never say never.” Natasha walks away, and Steve approaches (Y/n,) who sat there really considering her words.

“It's nice.” Steve said.

“What?” You reply confused.

“You and Romanoff.”

“No, me and her aren’t uh.. you know.” You mutter, Steven shakes your resolve.

“It's okay. Nobody's breaking any by-laws. It's just, she's not the most... open person in the world. But with you she seems very relaxed.”

“Yeah, Nat she... she likes to flirt. So do I.” You admit, now daydreaming of her slowly taking that dress off. But Steve ruins your daydreaming.

“I've seen her flirt, up close. This ain't that. Look, as maybe the world's leading authority on "waiting too long;" don't. You both deserve a win.” Steve gives you some damn good advice, and went off to his lonesome. You really thought about what he said.

“You know Steve, you got a point.. we do deserve a happy ending and— Wait, what the hell do you mean, "up close"?!

[dannyboy-writes]

Grey's Anatomy Masterlist

Amelia Shepherd

Pretty Sight

[imaginemalereader]

Anonymous request

There was a lot you and Natasha could bond over. You were a late comer to the Avengers, SHIELD had found you after the whole situation in New York with Loki. But the two of you had a lot in common. Raised to be a certain way and trying to be something different.

It was after a tough mission that the two of you first really talked. You went to her room afterward, not really sure what you were looking for but knowing you needed someone to talk to. Hesitantly, you knocked on her door.

“Come in,” came her voice.

You opened the door and saw her sitting at a desk with papers spread out in front of her and a tablet open with even more information on it.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were working-” you began but she cut you off.

Keep reading

[atlasthegreatest]

Echoes of Us / Natasha Romanoff x Male Reader

When Y/n’s injuries force him into Natasha’s care, the distance that had once separated them collapses. In the stillness of the infirmary, they discover that some bonds never fade— no matter how hard they tried to break them.

Warnings: Mentions of blood(?). Exes-to-lovers. Second-chance romance. Shield agent! Y/n. Fluff.

Word count: 3343

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

The quinjet’s hum was a low vibration in the back of Y/n’s skull, but it did little to mask the steady burn of pain that pulsed from his side. His uniform was torn and darkened where shrapnel had carved its way through flesh. He tried to hold still, jaw tight, while the medics worked on him, but every breath felt like it rattled against cracked ribs.

“You’re lucky,” one of them muttered, pressing gauze to the wound. “A few inches deeper and—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Y/n rasped, his voice thinner than he intended. He hated sounding weak.

From the corner of his vision, Natasha stood with her arms crossed, face unreadable. She hadn’t moved since they’d boarded, her green eyes locked on the man like she was memorizing every detail in case he slipped away.

When his gaze caught hers, she didn’t look away.

The quinjet landed at the compound in a rush of metal against concrete, and before the medics could usher him toward surgery, Natasha stepped forward.

“I’ll be there when he’s out,” she said simply, voice low and firm.

The surgeon nodded.

Hours blurred. Painkillers dragged him under, and when Y/n finally stirred, he wasn’t met with sterile silence but the faint sound of pages turning. His eyes cracked open, adjusting to the dim hospital lighting. Natasha sat in the chair beside him, a book balanced in her hands, though her gaze wasn’t on the words.

“Hey,” he croaked.

The book closed gently. “About time,” the woman said, tone cool, but the way her hand gripped the armrest betrayed her relief.

“How bad?”

“You’ll live.” A faint smirk tugged at her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “But you won’t be doing fieldwork for weeks.”

Y/n sighed, sinking back against the pillows. “Figures.”

Silence lingered, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet only two people who knew each other too well could share.

Finally, he asked, “Why are you here, Nat?”

The question hung in the air, and for a second, Y/n regretted it. But the redhead leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze fixed on him like he was the only person in the world.

“Because,” she said softly, “no matter what happened between us… I still care.”

Her words pressed against old scars Y/n thought he’d buried. The missions, the late nights, the way they’d both walked away before they could burn each other out completely. And yet—here she was.

The man let out a shaky laugh, wincing at the pull in his side. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Natasha stood, reaching for the water on the nightstand, carefully holding it out for him. “Drink.”

Y/n took it, their fingers brushing. It was brief, but the spark was there, undeniable. He saw it in her eyes too, the flicker she quickly tried to smother.

When he handed the cup back, she placed it down with deliberate care.

