Monterey Bay Aquarium
shark vs the universe
🪼
d e v o n
Keni
No title available
TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr
RMH
tannertan36
almost home
Game Changer & Make Some Noise
oozey mess
No title available
Cosimo Galluzzi
noise dept.
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Mike Driver
sheepfilms
The Bowery Presents
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Brazil
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@esposadejoyhuerta
@esposadejoyhuerta navigation
basically just a list of all the fics I've read and loved. as an avid angst consumer, you'll find themes below/can indulge in my favs if you'd like! mainly making this bc i'm losing track of all the stuff I reblog but I also hope this gives ppl some fun new things to read!
last updated: 1/17/25, 5:09pm PST
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Wanda: navigation page pt 1 , navigation page pt 2
Nat: navigation page
Wandanat:
Wanda to Nat: never mine always yours , this yr to save me from tears series , bent right to your wind , don't say you love me , dirty little secret , traitor/good for you series , dangerous love , undeserving of a love like yours , enough , good luck babe
Nat to Wanda: i'm losing you , believer , torn , interactive fic (choices)
Same time: fevered confusion , drabble , the end of the night , pain is temp period sex hehe
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Mera (lol): dirty little secret series
Melissa Schemmenti:
Jealousy: bf , almost is never enough , realizations , untitled , dangerous emotion
Kinda fluffy/makes me giggle: i still got it , caught in 4k , pecsa
Heartbreak: our last goodbye , distant wedding bells series , bad idea right , dancing on my own series , the rooms r all on fire
Hurt/comfort: the ex factor , your new girl , at arms length series , the most wonderful time of yr series , tease and untease, fuck it it's fine , she said what , just sex , JOY HAHAHA , want u back , the rooms are all on fire
Smut: use me , yeah I said it , bdubs ,
Chappell: wonder why I'm bitter
Palestine: effects of performativity/how you talk ab things matters , compiled resources , beauty products boycott guide
Apartment 224 (pt. 1)
main masterlist Apartment 224 masterlist
NR x neighbor!r
Word count: 2.3k
Summary: Natasha puts a GPS tracker on Liho one morning, having been wondering what the little black cat has been getting up to during the day while she’s gone. She’s not sure what to think at first when she finds Liho’s location dot two apartments over.
Author’s note: I’m (unfortunately) from the United States, so we’re in Fahrenheit here, guys.
Part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6
Natasha and Liho have figured out a schedule. It’s simple, functional. The two of them work well together, both creatures of habit, almost never straying from the joint routine that they’ve perfected.
Natasha wakes up early—right around sunrise—and the first thing she does is go for a run, while Liho remains in bed, still snoozing away. When Natasha returns, Liho stirs at the sound of the door opening and closing. She gets up, stretches, and pads out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, now impatiently waiting for breakfast. Natasha feeds the cat before showering and getting dressed for work, and by the time Liho has finished her food, Natasha is putting on her boots, almost prepared to open the door to the day for the both of them. Then, they exit the apartment together, Natasha walking to her car, Liho walking to… wherever it is that she goes.
When Natasha comes home, typically exhausted after a long workday, Liho is already by the front door, ready to be let back inside, meowing loudly for dinner and wanting a warm blanket to curl up on for the rest of the night.
Natasha’s always been curious, wondering what it is that Liho is doing with all of her freedom, wondering where the black cat goes and spends her time all day. So, one afternoon, Natasha finds herself ordering a small GPS, some pet tracker that she saw advertised online once.
It’s delivered in just a few days, and Natasha smiles as she opens the package, filled with eager anticipation at knowing that she’s finally going to learn what shenanigans her feline is getting herself into while she’s gone.
The next morning, Liho is equipped with the GPS. She meows at Natasha as the redhead toys with the small device, making sure it’s firmly attached to the cat’s collar.
“All set, Liho,” Natasha murmurs to the feline, “Time to see what you get up to during the day.”
She opens the front door to let her out, watching Liho bound out of the apartment and down the sidewalk.
Natasha, herself, then makes her way to work, getting settled in her office at SHIELD and beginning to fill out some leftover paperwork. Only a couple of hours pass before she can’t resist waiting any longer and decides to see where Liho is for the first time.
She finds Liho’s location to be in an alley behind some restaurants near the apartment. The little dot isn’t moving, just sitting there, stationary, on the screen. Natasha keeps the app up on her phone for a few more minutes, waiting for any movement from the feline, but nothing happens. She huffs out an amused breath, making an educated guess that Liho is probably dumpster diving or doing something similar.
The second time Natasha opens the GPS app, Liho is at a park, seeming to be wandering aimlessly through the area. Natasha watches as the little dot moves across the map, speeding up sometimes before slowing down, stalling on occasion as Liho presumably notices something interesting, zig zagging through the field.
And the third time Natasha decides to track Liho, Liho is…
Back at her apartment?
Her brows knit together as she frowns in confusion at her phone. What is Liho doing back so early? Does she want to be let in already? Did something happen?
Natasha zooms in on the screen, magnifying the map, her frown deepening as she realizes that Liho isn’t at her apartment but at one two doors down.
That doesn’t make any sense.
She closes out of the app and reopens it, because it must just be a glitch. Maybe the GPS isn’t as accurate as the reviews online described it to be. But, when the app reloads, there’s Liho’s dot, still two apartments over from her own.
Natasha is aware that Liho can take care of herself—the black cat did live on the streets for quite some time before Natasha adopted her—so she elects to continue checking on Liho’s location periodically throughout the workday, to make sure Liho actually exits that apartment, and waiting until after her shift is over to look into things as opposed to abruptly leaving work to find the feline.
A couple of hours later, Liho is back on the move. How weird. There’s no reasonable explanation Natasha can think of for a visit to her neighbor.
As soon as she gets back, having driven slightly faster than the speed limit in order to get to her cat, she finds Liho waiting for her in front of her apartment door as she does every day.
Natasha’s eyes find the apartment Liho was supposedly inside earlier down the hall, watching the front door, her expression one of both interest and suspicion, but she eventually breaks her gaze and unlocks her front door, ushering Liho into her apartment for the night.
The next day arrives, and Natasha hesitates to let Liho outside.
“Alright, ground rules,” Natasha says firmly to the cat, “You can go out like usual, but you don’t go into any random apartments. Stranger danger, Liho.”
The feline just blinks up at her before beginning to scratch at the door, clearly wanting to go out, unbothered by her whereabouts yesterday unlike the redhead.
Natasha sighs. “I mean it.”
When there’s still no true acknowledgement of her words, Natasha just relents, opening the front door and allowing Liho to slip through before she leaves the apartment as well to go to work.
This time, she looks at Liho’s location more frequently, practically just leaving the app open for monitoring purposes. The cat goes to the park again, then strolls the surrounding neighborhood, then explores the woods behind the apartment complex, and then, around the same time as yesterday, Natasha sees Liho’s dot at the same apartment as before.
Yet, upon Natasha’s return around dinnertime, Liho is at her door, acting as though she never went somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.
Another day passes, and when Natasha discovers Liho, once again, for the third time, in that apartment two doors down, she suddenly stands up from her chair, grabs her things, and exits her office, walking briskly to her parked car so that she can get home and investigate. The situation doesn’t make any sense, and it certainly can’t wait until the end of another workday.
She drives to her complex, inspecting the app’s map on her phone one last time after she parks to make sure that Liho is still there before heading to the apartment in question.
She stares at the door—apartment 224—and the number stares back at her. She raises her hand to knock, her knuckles rapping against the wood, and crosses her arms across her chest as she waits for someone to answer.
There’s some shuffling from inside before the door is opening and you’re standing there, looking curiously at the redhead. “Hello?” you ask, “Can I help you?”
Natasha pauses, stunned at the sight of you. She’s seen you briefly in passing—you are neighbors, after all—but up close is something different. You’re beautiful, and Natasha finds her heartbeat fluttering.
And you’re regarding her all the same. The ‘hot neighbor’—what you’ve been calling her since you don’t actually know her name—that never so much as gives you a nod in greeting even when you two walk by each other is outside your door. You tilt your head in confusion as it begins to take longer than expected for Natasha to answer.
It snaps her out of her silence.
And she doesn’t waste any more time. You two may be neighbors—perhaps she should introduce herself properly and address her neighbor pleasantly when meeting for the first time—and you may be pretty, but it doesn’t change the fact that her cat is currently in the wrong apartment.
