Recent Fic Post : What If? A Rewritten Devotion
What History?
Dont' Fall in Love with Me
Announcement : Update on Series
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Miscellaneous Details
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⧗ (* means it contains smut)
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Natasha Romanoff Masterlist
Series/Multi-Chapter
Marry Me?
~ Part 1 | Love in Red | Part 2
⧗ You "teasingly" ask Natasha to marry you at different times even though you two are not together.
Red Room Sacrifice
~ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
⧗ You grew up and trained with Natasha in the Red Room. Your close relationship with her is put to the test during your final exam.
Boundless Devotion
⧗ MedievalAU. Natasha is the eldest princess of the Romanov Kingdom. As the time of her coronation approaches, she is suddenly forced to make a decision – either find herself a partner or her parents will choose one for her.
Everlasting Devotion (sequel series) (ongoing)
⧗ MedievalAU. With her coronation over, Natasha is now the queen of the Romanov Kingdom. However, the position comes with challenges from both old and new enemies as Natasha tries to maintain the peace while also navigating her relationship with you.
Detecting Love
~ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
⧗ A person with the power to detect lies meets the spy who has been trained to lie her entire life.
Dyeing to See You Again
~ Part 1 | Part 2
⧗ The need for a change of style brings about a reunion between Natasha and her old friend.
A Feline Connection
⧗ Natasha makes a new furry little friend and becomes captivated by its owner along the way.
Endearing Entanglements
~ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
⧗ You give Natasha a visit in Norway and remind her she has more friends to call on for help.
Whispered in Russian
~ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
⧗ Natasha teaches you how to speak some Russian during your time together on a mission.
Criminal Temptation (ongoing)
⧗ Natasha went undercover to dismantle a crime empire—getting close was just part of the job. Years later, the one she betrayed is out of prison, and now Natasha must decide what’s more dangerous—the woman rising through the criminal world, or the love she thought she buried years ago.
Fate’s Last Soul (ongoing)
⧗ To enter the halls of Valhalla, a soul must prove themselves worthy. Trials meant for fallen Asgardian warriors with legends of strength, valor, and sacrifice. A hero. Natasha Romanoff is none of those things. She's a mortal. A stranger to these realms. And yet…she is the final soul entrusted to you, the last you must guide into paradise.
The Secret Admirer (ongoing)
⧗ You receive a gift, but you don't know who sent it.
Oneshots/Side Stories
No Regrets
⧗ What if Natasha has a chance to change your fate?
Widow’s Charm
⧗ Natasha finds herself falling for Tony’s new lab assistant and weapons technician.
Come with Me
⧗ You are forced to work with Secretary Ross to track down Natasha after she violated the Sokovia Accords and disappeared.
Trust Me
⧗ Side story/prequel to Come With Me - You work with Clint to eliminate a dangerous Russian spy in Budapest.
Thankful For You
⧗ You invite a mysterious red-haired stranger to join you for a Thanksgiving dinner.
Your Special Day
⧗ You celebrate Natasha’s special day with small surprises for her.
Unspoken Confessions
⧗ You wished you had told Natasha the truth about how you felt, but now it was too late.
Holiday Teasings
⧗ A festive new addition to Natasha’s usual outfit surprises all of those around her.
Chasing Shadows
⧗ A sudden mission on New Year’s Eve brings Natasha face to face with someone from her past.
Love in Red
⧗ Short Side Story to Marry Me? - The color red means something different when it is about Natasha.
Fateful Encounter
⧗ Prequel to Boundless Devotion - MedievalAU. Natasha’s first meeting with you and the beginning of your friendship with her. Flashback to how it all started and a small prequel to events in Boundless Devotion.
All's Fair in Love and War
⧗ Natasha has some summer fun with you and the Barton children at the beach.
Who Would Sit at Your Grave the Longest?
⧗ Who would ever mourn the life of a trained spy and assassin?
A Feline Connection: Halloween Special
⧗ Natasha is getting everything ready for the Halloween event while also helping you find the right costume for her favorite feline.