“You don’t have to stay,” Y/n said quietly. “I know you’ve got missions, the team—”

“I’m staying,” the redhead cut in, firm. “At least until you’re back on your feet. Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

The man managed a tired smile. “That’s a full-time job.”

For the first time since the mission, Natasha’s lips curved in something genuine. She settled back into the chair, pulling the blanket higher over him like it was second nature.

And as Y/n’s eyelids grew heavy again, the last thing he saw was Natasha—silent, steady, and unmovable, guarding him in the quiet hours of recovery.

—————————

The days blurred together. Painkillers dulled the sharpest edges, but the aches remained—reminders that he wasn’t invincible. What surprised Y/n most wasn’t the pain, though. It was that Natasha hadn’t left his side.

The redhead made herself part of his recovery in ways he never expected.

The first morning back at the compound, Y/n tried to swing his legs out of bed on his own. Big mistake. His side screamed in protest, and he bit back a groan. Before he could push through the pain, Natasha appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said flatly.

The man tried to play it off. “I just wanted to—”

“Fall on your face?” Natasha’s eyebrow arched, unimpressed. She crossed the room in quick strides, setting the tray down. Scrambled eggs, toast, black coffee. “Sit. Eat.”

“You’re bossier than Fury,” Y/n muttered.

Natasha only smirked. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

The days moved in a strange rhythm. Natasha made sure he didn’t push himself, which was ironic, considering she was the most reckless agent Y/n knew. She’d bring him food, make him walk the halls slowly for exercise, and force him back into bed when he thought he was ready for more.

And then there were the nights.

The compound got quiet after dark. Too quiet. Y/n would lie awake, the dull throb in his ribs keeping him from sleep. More often than not, he’d find Natasha in the chair beside his bed, reading or scrolling through mission reports. Sometimes, she wasn’t doing anything at all—just watching him, as if reassuring herself that he was still breathing.

One night, when the silence felt too heavy, he broke it.

“You don’t have to babysit me, Nat.”

The redhead looked up from her book, eyes sharp but softened by the dim light. “I’m not babysitting.”

“Then what do you call this?” Y/n gestured vaguely between them. “You’ve been here every day. Every night. Since the mission.”

The woman’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Y/n thought she’d deflect like she always did. But instead, she said, quietly, “You scared me.”

That hit harder than the shrapnel.

Y/n swallowed, unsure how to answer. “Nat…”

“I thought I lost you.” Natasha’s voice was low, steady, but he caught the fracture underneath. “And I realized I wasn’t ready for that. Not with the way we left things.”

The weight of her words sat heavy between them. Y/n remembered the way it ended: sharp words, a mission gone wrong, both of them too stubborn to bend. Walking away had been easier than admitting how much they still wanted each other.

Now, seeing her here, taking care of him despite all of it—he felt the ache in his chest shift into something deeper than pain.

Y/n wanted to reach for her, but the stitches pulled when he moved. The redhead noticed anyway, leaning forward, her hand brushing his where it rested on the blanket.

It was careful. Tentative.

For the first time in a long while, Natasha Romanoff let her guard down.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured. “Just… get better.”

Y/n then closed his eyes, holding on to the warmth of her touch.

And for once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was safe.

—————————

Two weeks after surgery, Y/n was finally allowed out of bed. Not that it stopped Natasha from shadowing his every move like a hawk.

“Slowly,” she ordered, one hand hovering near his arm as he eased himself upright.

He shot her a look. “You know, I have been walking since I was two. Pretty sure I remember how.”

“Yeah?” The redhead arched a brow. “And how many stitches did you tear out when you sneezed last week?”

“…Point taken.”

The walk down the hall was an exercise in patience. Every few steps, pain flared along his ribs, but Natasha adjusted her pace without a word, keeping just close enough to catch him if he stumbled. Y/n hated feeling this fragile—but when her hand brushed his back to steady him, he hated it a little less.

Of course, that was when the others found them.

“Look who’s finally upright,” Tony called from the lounge, sprawled across the couch with a tablet in hand. “Thought you were auditioning for Sleeping Beauty there for a while, Y/n.”

“Glad to see you’re alive, man,” Sam added, standing at the counter with a cup of coffee.

Steve turned from where he was reviewing mission files, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Good to see you on your feet. You gave us a scare.”

“Apparently I gave everyone a scare,” Y/n muttered, glancing at Natasha, who only shrugged like it wasn’t true.

Bruce, ever the calm one, offered gently, “Healing takes time. Don’t rush it.”

