꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ using her to blot your lipstick . . . natasha romanoff x fem!reader, fluff
You're sitting on the bathroom counter, carefully dragging lipstick across your lips. It's a rare night when the two of you can relax and doll up for a fancy dinner.
Well, you doll up.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Nat strapping a gun to her thigh, just above the slit in her dress. It's simple and sleek, the complete opposite of your look. You prefer going all out, layering colors and textures until everything looks like you've stepped out of a Fancy Nancy book.
Glancing back at your reflection, you study your lips. The deep red is too bold. It throws the whole look off.
"Nat—"
"No. We're going to be late," she cuts you off, stepping into her heels.
You pout. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."
Natasha eyes you in the mirror. Then she straightens and stalks over, heels clicking against the floor.
"You were going to ask if the lipstick is too bold." She steps between your legs, fingers tilting your chin up. "It's not."
"It is."
"Baby."
You cup her face and she leans closer like she can't help it. The thought that you could make her lose her control sends a giddy feeling through you.
You turn her head and press a kiss to her jaw, leaving a bright red mark behind.
She exhales through her nose. "Really?"
You admire it with a satisfied grin as her hands settle on your hips. "Done."
She lets her forehead fall against yours.
"Can we go now?" she asks.
You shake your head.
"What now?"
"I need a kiss."
"Of course you do." She mutters, but gives in anyway.
masterlist
wrote this on my phone in 20 mins so if it’s bad that’s why 😭 also i finally wrote my first natasha fic!!!
changing the locks on your heart ‘cause you’re bored
ᥫ᭡natasha romanoff x fem!reader
ᥫ᭡summary: You worry that your situation with Natasha has become one-sided, but she’s quick to reassure you of the opposite
ᥫ᭡content: fluff + a dash of comfort; legal age gap; technically stark!reader; gay panic because obviously; soft!nat allegations; a lot of exposition cause i couldn’t help myself; not proofread;
ᥫ᭡a/n: HAPPY PRIDE! 🏳️🌈 even though i cancelled my fic girl summer event, this was a draft for it that i’d already finished, so i believe it deserves to be out in the world! i’m still just trying to take my time off writing right now, but i hope you enjoy this fic in the meantime! i hope to be back in the swing of things soon
The summer heat wrapped around the compound like a blanket, sunlight glaring off of the massive pool outside the Avengers Tower. Music drifted faintly from the outdoor speakers set up, Cap and Clint took turns on the grill. You sat curled up in one of the lounge chairs in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, trying very hard to focus on the book in your hands. Trying and failing. Because Natasha lay in the chair beside yours. And Natasha in the summer was unfair.
She wore a black bikini and dark sunglasses, stretched out beneath the sunlight. One arm rested behind her head while the other draped lazily across her stomach. Relaxed Natasha was rare enough. Relaxed Natasha inviting you to spend the day with her? Was like a diamond in the rough.
Earlier that morning, she’d knocked lightly on your bedroom door before leaning against the frame. “Come sit by the pool with me today,” Simple, casual. But your heart had started racing immediately anyway.
Your pull to Natasha, and her pull right back to you, in a word had been miraculous. You’d been a young friend of Tony’s, something of a little sister to the man. You’d come from a troubled, orphaned past and he’d given you a place to stay. Now, you lived at the compound. You helped where you could, with research, mission support, communications, the less flashy stuff. Something else you’d gotten and you weren’t exactly sure how, was Natasha Romanoff’s attention.
You noticed a stark (no pun intended) difference from the looks she gave her other comrades and the looks she gave you. Soft looks were reserved from you, soft tones even more so. And you can’t remember having ever seen Natasha hug the other Avengers, or squeeze their hand, running her thumb along their knuckles. But that was the treatment that you got.
You’d spent your late nights together when neither of you could sleep, just you and Natasha in the kitchen with decaf coffee and deep conversations. Then came the touches. Natasha’s hand on the small of your back. Her knee bumping hours beneath conference tables. Natasha taking and squeezing your hand when she could sense you were overwhelmed with something.
You weren’t sure when it had shifted into something else. Maybe it was when Natasha started kissing you on the cheek when you ended the night. Maybe things had shifted the night she showed up at your room after a nightmare, and you’d held her close, snuggling up until sunrise. More than likely, it was the tennis court incident. God, the tennis court.
You still thought about it constantly. It happened last month after one of Tony’s parties. Too many people, too much noise. You’d barely gotten two words in with Natasha all evening.
Then suddenly, she’d appeared at your side and muttered, “Come with me,”
No explanation. Just Natasha leading you through the compound at midnight, fingers hooked loosely around your wrist. You’d ended up at the outdoor tennis courts under dim floodlights, warm summer air thick around you.
The second that gate clicked shut behind you, Natasha kissed you. Hard. Like she’d been holding herself back all night. You remembered stumbling backward until your spine hit the fence, Natasha crowding impossibly close while her hands framed your face.
You’d laughed breathlessly against her mouth at one point and whispered, “Nat—“
“I know,” she’d murmured before kissing you again. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she didn’t want to. You remembered hoping the moment never ended. And the way Natasha had rested her forehead against yours afterward, your breaths mingling, made you think she felt the same exact way.
So why did you still feel insane about it half the time? Why did every unanswered text make your stomach twist? Why did every mission leave you wondering if Natasha would come back distant again? Why did you feel so deeply while Natasha remained impossible to read? The thoughts followed you everywhere, even now. Especially now. Here you were, spiraling quietly beside her.
Sure, Natasha had been affectionate today. Softer, seeking you out more often. But your brain kept insisting that it was temporary. That eventually Natasha would realize you cared too much.
You turned another page in your book without processing a single word. A moment later, Natasha shifts beside you. You felt her looking before you actually glanced over. Sure enough, her sunglasses had dipped slightly down her nose so she could peer over the frames. Her smile was sleepy and fond and it made your chest squeeze.