“You stole my cat,” Natasha says flatly.
Your mouth drops open in slight surprise as you realize who she is. “Oh! You’re the one who owns Liho?” you ask.
“The one and only,” Natasha drawls, arms still crossed.
You glance back into your apartment, eyes finding Liho happily chomping on the contents of a can of wet food you provided for her, before turning back to face Natasha, offering her a polite smile. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet one of my neighbors. I’m-”
“You just go around stealing cats?” Natasha cuts you off.
“I wasn’t stealing her-” you start, but you’re interrupted again.
“She has a collar.”
“Yes, I know that, but-”
“And she’s clearly well taken care of.”
Okay, so your hot neighbor is infuriating. Your face screws up in frustration at Natasha’s persistent interjections, and she smirks as you let out an annoyed “Holy fuck” under your breath. You’re even cuter when pissed off.
“I wasn’t stealing her,” you repeat, and since it seems as though you’re finally going to be allowed to finish a sentence, you continue, “She showed up one afternoon a month or so ago and wouldn’t stop screaming at my door. When I opened it, she just walked right in and helped herself to the couch.”
Natasha snorts. Yeah, that sounds about right. “So, you closed the door? Fed her?”
“She was hungry,” you throw back.
“She wasn’t hungry,” Natasha scoffs, and then there’s a pause. “You know, I was wondering why she was getting chunky. Apparently, it’s because she’s been eating double.”
“She isn’t chunky.”
“She’s borderline overweight.”
“She’s happy.”
Liho finishes up her meal, making her way over to the door, brushing her body against your calf affectionately and beginning to purr in contentment. She looks up at Natasha, as if just noticing that she’s there, and gives her one smug-sounding meow, appearing extremely pleased at having been fed twice.
“Liho, time to go home,” Natasha says, less than amused, “And you’re skipping dinner tonight.”
But the black cat doesn’t listen, continuing to let out a soft rumble and rub against you, now ignoring Natasha’s presence entirely. You crouch down to gently stroke Liho’s back, and her purring only gets louder.
“Traitor,” the redhead mutters, but she can’t deny that if she was given the opportunity to have a pretty girl like you run her hands through her hair, she’d take it too.
Your earlier irritation is replaced with satisfaction at Liho’s blatant fondness toward you and the obvious displeasure it’s bringing Natasha. “It’s not my fault your cat keeps coming back.”
“It is your fault that you keep letting her in.”
Your annoyance flares. “I’m just supposed to, what, leave her out there? In the cold? In the elements?”
“It was 70º and sunny today.”
“Sunlight is an element,” you retort.
“If you stopped feeding her, I bet she’d stop showing up.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” you protest, taking offense to that, “She likes it here.”
“She likes that you give her treats and spoil her.”
“She likes that I take care of her,” you argue.
“Sure.”
“You just don’t want to admit that maybe she prefers me to you.”
“Maybe she prefers your place.”
“Or it’s me.”
With each of Natasha’s returns, never skipping a beat, you get more heated, your feathers understandably becoming further ruffled as Natasha continues antagonizing you. It’s so easy to get under your skin, and she’s enjoying every moment of it.
“It’s definitely not you,” Natasha says.
It’s your turn to scoff at her teasing, aggravating, tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that there’s no way Liho has a thing for disagreeable neighbors.”
“‘Disagreeable’?” you huff out indignantly, “I am not disagreeab-”
Natasha cuts you off yet another time, that maddening smirk on her face only getting bigger, and your exasperation would have grown exponentially if you weren’t floored by what comes out of her mouth.
“She might not. But I do.”
You’re silent, your words stolen from you for more than a few seconds, the back and forth that was previously unfolding halted as Natasha switches from seemingly purposeful provoking to flirting. You’re almost flattered, but then the word ‘disagreeable’ flits through your head again, and you feel yourself fuming once more. She may be hot, but if anyone’s disagreeable, it’s her.
“Are you hitting on me right now?”
“Is it working?”
“After this whole delightful conversation?” you start, pausing as if thinking it over before continuing, “Absolutely the fuck not.”
Natasha chuckles. She deserves that. “You can’t blame me for trying.”
Your shake your head at her audacity, and you stand up from where you had still been petting the cat. “Go on, Liho. As much as I enjoy your company, your owner’s is another thing, and I doubt she’ll leave until you do.”
“No, no, Liho,” Natasha replies, smirk never faltering, “Feel free to hang out awhile.”
You give Natasha a glare, daring her to push you further.
“You could invite us both in this time,” she continues trying her luck, disregarding your look, “I promise that I’m good company too.”
Your lips press into a thin line, and you don’t respond.
“I mean, if you’re taking in strays, I’m not not volunteering.”
Still nothing.
“Or we could always go back to mine. It’s within walking distance.”
You remain quiet.
Natasha finally lets out a good-natured laugh and nods. “Alright, alright. Not today then. Maybe next time,” she says playfully, and you scoff again at the fact that there’s apparently going to be a next time.
“I’ll see you around, neighbor.” She shoots you a softer smile, and then she reaches down to scoop up Liho, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of the feline's head before cradling her in her arms, and walks the few meters to her own apartment.
You hate that your heart beats a little faster at the cute display.
Don't Fall in Love with Me
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader
Summary: Being told not to fall in love with someone is difficult, especially when that someone is Natasha Romanoff—and especially when the warning comes far too late.
Warnings: fluff, angst, implied sexual themes
Words: 8244
The music pulses through the floor of the club like a second, louder heartbeat, trying to drown out your own.
Lights fracture across the room in restless bursts of color, slicing everything into shifting pieces. Faces appear and disappear, hands are thrown into the air, and bodies collide and reform in rhythm.
Everything blurs into noise, into heat, into something wild and uncontained.
It's chaos.
And you sit just outside of it.
Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this.
One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.
A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.
"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"
"Nope."
You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.
"Keep walking."
He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.
"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.
You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.
A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor.
"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.
Because she's there.
Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes.
"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.
The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.
You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead.
There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.
Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.
"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.
Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.
"Shut up."
You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.
"That took a while," you comment casually.
Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.
"Line was long."
"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.
You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.
"Let me guess…new number?"
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.
"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."
You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.
"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."
Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.
"We'll see if I feel like it."
You smile faintly into your drink.
That's always her answer.
And you already know how it ends.
By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.
And in the morning?
She'll be gone.
Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.
Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.
"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now.
"No," she deadpans.
You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you.
"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."
Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.
"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."
The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression.
It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.
Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.
Even you.
And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.
You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.
"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"
Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.
"I know what people want to hear."
You make a face.
"That's such a cop-out answer."
Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.
"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"
You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.
And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.
"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.
You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.
"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"
For a split second, there's silence.
Then Natasha laughs.
It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard.
Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.
And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.
You're just watching her.
Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.
"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.
You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.
"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."
You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time.
It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.
Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.
"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."
You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus.
This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.
Only then do you meet her eyes.
"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"
Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.
Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile.
There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.
"Go ahead."
With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed.
Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.
"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"
Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.
It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.
But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.
"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."
There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.
Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.
"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."
Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.
"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"
Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.
"Mhm."
Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.
It shouldn't affect you.
She hasn't even touched you.
And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.
"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.
Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.
"Someone interesting," she says.
Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.
"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.
There's a pause as she lets her words linger.
"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."
Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.
"Oh, is that all?" you tease.
Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.
"Think you can manage it?"
The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.
So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.
"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."
"I do," she admits without hesitation.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.
"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.
Her response isn't what you expect.
There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms.
It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.
Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.
"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."
You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.
"Maybe I am."
For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.
Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.
It just…stays.
Like she's waiting.
Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.
And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.
Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.
Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.
And then everything shifts.
Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.
That's what breaks the trance.
You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.
And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.
Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.
Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.
Your breath catches.
When did you—
For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.
But there isn't one.
Just the quiet realization that it already has.
A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.
"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."
Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.
"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."
Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.
"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"
"Convincing?" she offers lightly.
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
"Dangerous," you correct.
She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.
Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.
"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."
You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."
"Good."
The word lands differently.
You glance at her.
She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.
"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.
It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.
But you hear it anyway.
It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.
Her smirk slides back into place like armor.
"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.
"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."
And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.
The best friend.
The one who is never supposed to cross that line.
The one who already did anyway.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement.
It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.
"Not that good?"
The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.
Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates.
Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.
"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"
You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.
"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"
You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.
She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.
"Of course," she says. "Take your time."