Before Y/n could respond, Thor’s booming voice shook the room as he entered. “Brother Y/n! At last, you rise from your slumber! Truly, the healers of Midgard work wonders.”

The Asgardian clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. Or tried to. Natasha intercepted mid-swing, her hand snapping around Thor’s wrist before impact.

“Easy,” she said sharply.

Thor blinked down at the woman, startled. “Ah. Of course.” He lowered his arm sheepishly.

The others exchanged amused looks, but no one said anything.

“See?” Y/n muttered under his breath as Natasha guided him to a chair. “Bodyguard. Told you.”

“Someone has to keep you alive,” she repeated smoothly, lips twitching just enough to count as a smile.

Over the next few days, the compound became a carousel of visits. Sam dragged Y/n into card games. Tony showed up with terrible movies and worse commentary. Steve checked in with quiet concern, always reminding him not to push too hard.

But no matter who came by, Natasha was the constant.

Late at night, when the others were gone, she’d still be there—reminding him to take his meds, walking with him around the compound, sometimes sparring just enough to get his reflexes back. She held back, of course, but Y/n could see the flicker of pride whenever he landed a clean move.

“You’re recovering fast,” the redhead said one evening after a light session in the gym, handing him a water bottle.

Y/n took it, breathless. “Good teacher.”

Their eyes met, lingering longer than they should. For a moment, the air between them felt charged—like a sparring match they hadn’t started yet.

Natasha looked away first, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Y/n smiled faintly. “Too late.”

It wasn’t love again. Not yet. But it was something—something steady, rebuilding itself piece by piece in the quiet spaces between pain and healing.

And for the first time since the mission, Y/n wasn’t just thinking about recovering.

He was thinking about her.

—————————

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Steve’s voice carried that quiet edge of command as he looked Y/n over in the briefing room.

Y/n tugged on his vest, ignoring the tight pull across his ribs. “I’ve been cleared.”

“Cleared for light duty,” Bruce corrected, not looking up from the files in his hand.

“Which this is,” Y/n countered, though the small smirk on Natasha’s lips told him she wasn’t buying it either.

“Y/n.” Steve’s tone softened. “We need you. But don’t push yourself harder than you have to.”

Y/n gave a sharp nod. “Understood, Cap.”

Natasha, leaning casually against the wall, finally spoke. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Tony glanced between the two of them and raised a brow. “Oh, that inspires confidence. You’re basically giving the injured guy to the scariest babysitter alive.”

Natasha didn’t even blink. “Exactly.”

The mission itself wasn’t supposed to be complicated: secure intel from a Hydra safehouse, get out before reinforcements arrived—simple extraction.

But nothing about Hydra was ever simple.

Gunfire cracked the night air as the team split—Steve and Sam drawing attention on the north side, while Natasha and Y/n slipped in through the south. The compound loomed ahead, shadows cut by the glow of floodlights.

“You good?” the redhead asked, low and quick, as they pressed against the outer wall.

Y/n adjusted his rifle. “Fine.”

Natasha’s gaze flicked to his side—where she knew the stitches still pulled with every movement—but she didn’t push it. Just nodded once and moved.

They worked like they always had: seamless, silent, each anticipating the other’s next step. Muscle memory filled the spaces that time and distance had tried to erode.

Inside, it all went sideways—a second patrol, heavier than expected. One of them spotted Y/n before he could react, shoving him into the wall. Pain lanced across his ribs as the fight closed in.

Natasha was there instantly—fluid, lethal, her movements a blur as she dropped two men in seconds. But more were coming.

“Go!” she barked, shoving the drive into the man’s hand. “Get the intel out!”

“I’m not leaving you—”

“Y/n, now!”

The crack in her voice froze him. It wasn’t an order. It was fear.

Something inside him burned hotter than the pain from the ripped stitches. Y/n lunged forward, catching the attacker who had slipped past the redhead’s blind spot. They went down hard, his side screaming in protest. But his grip didn’t falter. He wasn’t letting her fight this alone.

By the time the last Hydra agent fell, the room was heavy with silence, both of them breathing hard.

Natasha turned on him, eyes flashing. “You’re supposed to be recovering, not throwing yourself in front of bullets!”

“You think I’m gonna let you take them all yourself?” Y/n shot back, wiping blood from his lip. “Not happening.”

They stood there, chest to chest, the mission temporarily forgotten. For a heartbeat, the old fire between them roared back to life—anger, fear, and something else tangled beneath it.