Flustered Crushes
⧗ The Black Widow does not get flustered. So why is it that Natasha can’t seem to stop embarrassing herself in front of you?
A Feline Connection: First Meetings
⧗ You have two encounters that you never imagined would change the course of your life.
Christmas Together
⧗ It's Christmas Eve, and Natasha arrives to her daughter's ballet recital, only to discover a small problem.
Be With You Again
⧗ The only thing Natasha wants is to be with you again.
Friends Don’t Kiss
⧗ Friends spend time together. They share inside jokes, quiet moments, maybe even late-night movies. And sometimes…they kiss. That’s normal. Right? At least, that’s what Natasha keeps telling herself.
A Feline Connection: New Friends
⧗ Widow makes some new friends with some of the other pets in the Avenger Compound.
A Feline Connection: The Other Cat
⧗ Some jealous drama arises when another cat is at the Avengers Compound.
In Your Arms
⧗ You have always been a touchy-feely person. Natasha on the other hand is not. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want your attention.
Little Details
⧗ Natasha Romanoff has always been trained to notice the smallest details—the ones that reveal what people want, what they fear, what they hide. But when it comes to you, there’s one detail she can’t seem to uncover.
A Feline Connection: Too Much?
⧗ Is it such a bad thing to do so much for someone you care about?
Never in Doubt
⧗ The world can be wrong about many things, but nothing stings Natasha more than seeing them being wrong about who you're with.
Take my Hand
⧗ Sequel of In Your Arms. It's a simple gesture. A simple action. But for someone who isn’t naturally affectionate like you, taking your hand is the hardest thing Natasha has ever tried to do.
It's Cold Outside
⧗ With the start of winter, you need to be sure Natasha stays warm.
Safe on the Ice
⧗ Natasha finds a soft connection amid the holiday quiet.
Remember my Touch
⧗ Sequel of Take my Hand. The incident leave Natasha missing your touch again but this time for a reason outside of her control.
Still Yours *
⧗ Some missions end, some relationships don’t, and one stolen night with Natasha proves neither of you ever really learned how to let go.
PR Nightmares
⧗ Being the PR manager for the Avengers means spinning disasters into headlines and keeping gods, soldiers, and billionaires on message. It would almost be manageable—if only a certain red-haired agent didn’t treat every press event like optional side quests, rumors like entertainment, and you like her favorite game.
Blurring the Boundaries
⧗ Natasha thought keeping things casual would be simple, that is, until the lines between what’s casual and what’s not start to blur.
Dont' Fall in Love with Me
⧗ 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.
What History?
⧗ Natasha Romanoff has made a lot of mistakes. Leaving you behind was one of them. Regret comes easy. Repairing what she broke may already be impossible.
What If? A Rewritten Devotion
⧗ Side Story of Boundless Devotion Series. MedievalAU. What if your past was different? What if certain events didn't occur like they did? What if you didn’t grow up in the Romanov Kingdom?
Summary: Side Story* of Boundless Devotion Series. MedievalAU. What if your past was different? What if certain events didn't occur like they did? What if you didn’t grow up in the Romanov Kingdom?
*contains spoilers for series (pls read main story first)*
Warnings: fluff
Words: 4287
Your hand pauses mid-flip, the smooth texture of the parchment brushing your fingertips as a scarlet petal drifts down from above and lands perfectly in the center of the page. For a moment, you stare at it, struck by the vivid color, bright, bold, and too early in the season to be here at all.
Its name eludes you, but you’re familiar with its kind. Rare, stubborn flowers that usually wait for the harsh winter to bloom. But this one must’ve grown impatient. You smile faintly at the thought—impatience and stubbornness, you can relate to.
Before you can wonder how it ended up shedding petals all the way into your secluded pavilion, a soft clearing of the throat echoes off one of the marble pillars.
“Jarvis,” you sigh, trying and failing to sound surprised, “what can I do for you?”