That almost makes it worse.
You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access.
The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.
You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.
For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.
Because this should be working.
She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.
By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.
And it is.
So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?
Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.
Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.
Back to her.
Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.
When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.
When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.
And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.
But all you could think about was the difference.
The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.
"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.
This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.
And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.
You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.
This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.
The line rings once.
"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.
It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.
You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.
"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."
There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.
"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.
You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.
"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."
You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.
"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."
There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.
"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."
It's not a question.
Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.
"Maybe," you concede.
A beat passes.
"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.
And that's the problem.
Because you know she means it.
She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.
The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.
Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.
"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.
"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.
You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.
"Do you want me to?"
It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.
Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.
You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.
"I–"
"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in.
There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.
Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising.
Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.
So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?
You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.
By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.
"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.
You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.
"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.
It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it.
And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.
"Something like that," she finally replies.
You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.
"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."
The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.
You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.
"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.
There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.
"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.
You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.
You straighten, pushing off the counter.
"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."
Another beat.
"…right," she replies, quieter this time.
You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.
"Enjoy your night, Natasha."
You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.
Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just…heavy.
Like something quietly settling into place.
You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable.
Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.
The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.
The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.
At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity.
This time, you don't hesitate.
You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.
And it feels good.
There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.
It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.
You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.
There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.
She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.
You know this moment. You've been here before.
You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable.
Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.
But then your thoughts drift.
You think of Natasha.
You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.
She just acts.
And for once, you decide to do the same.
You lean in first.
The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.
But it doesn't stay that way.
She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.
You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.
It isn't empty.
It isn't meaningless.
But it isn't her, either.
And maybe…it doesn't have to be.
Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.
You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.
Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.
For a brief moment, it almost works.
It almost quiets everything else.
You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.
When you pull back, your breath is uneven.
Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.
"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"
There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.
"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."
The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.
Slowly, you turn your head.
Natasha stands a few steps away.
One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it.
There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.
Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.
"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain.
"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.
And just like that, the moment collapses.
"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."
You don't stop her. You don't even try.
"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."
She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.
"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.
Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.
The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.
You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.
"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.
"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.
You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.
"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."
Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.
"That didn't seem like you," she says.
Something in your chest snaps.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.
"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."
You scoff, shaking your head.
"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."
Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
"That's different."
"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"
"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."
"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."
"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.
"Then what is it?" you press.
Natasha doesn't answer.
And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.
"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"
"Stop," she warns, her tone low.
But you can't.
You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.
"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"
At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.
Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there.
Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.
But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.
The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.
Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.
"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.
And suddenly, you're exhausted.
Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.
Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains.
"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."
For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.
You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.
"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"
"I love you."
For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.
"What?"
Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.
"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.
Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.
This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.
You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.
"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.
Nothing makes sense.
"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.
"I meant it."
"Then what the hell is this?"
Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.
"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."
She gestures between the two of you.
"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.
You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.
"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"
Her silence is answer enough.
You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.
Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.
"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.
She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.
Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.
A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.
Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.
Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.
Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.
"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"
She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
"I always lose them," she says.
Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.
"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."
No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.
The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice.
You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.
"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"
Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.
"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.
Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.
"And yet, here you are."
She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.
Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.
The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort.
The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.
With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.
You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.
"Hey."
"God—Natasha!"
You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.
"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.
Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.
A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.
"I did say something."
You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.
Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.
"I thought you left," you admit.
Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.
"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."
The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.
Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.
You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.
In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.
Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.
You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.
When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.
Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.
"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."
You glance toward her.
"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.
A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.
"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."
There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.
At herself.
You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.
Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.
"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."
There it is.
Not I don't want you.
Not I don't love you.
Just:
I don't know how to survive being loved.
Her hands clasp together tightly.
"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."
She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind.
Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.
"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."
Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.
Protect you. Protect herself.
You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.
"I know," you say softly.
Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.
You turn your head toward her again.
"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."
That gets her attention fully.
Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:
"Just trust me."
"It'll be different."
"You have to let people in."
As though fear is solved through persuasion.
But you don't try to take hers away.
"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."
Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.
You offer her a faint smile.
"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."
Her expression tightens slightly at that.
"But I can promise something else."
You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.
She doesn't.
Your voice lowers softly.
"You never have to earn a place with me."
The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.
"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."
A shaky breath leaves her quietly.
"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."
Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.
"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."
That one almost breaks her.
Because what you're offering isn't pressure.
It isn't an obligation.
It isn't forever demanded upfront.
It's safety.
A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.
Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.
"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."
A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.
Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.
And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.
Just less alone inside of your love.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: this one got longer than I expected 😅, one day I won't chicken out on writing the sex scene like I originally planned (though it didn't felt like it needed it in the end). Again thank you for reading and now I disappear into my WIPs once more 😂
she's the best of us
KATHRYN NEWTON as BELLA DONALDSON HACKS | S03E09, "Bulletproof"
she looks so much like my ex in this but she doesn’t normally so.. that ep shook me up a little too much
I love the black widow movie cause even though Clint isn't physically there, he's still in the movie. Hes in the arrow holes in the walls of the Budapest safe house. Hes in the little arrow necklace Nat wears. Hes in the tic tac toe and the hangman games drawn into the vent of the hideout.
Because hes Nat's best friend and even when theyre apart, they're never truly alone. There will always be a piece of Nat with Clint and a piece of Clint with Nat
scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that
I NEEEED to know this
Someone told me AO3 is more for pairings and tumblr is more for reader inserts. Do yall feel like that’s true??
YESSS definitely true
No I don’t think that’s true imo
I think it’s equal on both tbh!
The Ritual
Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader
Warnings: ritualistic practices, descriptions of blood, torture, allusions to SA, crying, heavy sense of guilt, yay some healing finally, Natasha and Y/N are so messed up and toxic for one another oopss
Song: Empty of you- Dirty Blond (lyrics highlighted in red + italic)
Tag list: @ayrtonwilbury @esposadejoyhuerta @casquinhaa @so-to-aqui-pelas-fic @caffeine-pup @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @nuianced-tck-enby @fxckmiup @agentrvmoff @cd-4848 @violentlanes
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The quinjet lands in a grassy field with complete silence.
You didn’t remember the risks they told you about. You just remembered Fury’s voice: measured, careful, like he was handling a live wire, but the details slipped through your fingers. What stood was the sense of inevitability. Like this was always where it was going to end up.
The hatch opened and warm air rushed past, thick with earth and green and something metallic beneath it. Not sterile or sharp. Alive. A land that has heart and life and warriors blooming in the soil.
Wakanda.
You step down onto the grass barefoot, although you didn’t remember removing your boots. Sharon must have. Or someone else. It doesn’t matter. The stone beneath your feet was cool, smooth, etched with ancient symbols. They requested for your first steps onto Wakandan soil to be “grounded” and “bare.”
You are not the first one to stand here broken.
Bucky, impossibly lost and used and tired- was the first.
And you will not be the last.
There is no crowd waiting for you. No spectacle. No press. Just Dora Milaje lining the path ahead to the dark cave that awaited you, spears grounded, heads slightly bowed- not to you, but to the process you’re about to enter. Respect for what you’ve survived. Respect for what you might lose. Respect for everything you’ll gain. Natasha stands at the edge of the hatch. Sharon squeezes your shoulder once, grounding, and lets go. She doesn’t follow either. This part isn’t for them.
You walked alone.
The chamber is circular, carved into the earth itself and rising up. No harsh lights, only a warm purple glow emanating from the stone. The glow comes from bioluminescent veins running through the stone, pulsing slowly, like a heartbeat. In the center is the platform- raised, smooth, almost altar-like and cold.
Not a bed. That feels important, intentional.
You hesitate.
A woman steps forward, not a scientist or a doctor in the way you understand it. Her robes layered, ceremonial, threaded with vibranium that hums softly as she moves. “This is not a cure,” she says calmly. “And it is not erasure.” Her voice doesn’t echo. The cave absorbs it on impact so it travels to you and only you.
“What HYDRA did to you was layered. They used pain, sickness, chemistry, and language to fracture your mind. To create doors where there were none. Locks where there should have been none.”
You feel your heart rate spike.
“We can remove the locks,” she says. “We can open the doors to the truth. We can make the poison go away. But what you carry- what you remember- will remain. The trauma, the pain, the torture- we can’t take that from you. You will still be responsible for what you feel, for what you choose….for who you hurt.”
No promises. No absolution. No making you perfect.
Good.