Natasha’s hand was still trembling when she pressed it against his vest, right over the wound. “You’re impossible.”

Y/n’s voice dropped, softer. “And you still care.”

The redhead froze. Their eyes met, unguarded.

But before either could say more, Steve’s voice crackled in their comms. “Extraction point, now. You two okay?”

Natasha stepped back, walls snapping back into place. “We’re fine.”

Y/n gave her a long look but didn’t argue. Not here. Not yet.

—————————

Later, when the quinjet roared back toward the compound, the others distracted with debriefs, Natasha sat across from him.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did Y/n.

But her hand brushed his under the bench, barely there, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin.

It was the first time since they broke up that she reached for him.

And for Y/n, it was enough to know the fire between them wasn’t gone—it had only been waiting.

The compound was quiet by the time Y/n made it back to his quarters. His ribs ached like hell, but it wasn’t the kind of pain that kept him awake. Not anymore. It was the silence—the weight of the mission still hanging between him and Natasha—that pressed heavier than any wound.

He didn’t expect the knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, voice rough.

The door slid open and there she was, dressed down in sweats and a fitted black tee, hair loose around her shoulders. Natasha Romanoff rarely looked unarmored, but tonight… she did.

“You should be resting,” Y/n said automatically, though his heart rate spiked for reasons that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“So should you,” the redhead countered, stepping inside. She closed the door with a soft click, her eyes scanning him like she was checking for cracks.

Y/n gestured vaguely to the bed. “Want to sit?”

Instead, the woman leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You scared me. Again.”

The words hit harder than he expected. Y/n leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” Natasha’s tone softened, but the edge in her gaze didn’t fade. “But you did.”

Silence stretched. They had danced around this for weeks—care, worry, all without addressing the wound that came long before the shrapnel.

Finally, Y/n asked, voice low, “Why did we really end it, Nat?”

The redhead’s arms dropped, her mask slipping. “Because we were too alike. Too stubborn. We fought like hell, and instead of bending, we broke.”

Y/n swallowed, staring at the floor. “And you don’t think we could’ve fixed it?”

Natasha’s footsteps were soft as she moved closer, finally sitting beside the man on the edge of the bed. “At the time? No. We were both running from too many things. It was easier to walk away than admit how much we…” She trailed off, her throat working. “…how much we wanted it.”

The air between them thickened. Y/n turned, catching her profile in the dim light. For the first time in years, Natasha looked uncertain.

He reached out, gently covering her hand with his. “You still want it?”

Natasha’s fingers curled, hesitant, but she didn’t pull away. She finally met Y/n’s eyes, and for a heartbeat, the world fell away—their missions, their scars, everything but the two of them sitting in the silence they’d been avoiding.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I know I don’t want to lose you again.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but not from pain this time. He gave a faint, tired smile. “Then let’s start there.”

Natasha didn’t smile back—not exactly. But she let her head rest lightly against his shoulder, her hand still tangled with his.

It wasn’t a reconciliation. Not yet. But it was the closest they’d come to lowering their weapons in years.

And for the first time since their breakup, Y/n let himself hope.

Bonus Chapter:

The rain came down in steady sheets outside the compound, drumming against the windows like a heartbeat. Most of the team had disappeared into their own corners—Tony tinkering in the lab, Steve reading in the library, Thor off somewhere in Asgard.

Y/n’s ribs still ached, but the doctors had cleared him for “light activity,” which apparently meant no more missions and shuffling around the compound like an old man. Tonight, though, he settled into the lounge with a blanket and an old film playing quietly on the screen. Something black-and-white, something familiar.

He didn’t expect Natasha to join him.

“You’re watching Casablanca?” she asked, her voice soft in the dim light.

Y/n looked over his shoulder, startled. The redhead padded barefoot across the carpet, carrying two mugs. “It was on,” he said. “Didn’t feel like flipping through a hundred channels.”

Natasha handed him one of the mugs before settling on the couch beside him. The steam curled up between them, rich with the scent of chamomile.

The man blinked. “You made me tea?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” the woman’s lips curved faintly. “I know you can’t take painkillers before bed.”

Y/n wrapped his hands around the warmth, studying her in the flickering light of the screen. For all her edges, Natasha had always been like this in the quiet moments—thoughtful, attentive in ways that didn’t draw attention.

The film played on, shadows dancing across the room. For a while, they didn’t speak, letting the silence stretch into something softer.

Then Natasha shifted, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and tossing it across both of them without a word.