Jarvis bows with the perfection of someone who had served your family long before you were born. His silver-threaded hair doesn’t shift out of place, nor does his expression, though his eyes carry that familiar glimmer of I-know-exactly-why-you’re-hiding.
“Your brother is requesting your presence in the parlour, Your Highness.”
You narrow your eyes. The parlour. Not the dining hall, not his study. The parlour meant guests. The parlour meant trouble.
“And did he happen to mention why?” you ask pointedly.
Jarvis presses a hand behind his back, posture immaculate.
“His exact phrasing was that ‘a surprise is waiting for you.’”
A groan escapes before you can stop it. Another surprise. In other words, another forced introduction to some noble Tony found ‘respectable,’ which apparently meant ‘boring,’ ‘self-absorbed,’ or ‘someone who talks at you for hours about something excruciatingly uninteresting.’
You eye the lone red petal for a moment before shutting your book with a soft thump.
“Jarvis,” you begin, leaning forward with all the seriousness you rarely used on him, “you’ve been taking care of us since our parents died. But we both know you adore me more.” Jarvis exhales as if you’ve stabbed him with the truth. “So be honest: what surprise does my dear brother have waiting for me?”
The man’s perfect composure slips just enough for a tiny twitch of an amused smile.
“Well, if rumors are to be believed, I may have seen the coachman of one of His Majesty’s more…shameless companions arrive early this morning.”
Your shoulders slump.
“Another setup,” you mutter. “Gods, does he think if he sends enough suitors, one will magically become appealing?”
Jarvis says nothing, and that in itself is the answer.
You clasp your hands dramatically and give him your best pleading expression.
“Please…please pretend you never found me. I will owe you for the rest of my life.”
Jarvis hesitates just long enough to pretend he’s considering your request really hard. Then he gives a polite bow.
“My apologies. It seems I was mistaken. The princess left the castle earlier and will be spending her day in town.”
A victorious smile breaks across your face.
“I appreciate you, Jarvis.”
He inclines his head, which in Jarvis-language is basically shouting you’re welcome, and walks off as if he never saw you.
You sink back onto the cushioned bench of your hidden pavilion, surrounded by roses and carved stone archways, blessedly alone again. Opening your book, you turn to your place and gently lift the scarlet petal that was pressed inside.
But another gust of wind swirls through the garden, tugging the petal from your grasp. It spirals upward, dancing through a shaft of sunlight before disappearing somewhere above the pavilion roof.
You sigh, return to your reading, only to freeze when a soft grunt drifts down from the tree branches overhead. Then another.
Petals suddenly rain down in front of your face, an entire flurry of them.
You look up sharply.
Instead of a bird or a squirrel, you see a human form wedged awkwardly between the leaves, balancing on a thick branch. Cloaked, hooded, and absolutely not supposed to be here.
“Hey!” you shout before you can think.
The figure jerks violently at the sound of your voice, one foot slipping off the edge. Their hand shoots out to grab a nearby branch, but it’s thin and snaps instantly. The entire body comes crashing down, bouncing off the pavilion roof with a thud before rolling ungracefully onto the ground.
“Oh my gods—are you alright?!” You drop to your knees beside the fallen stranger.
A low groan answers you as the cloaked figure clutches their side. You hover your hands over them, instinctively wanting to help, until reality strikes you.
You’re in the royal garden. Behind multiple layers of guards. Behind secured walls.
Which means whoever this is, they’re still an intruder.
You jerk back, scrambling toward the garden path.
“Jarv—!”
A hand slaps over your mouth. Your back hits the grass as another hand pins your wrist. You turn your head and meet—
Eyes. Green. Startlingly soft despite the situation. They widen at your panic, framed by wisps of red hair that have escaped the dark hood. Her breathing is quick from the fall, her lips parted slightly in focus, and—
You forget how to breathe for a second.
“Wait!” she hisses, voice hushed and desperate. “Let me explain!”