You’re guided onto the platform. You lie back, not restrained, but held in place by something subtle. A gentle pressure, like hands that won’t let you fall. A gentle force.
Herbal smoke fills the chamber, sharp and grounding. You recognized some of it. Not by name. By instinct. Your body reacts before your mind does- heart rate slowing, breath evening out.
They place something cool against your temples. Not electrodes or Stark-esque technology. Smooth vibranium-infused stones, faintly warm now as they sync with you.
“Do not fight what comes,” the woman says quietly. “You have fought enough.”
The chant begins. It’s ancient and nonetheless beautiful.
It’s low and layered. Not words, but tones. Frequencies. They vibrate through your bones, through your teeth. You feel it in your ribs first, then your spine all the way up your neck. It fills your senses. Something inside you recoils.
This goes on for what feels like an hour, although you’re aware time might not be moving regularly during this ritual.
After- there’s quiet. Not deafening silence, but blanketed. Comfortable. Calm.
Then, out of nowhere, she speaks and the first trigger word hits.
Your body reacts automatically: muscles tightening, vision narrowing, consciousness feeling tighter, your body starts losing control- and you fight it because you want to be good. Oh how you want to be good.
And then it stops- but not because you fought it. God knows that never worked before anyway.
It stops because something cut the wire.
You gasp like coming up for air.
Another trigger follows. Then another. Each one like poison darts that slam into nothing. Like bullets fired into water.
Your mind doesn’t fracture. Your body doesn’t obey. You don’t go unconscious.
It unhooks.
Memories surface but not in order. HYDRA corridors. Samantha’s voice. Natasha's voice before she hung up the phone. Wanda drugging you. Being forced to use your body in ways no one should be able to fathom. The branding iron. The chemicals. The name they gave you.
Asset. Nightshade.
And even that name pulls nothing from you anymore but a single, choked gasp at your own surprise.
You scream.
The Wakandans don’t stop you, or sedate you, or punch you so you’ll quiet down.
They anchor you.
Hands press to your shoulders. To your sternum. You feel the stone beneath you pulse harder, brighter, like it’s syncing to your heartbeat instead of forcing it to change.
You feel the difference between control and consent and it breaks something open. You cry even though you’re trying so hard not to that your body shakes. Tears don’t come quiet, or neat.
And somewhere between the noise of chanting, your gasping, and the sound of your own crying, you feel it.
The absence. This dark space where the switch used to be.
When it’s over, the chamber is silent.
You are drenched in sweat and exhausted in a way that goes deeper than muscle or bone. You can‘t seem to catch your breath or catch up to the flood of emotions filling every vein in your body.
The woman removes the stones carefully.
“You will still feel echoes,” she says. “Nightmares. That is not failure of the ritual- those are the repercussions of what was done to you.”
You stare at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in tempo with your pulse.
“But when the words come,” she finishes, “they will have no power. You belong to yourself now.”
She kneels in front of you, takes your shaking hands, and gives them a tight squeeze so that you’re looking directly at her when she says the words you’ve been aching to hear,
“You are free.”
For the first time since HYDRA—
Your thoughts are yours.
When they help you sit up, your legs buckle immediately. Sharon is there before you can hit the ground. She catches you without thinking, arms firm, steady.
You don’t pull away. You just let her hold you while your body remembers how to exist without commands.
Her voice is barely there. “You’re here,” she says. Not a question.
A fact. You are here. You are back.
Not healed.
Not whole.
But free to choose what comes next. Free to chose what you eat, who you fight, why you fight. Free to cry- or not. Free to forgive- or not.
And that is terrifying.
And sacred.
And yours.
—————————
You don’t wake when they carry you from the chamber.
You don’t stir when they wrap you in soft woven fabric or lay you down in a quiet Wakandan recovery suite overlooking the trees.
You sleep.
Not the fractured, twitching kind of sleep HYDRA allowed you or the light, alert, soldier-sleep you learned at SHIELD.
This is different. It is deep.
Bone-deep.
The kind of sleep that comes when your body finally has permission to try and start healing.
Natasha stands at the foot of the bed.
She doesn’t touch you yet.
Your face is slack in rest. Younger somehow. Not healed though, bruises still ghost your skin, the scar on your bottom lip still visible, but peaceful in a way she hasn’t seen in months. She was wise enough to know you wouldn’t always sleep like this, even back at the compound.
“She will sleep for some time,” the healer says gently.
Sharon exhales slowly beside her and steps out for air, Fury waiting outside too.
Only Avengers left in the room now- Wanda, Steve, Natasha.
“The extraction is complete,” the healer continues.
Natasha looks up. “Extraction?”
“The stones were forced to hold the trauma in order to remove the control.”
The room stills.
“Memory, pain, neurological imprinting — they are entangled,” the healer explains. “HYDRA did not simply use language. They fused suffering to obedience. To remove one, we had to separate the other.”
Sharon’s throat tightens. “Separate how?”
The healer gestures to a circular table behind them.
The vibranium stones, once embedded at your temples, now sit dim and faintly glowing. Inside them, light moves like something alive.
“They absorbed what was used to bind her. Her memories are no longer tied to the trigger words. The pain exists without control now,” the healer says quietly.
Everyone is quiet as they stare at the vibrating stones holding so much ache.
“If you want to understand her pain, to know what she endured and what she will still live with,” the healer slides a stone forward, “you may.”
Steve steps forward before anyone can interject, “Show us.”
She nods once and whispers something to the stones as if they were alive.
The stones activate, the lights dim. It begins without warning.
The memory fills the room like fog.
A concrete corridor. Fluorescent lights.
Your body slamming against a metal table that still has blood on it from the last operation.
Wanda inhales sharply. Natasha doesn’t move. Steve can’t look away.
They watch you strapped down and watch the needle inject Compound A-07 while your back arches off the table as it burns through you.
They hear you scream. It isn’t dramatic or performative.
It’s ugly and animalistic and bloody.
The sound rips something open in Natasha’s chest.
The memory shifts.
Natasha’s fingers curl so tightly into her palms that her skin breaks.
You’re awake on the metal table, again.
Heaving from exhaustion and injuries that haven’t healed.
A doctor stands over you, unbuckling the straps that keep your limbs down and forcing you to stand on shaky legs. He squeezes your jaw between his bloodied hands, cold blue eyes peering into yours, “Tell me your name again. Say it.”
You’ve got fight though, even if it doesn’t look like it. “My name is Y/N L/N. I have friends. I have a family. They need-,”
The doctor punches you square in the stomach, so hard that you collapse onto your bruised knees, strangled gasps coming out every few seconds.
“Wrong name,” he spits in his thick accent, “you know what your name is. Say it for me,” he says, fingers tangled in the back of your hair and forcing you to look up at him.
“Asset,” a strangled groan escapes before you can answer again, “Nightshade.”
Natasha breaks. It’s silent — just a sharp inhale that trembles out of her like something collapsing. Wanda closes her eyes.
Samantha crouches in front of you, slapping the side of your sweaty face tauntingly.
“Look at you. They left you.”
Your cheeks are hollow. Exhausted. But your e/c remain defiant.“They’ll come,” you rasp. Samantha laughs- and just because she can- utters, “Mission complete.” Your body drops unconscious mid-sentence.
The stones flicker harder. The healer lowers her hand. “That is enough.”
But it isn’t- it won’t ever be.
One last memory pushes through anyway.
You’re barely conscious, curled on the floor, but still have a lot of hope left in you. This must’ve been the first month. The entire corridor is dark. A guard stops outside your cell. It’s too late for him to be taking you anywhere authorized for testing or training.
You know what he wants. He knows what he wants.
“What pretty little thing did the Avengers throw to us?,” he smirks as he opens your cell door. Your body is too weak to stand, let alone fight- otherwise you’d rip this guy's eyeballs out. You still try as you claw at his face, scratching a deep red lines into the side of his temple down to his cheek so hard he bleeds. He grabs you anyway as you try to get away.
All you can say is,
“Please don’t.”
The memory dissipates before it finishes when the healer quickly grabs the stone off the table, along with the other, and puts them somewhere safe.
No one speaks for a long time. Natasha looks like someone carved something out of her ribs. Steve turns away because right now he doesn’t trust himself to speak without his voice wavering. Wanda covers her mouth as if she might throw up.
Finally, the healer speaks softly.
“She survived.”
Wanda swallows the lump in her throat.
“And now?” she whispers.