“What?” you ask softly.
“Do you know you furrow your brows when you’re trying really hard to concentrate?” Natasha says.
Heat crawls into your face immediately. “I’m not straining myself or anything. I’m just reading. But it’s hot, so yeah, it’s a little hard to focus.”
Natasha snickers and settles back again. You try again to focus on your book, and fail a second time. Because every few minutes, Natasha would glance over at you. And sometimes she’d smile, and sometimes, she’d just look. Like she was just taking you in, admiring your presence. Which somehow made everything worse. Because if Natasha cared, really cared, wouldn’t things feel more certain than this? Wouldn’t you know what you were to her?
You were so lost in your own thoughts that you almost startled when a shadow suddenly crossed your book.
You look up, and Natasha is stood above your chair now, sunlight outlining her hair in coppery gold. God, she was beautiful.
“Wanna get in the water with me?” Natasha asks.
The answer escapes before you can think too hard about sounding eager. “I’d love to.”
Natasha smiles and holds out her hand. Your pulse skips as you take it. Her fingers curl around yours with familiar ease, and she gently tugs you to your feet. The walk to the pool was short, but Natasha never let go.
The concrete heats the soles of your feet while distant laughter echoes around the yard. Natasha stops at the water’s edge beside you. Blue water gleams beneath the afternoon sun.
For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, Natasha quietly asks, “What’s going on?”
Your stomach drops, but you attempt a smile. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been in your head all day, I can tell.”
Of course she noticed. Natasha noticed everything about you.
“It’s nothing.” You deflect.
Natasha turns fully toward you then. “Hey.” She squeezes your hand once. “Talk to me.”
And maybe it was the heat of the sunlight, or the way she’d looked at you all morning, but suddenly the words were pushing at your throat, too hard to keep inside.
“You ever worry,” you started quietly, staring at the pool water instead of her face, “that maybe you made something bigger in your head than it actually is?”
Your question is met with silence and you immediately regret speaking. Your laugh is nervous and you go for another deflection. “Forget it. That sounds dramatic.”
“Don’t do that.” Natasha says coolly.
You swallow hard. Natasha steps close enough for you to feel her body heat, smell the intoxicating musk of her perfume. “What makes you think this isn’t real to me?”
The question catches you so off guard that you finally look at her. Natasha’s expression had gone soft in that way she only allowed around you. It made your heart stuttered.
“You’re hard to read sometimes,” you admitted.
A flicker of guilt flashes across Natasha’s face and it surprises you. Then, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The gesture was unbearably tender.
“You know why I brought you to the tennis court that night?” she asks quietly.
Heat floods your face once again. You shake your head.
“Because I’d just spent four hours wanting to kiss you,” Natasha murmurs. “And I couldn’t stand pretending otherwise anymore.”
Your breath caught. Natasha’s thumb traces lightly across your cheekbone. “I invite you into my space constantly,” she continues softly. “You’re the first person I look for when I come home from missions. I sleep better with you beside me,” A tiny smile tugs at her mouth. “You’ve somehow convinced the world’s greatest spy to willingly talk about her feelings.”
A startled laugh escapes you through the emotion clogging your chest. Natasha steps even closer.
“This isn’t one-sided,” she said firmly. “I’m so incredibly fond of you, y/n,”
Every spiraling thought in your brain seemed to stop in that moment. Natasha looked genuinely offended by the thought of you doubting her feelings for you. And suddenly all those tiny moments over the past few months rearranged themselves differently in your head.
Natasha bringing you coffee exactly how you liked without asking. Her hand finding yours beneath blankets during movie nights. The way she always drifted toward you in crowded rooms. The tennis court. This pool.
You look up at her, searching her eyes. “I’m fond of you too, Natasha,” you reply. “So goddamn fond.”
Natasha’s hands cup your face again and she drags your mouth against hers. You hum at the taste, at the feel of her, your hands wrapping around her waist. Your heart is a ticking metronome in your chest, and in that moment, you know you’re exactly where you need to be. And you’d never doubt Natasha’s feelings for you ever again, even for a minute.
now some oc writers are using the “x reader” tag and giving the excuse that “it’s just a different perspective.” it doesn’t matter if you use that tag IF YOU’RE NOT INCLUDING THE READER! YOU have your own tag, leave us alone.
the “x reader” tag exists so that readers of any background, appearance, or identity can immerse themselves in a story and feel included as the main character.
when you write a story centered around your own original character, with a defined name, personality, and often a specific appearance, you’re no longer inviting the reader to step into that role, you’re writing about your character, not the reader. that’s completely fine! writing oc content is valid and has its own space.
but misusing the “x reader” tag to gain visibility or clicks is misleading. it sets the wrong expectations and excludes readers who were looking for stories where they could truly see themselves in the narrative. if your story focuses on your oc, label it honestly.
use the “oc x canon” tag or “original character” there’s no shame in that. but please stop co-opting a space that’s meant to be inclusive and flexible for all readers, especially those who are often underrepresented in fiction. the “x reader” tag is not a blank slate for oc projection.
it’s meant to include everyone, not just your creative vision.
respect your audience. tag responsibly.
NOTE: writing in another point of view like “SHE/HE went to the market” instead of “YOU went to the market” does not count as “x reader.”
(not 100% but most of the time) don’t try to be clever or sneaky about it.
NOTE 2: by the way, regarding the second image, it’s great to see more asian, black, and mixed oc’s! but even so, that still doesn’t make it a reader insert, let alone fit the tag. the reader needs to be the main character.
Strip teases/lap dances and love confessions thru singing in fics always makes me cringe. I cant do it. Makes me shrivel up like a turtle into its shell.
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
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