“Cold?” Y/n asked.

“Comfortable,” the redhead replied, though her shoulder brushed his as she leaned back.

Minutes ticked by. Y/n found himself stealing glances at the woman’s profile—the way her hair framed her face, the way her eyes softened when she watched the film. He remembered nights like this years ago, when missions hadn’t weighed so heavily and they’d let themselves believe in ordinary things.

“You always picked the old movies,” Natasha murmured suddenly, eyes still on the screen.

“You always fell asleep halfway through,” the man countered.

The redhead’s lips quirked. “Not true.”

“Completely true.” Y/n smirked faintly. “You snored.”

Natasha’s elbow nudged him, gentle but sharp enough to make him wince. Immediately, her eyes flicked to his ribs. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Y/n’s smile softened. “Worth it.”

The rain deepened outside, and for a while, the world was only the storm, the film, and the quiet rhythm of her breathing beside him.

When the credits rolled, Natasha didn’t move. Neither did he.

Finally, she spoke, so quietly the man almost missed it: “I missed this.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he let his hand rest lightly over hers beneath the blanket, no pressure, just presence.

And Natasha didn’t pull away.

For them, it wasn’t a grand gesture. It was something smaller, steadier—an old rhythm rediscovered in the quiet between storms.

And for now, that was enough.

[thebisexualdogdad]

Hey! Did I read It right that you would write for Yelena? If yes, could you write something, headcanons or One shot etc. Your choice really, where Yelena joins the "young/New Avengers" and with time gets closer to R without her even knowing? Not romantically, just that she likes being near him because he radiates comfort, only talking when he has something to say, totally chill guy (opposite of Kate and Peter lmao) which ends up with her either being comfortable enough to sleep near him and leaning on him on a Movie night or hugging him.

I refuse to accept that Natasha is dead so she's the one training the newbies and she absolutely loves to see her little sister trusting someone.

Thank you in advance if you do it :)

*Billy and Tommy are the future young adult versions* 

There was one person that Yelena trusted and that was Natasha, when her sister told her she should join Kate Bishop and the young avengers she listened. 

Currently the team was made up of Yelena, Kate, Peter Parker, Tommy Shepherd, Billy Kaplan and you. 

There was something about you that Yelena liked, she didn't know what but you were so much calmer than the rest of the team. 

She always felt safe around you and that was a rarity for her. 

Kate and Peter were very hyper active while Tommy and Billy were constantly arguing like brothers do so being around you Yelena was able to just take a breath and relax. 

Sure the others made her laugh, especially their naivety and cheesy fight moves but sometimes she needed a moment of silence.

Maybe you just reminded her of Natasha, she didn't see much of her sister these days due to the amount of time they both spent traveling around the world for missions and was looking for a familiar comfort and found that in you. 

Like Natasha you were dependable, resilient, and level headed, you and Yelena could be sitting across from each other eating tacos and drinking beers in a comfortable silence, it was nice for her. 

Neither you or Yelena were looking for a relationship, you made that very clear to the team when they questioned if you guys were romantically involved but what you did find in each other was a home.

You did little things for each other, Yelena never had to worry about running out of hot sauce, when you saw her bottle close to empty you would go to the store and pick up a replacement without her asking. 

If she was passing by your favorite take out place she would pick you up a meal just because she knew how much you enjoyed it. 

If one of you saw the other asleep on the couch after a long day you'd find a blanket and cover them to up to make sure you stayed warm. 

Clint had once called Yelena to tell her that Natasha had gotten hurt in the field, it was serious but Natasha was stable and sure to make a full recovery. 

Yelena held it together, not wanting the others to see her cry at the thought of possibly losing her sister but you put your hand on her back to show her your support and Yelena instantly turned into your embrace, hugging you tight. 

Tommy was about to say something stupid but Billy punched him in the shoulder and Kate told the team to give you guys a minute. 

On a slow day Peter suggested you guys all do something fun and go see a movie together. 

The last team outing was to play mini golf and you may have had to stop Yelena from destroying the clown castle that stole her ball so a movie seemed like a better option.

Yelena was sat next to you, reaching over everyone's lap to grab their snacks without shame which made you laugh. 

Once the snacks were gone however Yelena had no interest in the movie because of how inaccurate the gun fights were, she ended up falling asleep and using your shoulder as a pillow. 

There was no longer only one person that Yelena trusted, there were two and if Natasha asked she wouldn't deny you were her best friend.