“Now she is free,” the healer replies. “But freedom does not erase suffering. It only returns choice.”
Natasha turns sharply, and makes a bee line straight back to where you’re resting.
You are still sleeping, air leaving your rosy lips in little puffs. Peacefully unaware.
She kneels beside your bed and for the first time since the night you were taken, she lets herself touch you. Her thumb brushes your knuckles gently.
“I chose wrong,” she whispers.
Salty tears drop on your knuckles before she wipes them, “you still waited.”
Her forehead rests lightly against your hand.
“I won’t fail you again.”
You don’t wake, but your fingers twitch.
——————————
Steve carried your sleeping body from the recovery room to the Quinjet, through the compound, and back to your old room. You slept 7 hours straight after the ritual, and still going. He gingerly placed you on your bed, watching the way your brows twitched in sleep. Watching you like this, finally in a state of rest, but knowing the pain you’d still endure when you woke up sent a pang of guilt through his chest.
Captain America- betraying one of his own, he thought. So much for a soldier's loyalty.
He placed the gray blanket that was lazily strewn on your armchair over your sleeping form, turned off the lights, and closed the door.
You woke with a start, chest heaving and drenched in sweat. You could tell it was early in the morning, maybe 3 am and too early for any sun to be out. Everything about the ritual came rushing back at once, culminitating in a rush to your head that made you feel faint.
You repeated those words to yourself over and over again.
You’re free.
You’re not a soldier anymore.
You’re free.
The room felt too quiet, too safe with no fluorescent hum or the sound of boots outside an echoey cell. No voice waiting to slip between your thoughts and pull the strings while you’re unconscious. You lay there, staring at the ceiling. Waiting. Waiting for the word. For the switch. For your body to lock up or go still or disappear from yourself.
It doesn’t. Your chest keeps rising. Your fingers twitched when you told them to. Your jaw unclenched on its own. You swallowed, then carefully, experimentally, whispered into the darkness:
“Orphaned at dawn.”
Nothing happened.
The silence that followed was so complete it almost hurt. No static. No narrowing tunnel vision. No absence.
Just you.
You sat up slowly, legs swinging over the side of the bed. The mattress dipped the way it used to. The blanket slid from your shoulders. Your room, books, jacket. Your scent lingering faintly in the air like a ghost who didn’t know she’d died. You pressed your hands to your temples, half-expecting the stones to be there, but there was nothing. Your heart kept racing anyway like you’d just run a marathon.
Because now that the lock was gone…everything else was louder. The memories weren’t tied to commands anymore. They were just memories.
You remembered the metal table. The branding. The begging. And you remembered something worse- waiting for them. Waiting for the team you called family to realize their mistake and save you.
That’s when the anger came. Sharp and cold.
They watched it. They watched a piece of what happened to me.
They needed to see it- but that didn’t absolve them. It just meant they finally understood.
Your gaze drifted to the mirror across the room. You stood slowly and walked toward it, bare feet silent against the floor. The girl staring back at you looked somehow older than the one in the photos, although they were only taken a year apart. Thinner. Scarred. Sure, still beautiful to people that didn’t know that all that pain made someone ugly inside. The faint brand beneath your collarbone catches your eye. It’s barely visible in the dim light, but to you? It practically glows.
But that girl staring back at you in the mirror- her eyes are clear in a way they haven’t been in months.
You leaned closer. “No more asset,” you murmured. The word Nightshade surfaced automatically. It didn’t sting or pull. It was just a name someone else gave you.
You inhaled. Then you did something you hadn’t done in a long time.
You made a choice. You opened your bedroom door.
The hallway was dark, emergency lighting casting everything in muted blue. Everyone was fast asleep by now, or trying to be.
And at the end of the dark hallway, sitting against the wall like she hadn’t moved all night—
Natasha with a gray cardigan wrapped around her body. She looked up the moment your door creaked. For a split second, something vulnerable crossed her face before it smoothed into practiced control.
“You’re awake. You should still be sleeping,” she says softly.
You studied her this time- really studied her. No static in your head or distorted memory. No chemical interference. Just her. And the truth of it all. And the ache you didn’t know what to do with that felt like it could stay with you forever.
“I was. Couldn’t anymore,” you replied.
She looks like she’s been there a while against the wall. Hands clasped loosely between her knees. Guard down, but only just.
You lean against the opposite wall, mirroring her without meaning to. After a moment, you tilt your head toward your room, walking inside wordlessly and sitting on the edge of your bed. She follows, standing in front of you.
You think about what to say- if you should even say anything. It’s quiet for just a moment before she decides to speak.
“I never stopped looking for you.”
That’s what does it.
One second you’re sitting across from her, heart pounding, chest tight with everything you can’t sort through.
The next you’re on your feet. And this is all your choice.
Natasha barely has time to register it before your hand fists in the collar of her cardigan and you slam her back into the mirror on the left wall next to your door.
The glass cracks in a sharp spiderweb behind her head. You hear a huff of breath leave her chest at the force.
She doesn’t block. Doesn’t counter. Doesn’t flip you to the floor like she absolutely could.
Your forearm presses across her collarbone, pinning her in place. Your other hand grips her jaw hard enough to bruise.
“You let them take me,” you breathe, and it’s not a yell. It’s worse. It’s steady. It’s a fact.
Her head knocks lightly against the broken glass.
“I know.”
“You watched.”
“I know.”
Your grip tightens.
“I was begging for you.” You can feel a lump form in your throat.
That one lands.
Her throat works. She doesn’t look away.
“I know.”
You hate that she’s not fighting back or defending herself. You hate that she looks relieved you’re finally saying it.
Your knee presses between her thighs, crowding her space. Your breath is hot against her ear.
“They made you into something monstrous in my head,” you whisper. “Cold. Cruel. Laughing while I rotted.”
Her hands stay at her sides, face turned to the side and pressed against the glass. “They didn’t have to work that hard,” she says quietly.
Something inside you snaps.
Your hand jerks her forward by the collar and her lip catches against the edge of broken glass behind her. A thin line of red blooms instantly.
She doesn’t flinch.
“You can hurt me,” Natasha says, voice low. Honest. “It’s okay.”
The words hit you harder than anything else tonight.
Your grip falters. You’re inches from her now.
You can see the gold in her green eyes. The exhaustion. The guilt. The way her breathing has gone shallow but steady — not from fear. From wanting you closer.
“I won’t fight you,” she adds in a desperate rasp. Barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you need.”
Your pulse roars in your ears.
You lean in so close that your noses almost brush. You want to hurt her, choke her, but you also remember her.
Not warped. Not poisoned.
Her laugh against your neck. The way she used to kiss the top of your head. The way she’d curl into your side when she couldn’t sleep. The sting of alcohol as you sat on her lap and drank something too strong. The way she’d shudder against you when you cleaned her injuries too gently.
You hate that you remember. Her hands twitch like she wants to touch you.
She doesn’t. Natasha knows better- and a he knows she doesn’t get to.
“You don’t get to make this easy,” you whisper.
“I’m not.” Her voice breaks for the first time as her green eyes search yours desperately.
“This,” you tap the side of your temple, fighting back the urge to let tears slip out, “this is your fault.”
I’m sick in the heart, it’s all cause of you
You’re living inside it, and all I wanna do
Is cry till I’m empty, cry till I’m empty
Empty of you
For a split second, it’s just breath and heat and broken glass and the echo of everything you used to be. Then you shove her back into the mirror again hard enough to hurt and just enough to create space.
“You don’t get to bleed and call that penance for what you did. You can add me to the red in your ledger,” you say coldly.
And you make another choice: to walk away.
Natasha stays against the wall, chest rising and falling, lip split, hands finally curling into fists now that you’re out of reach.
You don’t look back.
The door closes behind you as Natasha goes back to her room.
————————————
Morning comes quiet. You finally returned to your room around 4 am. A few hours later at the kitchen table, no one says anything about all the noise last night.
But they all see it.
The small cut on Natasha’s lip and the faint bruise blooming along her collarbone.
The cracked glass in the kitchen trash can that you don’t bother to hide.
Clint and Tony notice first. Steve notices second. Wanda notices immediately. No one asks.
Natasha sips her coffee like nothing happened. But for the first time since she lost you there’s something alive in her eyes.
And that terrifies them more than if she’d looked broken.