Why is even her whisper that pretty?
She leans in slightly, ensuring only you can hear.
“My name is Natasha Romanov. I’m the queen of the Romanov kingdom.”
You blink.
…She’s also insane.
You blindly reach behind you, fingers brushing the spine of your discarded book. In one swift motion, you grab it and smack her arm.
“Hey!” she yelps, voice raised in indignation.
Her grip on your wrist stays strong, though she shifts her other hand from your mouth to block your book strikes with surprisingly quick reflexes.
“Stop hitting me!”
“You let me go first!”
To your surprise, she does. She instantly releases your wrist, raises both hands in surrender, and sits back on her knees to give you space.
“There. Free. Happy?” she says, breathing a little heavier from the fall and the brief scuffle.
You glare, sputtering, offended that she’s implying you’re the unreasonable one.
Before you can respond, rapid footsteps echo through the garden. Jarvis rounds the corner with three guards, eyes honing in on you first, then the cloaked woman surrounded by petals like some chaotic painting.
“Your Highness!” he says, rushing to help you up and immediately positioning himself between you and the intruder.
The guards draw weapons, surrounding her in a tight formation. She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she seems…tired. And annoyingly composed.
“Are you hurt?” Jarvis asks you.
You shake your head, pointing at the tree.
“She fell out of the branches.”
The woman snorts.
“I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t startled me.”
Jarvis’s arm shoots out across your front just as you attempt to step forward in indignation.
“Well, forgive me for being surprised someone was lurking in the trees!” you snap.
The woman lifts her chin, a subtle smirk tugging at her lips, as if she’s far too amused by you.
“Desperate times,” she says lightly. “And I told you… I’m Queen Natasha Romanov.” Slowly, she lowers her hood, revealing all of her fire-red hair, sharp cheekbones, and calm certainty. “I’m here to request a meeting with your king, who’s been avoiding me.”
The garden seems to be still around her. Even the guards hesitate.
Natasha raises a brow at you, awaiting your response, and your heart, traitorous thing that it is, skips. Twice.
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You keep your eyes locked to the stone path ahead, refusing to so much as glance at the woman walking beside you. Somehow, after Jarvis confirmed her identity and the guards stepped down, the responsibility of escorting Queen Natasha Romanov to your brother fell on your shoulders.
Of course it did. Tony always had impeccable timing when it came to making your life difficult.
You inhale slowly. Then exhale sharply.
A queen. A whole actual queen. In your tree. And falling out of it.
What sort of queen climbs trees anyway?
You’re so deep in this very dignified mental rant that you don’t notice Natasha leaning forward sideways towards your face until the very last moment when your peripheral vision catches a blur of red hair. You jerk back so abruptly you nearly trip over your own feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” you squeak, raising a hand to cover your mouth. Only belatedly do you realize that you are shielding the very lips that almost collided with her face.
Her eyes sparkle mischievously as she takes in your flustered state. The corner of her mouth lifts in an unhurried, knowing smile.
“I was trying to see what had you so focused,” she says lightly, gaze sliding downward. “And I knew that looked familiar. You’re holding my mother’s book.”
You freeze, clutching the leather-bound volume tighter to your chest as if you might shield it from her sight.
“So?” you snap, lifting your chin in challenge.
Natasha’s gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, her smirk deepens as she studies you like something intriguing, like something she hadn’t expected to find in this kingdom but is thoroughly delighted to observe.
“I always wondered,” she muses, “why your brother insisted on acquiring copies of her works every time he visited Romanov lands. Now I understand who he was really bringing them home for.”
Heat floods your face. You glare because glaring is much safer than acknowledging the truth she’s just effortlessly exposed.
“Are you making fun of me?”
She blinks in honest surprise before laughing softly, the sound warm and low.
“No. Actually, I think it’s…sweet. Very different from the impression I had of the Stark king.”
Your surprise and curiosity get the better of you.