Notability
masterlist
NR x best friend!r
Word count: 5.5k
Summary: Natasha never looked your way… or at least, not how you wanted her to. But maybe it was silly to think that the world’s greatest spy didn’t notice you.
18+
Author’s note: Buckle up, because there’s a whole lot of misinterpretation and yearning in this one
Natasha’s hands move to grip your waist, gently keeping you in place so she can pass you in the kitchen without bumping into you as she makes her way toward the coffee maker.
You don’t startle or stiffen. You know who the hands belong to. You’re familiar with their hold, with the feeling of their fingertips on you.
“Just me,” she murmurs anyway, voice soft in the early morning, giving you an affectionate squeeze before she lets go.
You turn, offering her a smile in greeting, one of your own hands raising to lightly brush along her back as she walks by.
This is the norm: Natasha’s touch on you, your touch on her. Her knee always manages to bump yours underneath the table during meals, your hand for some reason always reaches up to push a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.
You’ve been best friends for years, the comfort you two feel with each other something that doesn’t come to many. It’s always felt different with Natasha than with anyone else. Easy, natural, innate.
Natasha is a constant, steadfast and dependable, loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, you know you’ll always have her.
“Are they…?” Steve asks one day, watching how Natasha’s arm is draped over your shoulders as you both sit much too close to one another for it to be platonic on the sofa, some forgotten show, you both prioritizing chatting, playing on the screen.
“Nope,” Wanda replies, the witch only ever getting more and more exasperated at the affectionate behavior that neither of you capitalize on with each day that passes.
“But-”
“I know,” she cuts him off.
That’s the end of it.
The party is well underway, and Natasha is pressed up against you constantly. She keeps telling herself that it’s just due to the crowd.
But regardless of her reason, you’re relishing in it, soaking up her hand against the small of your back leading you as you make your way through the ballroom, basking in the feeling of her shoulder grazing your own whenever you two stand side by side. Natasha’s eyes are on you tonight, her focus never straying, never distracted, never diverting, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that she likes you as more than a friend too.
“May I have this dance?” Natasha asks a few hours into the party, smirk on her face, her hand extended toward you as an offer.
With the playful tone, you know that you can’t take the question seriously, can’t presume that she means it in any other way than just two friends dancing, but as usual, hope makes a home of your chest anyway.
You bite your lip shyly and nod, accepting her hand, fingers interlocking as Natasha gently tugs you toward the dance floor.
The song is slow, and when the hand not tangled with yours comes to settle on your waist, its warmth bleeding through the material of your dress, you curse the universe yet another time for making you have a crush on your best friend.
You’ve been cursing the universe a lot lately. Every time you notice your gaze lingering a second too long as Natasha peacefully reads in the armchair by the window, every time you find your voice softening when you shift from talking to someone else to talking to her, every time you realize that the reason you touched her was simply an aimless excuse.
Despite it all, despite you knowing you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t long for more, you shouldn’t pretend, you shouldn’t fantasize that this is real—you tuck your head into the crook of Natasha’s neck, resting your cheek against her collarbone as you sway to the music. Natasha suppresses a shiver at your warm breaths puffing along her skin.
You spend the rest of the night glued to her, one dance leading to another and then another. And still, once you finish dancing, your closeness isn’t severed. You both walk over to the couches, Natasha pulling you onto her lap, her arms wrapping around you as she holds you in a way that no one without further intent ever should.
You lean back into her without thinking about it, the movement second nature as touching Natasha has come to be, and you spend the rest of the party there. You’re curled into her body, snuggled into her chest, legs stretched out over her lap. At a certain point, you somehow manage to push yourself even closer, shifting until your head once again finds a way to be nuzzled under her chin.
“I think I’m going to turn in,” you tell the redhead after another couple of hours, words mumbled against her before pulling your head away to look up at her face. You don’t want to end the night, to remove yourself from her arms, but you’re growing tired, yawning constantly, and you have an early start to tomorrow. The party is slowly coming to an end anyway, the sea of people diminishing as many attendees are also electing to go home.
“Want me to walk you to your room?” Natasha asks, slackening her hold just a fraction, “Just so you don’t get lost.”
“I think I can manage to find my way to my bedroom,” you tease.
“For protection purposes then,” she playfully changes course… anything to prolong her time with you.
You roll your eyes at her new reason, but it’s a cover for the way warmth blooms within you at her seemingly wanting to you to stay. “I’ve got it,” you reassure, and for a moment—brief but unignorable—you consider pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek in goodbye, you imagine what her skin would be like under your lips. The gesture feels right right now, the action feels like it’d be natural, but you force yourself to hold back, not wanting to cross any lines even though they’ve perhaps already been crossed too many times before.
“Alright,” Natasha replies, giving you the adoring smile that causes your traitorous heart to flip flop with the belief that maybe she feels the same, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early for training,” you answer her, nodding.
Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. Damn her hands for always wanting to touch you. “Rest well,” Natasha murmurs.
You give her one last sweet smile of your own before walking away, dress trailing behind you with each step, Natasha watching your form as you go. She forcefully pushes down the longing for something more that always seems to come about with every look at you, refusing to acknowledge it as usual.
Only moments after you head down the hallway, rounding the corner toward the elevator, Wanda is at Natasha’s side.
She doesn’t ease into the topic. “You have to know how she feels about you.”
“What are you talking about?” Natash feigns ignorance, not glancing over at the witch, gaze still locked onto where you just disappeared.
“Natasha,” Wanda admonishes, well aware that she doesn’t need to elaborate.
Natasha closes her eyes as she sighs, mentally preparing for the conversation she’s always avoided, even with herself. “We’re friends, Wanda. Just friends.”
“Friends don’t look at each other the way she looks at you,” Wanda pauses for a moment before adding tentatively, “Or the way you look at her.”
Natasha stiffens at the implication.
“We’re friends,” she repeats more firmly, shutting down any potential of more from this exchange.
Wanda purses her lips, growing tired of Natasha’s stubbornness and of you doubting your significance to her. “If you aren’t going to let yourself have this, then you need to stop and let her move on.”
When Natasha doesn’t answer that, Wanda sighs as well and turns on her heel to return to what’s left of the party. There’s not much more to say to the obstinate redhead.
You’ve already made it back to your room, your dress half unzipped, when you realize that you forgot your phone at the party, having given it to Steve for safekeeping when you danced with Natasha.
You let out a tired exhale and rezip your dress, smoothing out the material before striding to your door. Your stare drifts to your heels that you hastily discarded upon your return, your feet aching at just the sight of them, and you elect to throw on a comfier pair of sneakers. The elevator ride to the ballroom is short, your fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on your thigh as the number goes down. You get to see Natasha again.
But what you see, you never expected.
Your stomach drops, your entire being faltering when you enter the ballroom and witness Natasha speaking to another woman. They’re close—too close—and Natasha has that look in her eye. You know that look; you’re well-acquainted with it. But it’s always been pointed at you every time you’ve seen it previously. It’s what made you feel like there was something between you two, and even though you’ve told yourself not to, you’ve always taken it as hopeful evidence that she returns your affections.
The woman’s hand comes up to brush against Natasha’s arm, the action blatantly suggestive, and Natasha doesn’t stop her. If anything, the redhead’s smile widens.
You turn around and quickly flee the ballroom, phone forgotten.
Natasha’s smile does widen at the woman’s advances, flattered, but what you fail to see after taking off is Natasha gently removing her hand from her bicep, Natasha politely turning her down, Natasha unable to bring herself to view anyone the way she views you.
You don’t make it to training the next morning, and you can’t find it in yourself to give Natasha a heads up. You can’t look at the text chain, can’t bear to see her name on your phone followed by the heart emoji that Natasha insisted you add. You can’t stomach the contact photo of her smiling.
Everything feels different now, your friendship—because that’s what this has always been despite you hoping that it was more, right?—feels tainted by the fact that you saw her with another woman. Everything’s changed. Has she always been talking to others, and you just never knew? Were you never special? Never significant? Never notable in her eyes?
What hurts the most is that, in spite of it all, you can’t villainize her. It’s not her fault you fell, it’s not her fault she doesn’t reciprocate, and it’s not her fault she was flirting with someone else. She doesn’t owe you anything. It only makes sense that others would want her like you do. There’s simply no way someone could see the redhead and not be in awe of her. The marvel that is Natasha Romanoff is unmissable.
But they don’t want her like you do, not really. Because they don’t know her like you do. You want her… every bit of her that you’ve already been given and more.
But that doesn’t matter now. It’s been months of pushing it off, but you’re finally telling yourself that you need to move on. It’s finally time. Your affections toward her are no longer able to be sheltered; your body is no longer a safe place for them now that your mind swirls with the newfound knowledge that Natasha doesn’t feel the same. Having confirmation that your feelings are unrequited—no longer in limbo like before when you were able to foolishly play make-believe that you two might’ve had a future—you can no longer remain just friends. You know you aren’t strong enough to handle the indirect rejections and constant heartbreak.
Natasha waits for you in the gym, warming up for longer than necessary, stalling until your arrival. But you never show, and her confusion and worry only grow with each passing minute. You’ve never stood her up before.
Eventually she abandons the pretense of working out, grabbing her towel and water bottle and leaving the gym, ending the session early when, after over an hour, there’s still no sign of you. With a puzzled expression on her face, she heads to your room.
She knocks. You know it’s her. You don’t respond.
She calls your name through the door. You pretend you don’t hear.
“You didn’t show up for training,” Natasha says, tone hesitant in a way it’s never been with you, “I just wanted to check up on you…” She trails off. “I don’t know if maybe you’ve just slept in, or…” There’s another pause. “Just, if you can hear me, come find me later?”
It’s phrased as a question. Your lack of response, your lack of acknowledgement, is throwing her for a loop. You’ve never ignored her before. Maybe you really are just still asleep, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is off.
And the feeling only furthers as time goes on.
You don’t find her later that day, or the next day, or the next.
You’re avoiding her. Breakfasts are cut short, and you take a seat on the opposite side of the table. You no longer attend movie nights, always giving the excuse that you’re too tired to make it through a film. During training with the team, you two used to immediately make eye contact and silently communicate that you’d be sparring partners—as if anyone was going to try and come between the two of you anyway—but now you’ve been voluntarily pairing yourself up with Wanda. And worst of all, you won’t let her touch you anymore.
There are no more late-night talks, no more sleepovers, no more lunches at the nearby cafe together, and Natasha feels as though a part of her is lost. She’s never been unsure of where she stood with you; you’ve never rebuffed her like this. The void you’ve left with her is not one she could’ve prepared for, not one she ever thought she’d have to fill.
Natasha doesn’t know how it could get any worse, but it does.
She arrives back from a mission, her body aching, everything in her begging for her to lay down. All she wants to do is to curl up on your bed, to have you run your hands through her hair just like you used to, her head in your lap. But for some still unknown reason, she’s lost her right to do that now.
As she trudges through the halls, practically dragging her feet in exhaustion, she passes by the common room on her way to her quarters and freezes at what she hears.
You’re laughing—giggling—at something some man sitting next to you said, and you’re leaning against him.
It’s the first time Natasha’s seen you in days, and you’re cuddled up next to some man? She can’t hold her tongue. “Who’s this?” she asks bluntly, announcing her presence.
You glance over the back of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise as you notice the redhead standing in the entryway. “Natasha,” you exhale her name, your voice softening involuntarily. You mentally berate yourself for that even though you know it was an inevitability.
You almost feel sheepish, almost feel guilty, like you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to, like you’re betraying her, but then the memory of the night of the party flits through your head, and your resolve strengthens along with the despair that has been a constant ever since seeing her with another. “I didn’t know you had gotten back already.”
She wants to say that that’s because you no longer wait for her in the landing bay like you used to, that you’re no longer there to greet her when she returns, your hands tracing over her body carefully, thoroughly checking her for injuries, worry radiating off of you until you’re certain that she’s come home unharmed, before you pull her into you for a hug.
But she doesn’t.
Her gaze flicks toward the man, a silent question.
“Oh,” you start awkwardly before introducing him. He’s still too close to you; his arm is still around you. If anything, he tightens his grip as if he can sense the unspoken feelings and tension in the air.
“He’s my-” You can’t finish. The word ‘partner’ feels wrong in your mouth. It feels like it’s getting stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t taste sweet the way thought it would, the way you know it would if you were talking about Natasha instead of him. You try to push that thought away.
“I’m her partner.” the man supplies next to you, finishing your sentence. If he picks up on your hesitation, your reluctance, he doesn’t voice it, and you nod in uncomfortable confirmation.
“My partner,” you agree quietly, and Natasha’s feels something in her break.
Natasha doesn’t like him. She doesn’t know him, but she doesn’t like him.
She doesn’t like the way he compliments you and the way you smile bashfully back. She doesn’t like the kisses he peppers across your face and how you ask for more. And fuck, she doesn’t like that he is always at the Compound, always near you, always touching you, always in the room.
She can never get a second alone with you anymore… not that you’d let her get close these days anyway.
Still, she tries. Her hand still reaches out for you habitually when you walk by, intending on skimming across your shoulder; her body still craves yours. She just wants to know where she went wrong.
She misses you.
She doesn’t realize that you miss her too—more than anything—that everything with the man is an act, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep yourself away from the redhead who you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t love you the way you love her. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not a crush. It’s love.
Natasha brightens one afternoon when she sees you walking alone. For once, he’s not here.
“Hey, wait up a sec!” she calls out from down the hall, long steps quickly letting her catch up to you, her expression a hopeful smile that won out even over her nerves. This is it. This is when she finally gets to talk to you, to tell you how much she misses you, to tell you how she thinks brunch is way overdue and that you need to catch up, to tell you how watching you with him has been killing her.
Her hand raises to touch your arm as it would on any other day like before, but, to her dismay, you sidestep the gesture… because this isn’t any other day like before. Things have shifted between the two of you as much as she wishes they didn’t. She wonders if, by now, the distance is irreversible. She wonders if, at this point, telling you how she feels would even make a difference.
You give her a returning smile, but it comes off more like a grimace. She falters. You don’t want to see her. “Hey, I really have to go,” you answer her weakly, “I have a date. He’s- he’s probably already waiting for me.”
And then you’re rushing off without letting her respond, not looking back behind you.
Natasha just stands there, her hand still raised midair, and Wanda sees the whole thing.
Despite being happy for you, despite knowing that you deserve to move on, Wanda can’t help but feel sympathetic toward the woman who is standing there in front of her looking beyond heartbroken at your retreating figure.
“Natasha,” she says gently, walking over, her hand coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulder, “You chose to turn a blind eye. It’s only fair that she moves on. You have to let her.”
Days pass; weeks pass. Your relationship with Natasha continues to dwindle. She becomes an observer of your life, an outsider, no longer welcome to the day to day. You don’t come to her with your highs and lows. She has to assume that means you’re going to him.
It’s agony, being without you, not having you as a pivotal piece of her life anymore. She thinks about you with him at night when you’d usually be with her in her room, the two of you watching your favorite show before you eventually fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder. She checks her phone periodically to see if you’ve maybe texted her, the two of you usually constantly sending messages back and forth, jokes or banter or updates throughout the day. She waits and waits for any sign that you may be coming back to her, may remember that she’s still there, still present, still cares for you, but she never receives one, and the loneliness is ever growing, ever pervading.
Until there’s a knock on her door one night.
Natasha, annoyed with whoever is knocking at this late hour, interrupting her wallowing, yanks open her door, ready to reprimand whoever is on the other side, but her demeanor changes when she sees it’s you, her face shifting from irritation to concern.
You’re crying. Tears are trailing down your cheeks.
She says your name, soft in the way that’s still only reserved for you even if you no longer know it.
Your bottom lip wobbles at the familiar sound of her voice, and it takes you a second to find your own, but when you do… “He broke up with me,” you whisper, and you suck in an uneven breath when you voice it out loud.
Natasha’s world screeches to a halt at your statement. You just said that he broke up with you?
“What?” she asks, needing you to say it again… because it can’t be true. It can’t.
You just nod sadly, another tear dropping. They’re not even because the breakup happened. Sure, it was out of nowhere, jarring, but for some reason, you’re not particularly torn up about it, and that’s the worst part. Your feelings regarding it—or lack thereof—only further cement the fact that you’re not actually over the redhead standing in front of you. You’ve been desperately trying to move on, but this only proves that you haven’t even come close to succeeding despite your best efforts.
“Are you okay?” Natasha questions gently, prompting, trying to tell you that you can talk to her if you need to… or that you can simply take comfort in her presence like you used to. She hopes that you still do even though it’s been a while.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, words interrupted by shaky breaths, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine. I think that’s the hard part.”