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it because she’s right. The sound escapes you in a small, unguarded bubble of amusement, and you immediately press your fingers over your lips to hide your smile.
But not before Natasha sees it.
Her expression softens subtly as though she’s pleased to have earned that reaction from you. For a heartbeat, her face is gentle in a way that feels vulnerable. Then she replaces it with another smirk, the mischievous teasing back in full force.
“Of course,” she adds airily, “with a little sister who blushes so easily from a simple gesture, it’s no wonder he spoils you.”
You gape at her, scandalized, eyes wide and cheeks burning hotter than fire as she turns to continue on the path. You grip your book, fully prepared to commit assault-by-literature and launch it at her knowing face.
But it’s plucked cleanly from your hands.
“My lady,” Jarvis says, voice impeccably stern as he holds the book high out of your reach until your hands drop back to your sides. He returns it only once you stop vibrating with indignation. “She is still the Queen of another kingdom here for diplomatic reasons. Please refrain from rash actions.”
You snatch the book back with a huff, primarily because Jarvis is right and secondarily because Natasha is watching you with the most insufferably pleased expression you’ve ever seen in your life.
She glances over her shoulder at you, eyebrow raised in silent provocation.
Are you going to keep up?
Your pride prickles. You close the distance immediately, matching her stride with determined purpose. But the moment she subtly leans forward again to catch your expression, you whip your head in the opposite direction with a sharp, indignant huff.
Her laugh is short, warm, and impossible to ignore. The sound follows the two of you down the corridor.
The carved double doors of the parlour finally come into view, gleaming beneath the afternoon light. You halt abruptly and jab a finger toward them, refusing to look directly at the woman beside you.
“He’s in there,” you announce crisply. You pivot on your heel and stride toward the adjoining corridor before Natasha can say anything else that might fluster you.
“Hey! Wait,” she calls, footsteps quick behind you. “Where are you going?”
You stop and turn just enough to raise an eyebrow.
“Anywhere but here.”
For the first time since she fell out of your tree, an uncertain expression flickers across her face. She glances between you and the parlour door as though debating which direction is the correct choice.
You, however, don’t hesitate. If you stay anywhere near Tony and his “surprise,” you’ll be trapped in another painfully curated date before you can blink. You’re halfway down the hallway when—
“Hold on—”
“There you are!”
You close your eyes and sigh. Tony’s voice bounces down the corridor like the world’s most obnoxious herald.
You turn slowly, already bracing yourself, and spot him marching toward you with a look of theatrical disappointment etched across his face. But what catches your attention first is that Natasha is not by the parlour doors anymore.
Instead, she’s only a few steps behind you, as if she chose to follow you.
Tony points a finger at you, shaking his head.
“Unbelievable. And here I was preparing a surprise for you.”
“You can keep it for yourself,” you deadpan, arms crossing.
He opens his mouth to retort, but then notices Natasha. He gestures toward her without even looking.
“And who is this?”
The shift in Natasha is immediate and striking. The teasing glimmer fades, replaced by sharp composure, the kind only someone trained to wear a crown could muster. She steps forward, shoulders straight, chin high.
“Queen Natasha of the Romanov Kingdom,” she says. “I have been requesting an audience with you for weeks to finalize the trade negotiations between our kingdoms.”
Tony squints, tapping his chin as if trying to recall what a ‘trade negotiation’ even is. Then, predictably, he turns to Jarvis.
“Jarvis, I believe I’m fully booked for the rest of the day, aren’t I?”
Jarvis exhales through his nose, the refined equivalent of a frustrated sigh from one who knows what sort of response that he’s expecting.
“It would seem so, Your Majesty.”
Tony claps once, satisfied.
“There we have it. So, perhaps another time, Your Grace.”
He waves her off like a bothersome merchant. Meanwhile, Jarvis immediately steps forward, bowing apologetically yet ushering her away with a diplomat’s trained subtlety.
Natasha stiffens, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The tension radiates off her filled with anger, humiliation, and the weary frustration of a queen who crossed borders only to be dismissed like an errand girl.