Natasha frowns at that. “What do you mean?”
“I guess- I guess I just never really liked him anyway.”
“What?” Hope flares within her even though maybe it shouldn’t.
You can’t answer.
Natasha says your name another time, imploring, almost begging, longing for one answer in particular.
“Natasha, I-” you break off, “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend. Hide. Dance around it.”
The hope flares brighter.
“I like you. I love you. I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore it, to move on, to-” You shake your head, frustrated at your words, at the situation, at yourself. “Look, I just- I just need you to tell me that you don’t feel the same. Maybe then I can-”
Natasha’s hand makes its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek, the action halting you in the middle of your sentence.
You look up at her questioningly, nervously.
“Can I kiss you?” she breathes out.
Your mind goes blank. You’re positive you didn’t hear her right. You don’t respond.
“Can I kiss you?” Natasha repeats again, and she can’t help the desperation that’s seeping into her tone.
Then you nod, slowly, dumbly, as if you can’t believe that what’s about to happen is about to happen.
And Natasha’s lips are on yours.
It isn’t short; it isn’t a gentle brush of the lips. It’s charged, all of the longing and desire and pain that’s been coursing through her these past weeks, all of the longing and desire and need that’s been festering these past years, coming out in the kiss.
When you break apart for air, both of your eyes still closed, Natasha leans her forehead against yours for a few seconds. She tilts her head to affectionately nudge your nose with hers before pressing one more kiss, much softer this time, to the corner of your mouth.
“You look like you need to catch your breath,” Natasha says when she finally opens her eyes to gaze at you again.
“I think I do,” you say, because you’re definitely breathless after that.
“Me too,” Natasha murmurs, but she doesn’t give either of you another moment to do so, her hands grabbing at your shirt, your body, and pulling you into her room, the door slamming closed behind you when you’re pushed up against it.
Your back hits the wood, and her lips reattach to yours. You shudder not only at the feeling of her tongue tracing your bottom lip but also her touch back on you after being so long without it.
Natasha’s hands are teasingly trailing up and down your side before moving under your shirt. Her fingers skim along your bare skin, and you can’t help but moan, the redhead taking advantage of your parted lips, her tongue now meeting yours.
But then you’re abruptly pulling back for some reason. “Wait, wait, Natasha, that woman-”
She pauses in her ministrations, her brain taking a moment to catch up to your words, her mind hazy from getting lost in you. “What woman?” she asks hoarsely.
“That woman from the party-” you try again.
It clicks in her head. She doesn’t know how, but you saw. “That woman from the party meant nothing,” she reassures you quickly, willing to give you more, to give you as much as you need, but hoping that that’s enough, because, fuck, she wants her lips back on yours as soon as possible.
You search her face, trying to gauge her sincerity, and you only find her gaze steady and unwavering, filled with earnestness and dedication. Your mouth reconnects with hers, tongue immediately requesting entrance again as you resume the kiss where it was at.
You’re too preoccupied with kissing her that you don’t realize her hand is traveling down to your thigh until she’s tugging it up and hooking it around her waist. Natasha swears her own core is overheating when you become flush against her in this way. She can feel you pulsing with need against her leg.
“Is this okay?” she asks, needing your permission despite your seemingly blatant desire, needing you to confirm that you’re just as desperate for her as she is for you.
“Yes, yes. Natasha, please.” It comes out a whimper, a beg.
Natasha then hurriedly shoves up your shirt at your consent, impatiently dragging down your bra, your breasts spilling out of it, and she whines when she gets her first look at you. Your nipples are achingly hard from both the chill in the air and her kisses, and her body thrums with something hot and sharp and dangerous as she takes you in. Your hair is a mess, your body is trembling, your clothes are rumpled from her rough handling. You’re beautiful.
She wastes no more time, unzipping your jeans and shoving her hand into them. She needs to touch you. Now.
And you’re absolutely soaked.
Your hips jerk like you can’t control them, and you can’t, your body moving completely on its own, following instinct, needing any and all stimulation that Natasha is currently willing to provide, and she doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of her middle finger to your clit, beginning to leisurely circle it. Your eyes slip shut.
“Tell me,” Natasha demands, voice low, “Did you think of me when he touched you?”
“He-” you stop, gasping, both pleasure and embarrassment stealing your words, “He never-”
“He never, what?” Natasha asks, her finger slowing further.
“He never touched me,” you finally choke out, voice breathy from a mix of need and shame. You’re grateful that your eyes are closed because you don’t want to see the look of pity on her face.
Natasha only just manages to catch and prevent herself from reacting when you admit that he never touched you, never brought you pleasure, never fulfilled you the way deserve. It’s not pity. It’s surprise; it’s anger.
“Well, then he’s a fool,” she answers quietly, “Leaving you untouched like that, letting his hands go to waste when they could’ve been on you, letting his fingers go to waste when they could’ve been in you.”
You shudder at the tone of her voice, and your hips buck off the door another time, your body restless, aching. You can feel yourself dripping, stickiness coating your thighs, and you know the woman is front and center to every response and reaction she receives from your body. You know she can feel just how much you want her. “Please, Natasha. Please touch me.”
“I’m going to make you feel so good, detka,” Natasha promises. It’s a vow. She’s determined to make up for every moment that the man neglected you, to replace them with love, with adoration, with her. Her touch was always made for you, after all.
Her finger abandons your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you whine, but your whine quickly transitions into a loud cry of her name when she suddenly shoves two fingers into your hole, your pussy immediately clenching around her digits.
Natasha’s breath stutters as she hears you. She wants to memorize every sound that escapes; she wants to press her mouth to your throat and feel them directly from the source. But she can’t. She needs to watch you, needs to see the way your brows scrunch up in focus, needs to witness the expression on your face when your entire body vibrates with desperation.
“Your body is mine. Your sounds are all for me,” she growls, but it’s not just possessive, and that’s what gets you. It’s worshipful in a way you’ve never experienced from anyone before. You’ve always wished for Natasha to be the one to show you what devotion truly is, and now that it’s happening, it feels like a dream.
Because her touch isn’t just dominating. It’s reverential. And you feel another gush of wetness leak from your pussy in response to the delicate way she’s holding you juxtaposed with the insistent way she’s fucking you.
You nod in agreement, irregular inhales and exhales leaving you nonstop, unable to do anything but plead for more, because… she’s right. You’re hers; you’ve always been hers.
“Say it,” she commands softly.
Her fingers speed up as well as if to prove her point, pistoning in and out of you, her pace quick and relentless as she waits for you to respond.
She fucks the words right out of you.
“I’m yours,” you moan, voicing the sentiment you’ve always felt but kept inside, “I’m yours. I’m yours, Natasha. I’m yours.”
Your vision is blurring with pleasure, your body is shaking, your pussy throbbing, and when you come, your back against Natasha’s door, your pants hastily pulled down, her fingers still plunging into you, caressing your walls with each stroke, her free hand everywhere, she doesn’t stop.
She makes you come again and again, until your body simply cannot handle another climax, until you fall limp against her chest, too tired to keep your eyes open, your knees giving out and you being held up only by her arms.
You wake the next morning in Natasha’s bed, curled into her sheets comfortably just like you’ve been hundreds of times before. Her mattress feels familiar, her pillow under your head feels familiar, but her arm around your waist feels different this time around, protective and securing. She’s holding you as if you’re still hers even in the light of day.
You roll over until you’re facing Natasha, your eyes fixated on her face, calm, relaxed from sleep.
You’re silent as you study her.
And her eyes flutter open slowly to find you staring. You don’t say anything, just gazing up at the woman who has stolen your breath away, but Natasha doesn’t take it as a good sign.
Her hold on you loosens. She begins to pull her arm away. “Are you regretting it now that morning has arrived?” she asks quietly, regarding you closely, watching your face as if it will give her an answer.
“No,” you murmur, unsure how to convey that your silence is simply due to awe: awe at the sight of her, awe at the fact that last night transpired, awe at the knowledge that she feels for you what you always thought she’d never return. “I could never regret you.”
we’ll never going to see that damn goth bathroom huh
AND GIRL. IT’S KILLING ME BC I WANT IT AS INSPO FOR MYSELF. GODDAMN THAT BITCH
喜宴 (The Wedding Banquet, Ang Lee, 1993)
jokes over, nat come back
Cutest ever
This. This is the online friend experience.
@esposadejoyhuerta
Teeehheehehehe real