Your chest tightens with sympathy, figuring she’s only trying to accomplish her duties. Before you can dwell on it, he rounds on you.
“And you,” he huffs. “Judging by your attitude, I take it Jarvis spoiled the surprise. Fine. No build-up. But you’ll like this one, I swear.”
You drag a hand down your face. He has said that exact line every single time. And every single time, the suitor has been worse. This will probably never end unless—
A thought sparks in your mind.
“I can’t,” you blurt, brushing past him before you can talk yourself out of it. You stride straight to Natasha, slip your arm through hers, and tug her close. “Because I already have someone.”
Natasha freezes for half a second, then looks at you with raised brows, puzzled but not displeased at the thought of being yours. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she shifts closer, body angled toward yours.
Tony’s jaw drops. “But she’s—”
“A queen,” you interrupt, letting smugness drip from every syllable. “I highly doubt whichever lord you dug up could possibly compete with that.”
Tony narrows his eyes in suspicion.
“You’re lying. When would you two even meet?”
You don’t blink.
“In town. While you were ignoring her requests for meetings.”
You lean your head against Natasha’s shoulder, hand resting lightly atop her arm.
Natasha glances down at you, and something warm flashes in her eyes. To your surprise, she slides her arm from yours only to wrap it around your waist, pulling you flush against her side.
Your heart slams itself against your ribs in betrayal.
She faces Tony with regal composure.
“She was reading my mother’s book when we met,” she says. “And after our first encounter, I wanted to know her better.”
It’s stunning how smoothly she lies while also speaking the truth.
Tony opens his mouth, then stops. You can see the moment he realizes he may have inadvertently orchestrated this entire situation by constantly ignoring the Romanov’s request to meet.
He shakes his head violently.
“No. No, absolutely not. I don’t buy it. You’re bluffing.”
Your patience snaps, frustrated at how long he wants to prolong this discussion, just to catch you in your lie.
“If we were faking it,” you say sharply, “would I do this?”
Before anyone can think, you turn, cup the back of Natasha’s neck, and pull her toward you.
Your lips meet hers.
It’s meant to be quick—a simple demonstration. But the moment you touch, Natasha exhales, soft and startled, and her hand tightens at your waist. Suddenly, she leans in, returning the kiss with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. You feel heat bloom across your skin as her lips press more firmly to yours, warm and sure and—
You pull back in a rush, breath unsteady, face inches from hers. The world feels strangely quiet. Too quiet.
Natasha’s eyes flutter open, pupils wide, her expression dazed…and something else. Something that makes your pulse stutter.
“Jarvis! Do something!” Tony’s voice cracks like a whip through the charged air.
You step back, clearing your throat violently, forcing your composure to materialize from thin air. You turn to Tony with an arched brow.
“Well. Since you don’t have time for her,” you say coolly, “I suppose I’ll just have her to myself.”
And before he can regain his voice, you seize Natasha’s hand and march down the corridor.
She follows without resistance. Without a word. But when you risk a quick glance over your shoulder, you catch it.
A soft flush dusts her cheeks. Her eyes dart away the second you meet them.
A slow, triumphant smile curves your lips.
Serves her right, you think, savoring it. It seems the Romanov queen can be flustered too.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You close your bedroom door with a gentle thud, the sound muffled by the heavy velvet drapes lining your walls. You remain facing it for a moment, hand still on the handle, breath caught in your throat.
You can’t believe you brought her here. The Romanov queen. The woman you just kissed. Into your private space.
Gods, what were you thinking?
You close your eyes, inhale deeply, and school your expression before turning around to face the consequences of your impulsiveness.
Only to find Natasha already wandering your room.
She stands before your bookshelf, fingertips gliding across the spines of your neatly arranged collection, her curiosity unrestrained and entirely regal at once. The soft rustle of her cloak as she shifts to pull a volume from the shelf snaps you out of your daze.
You lunge forward, placing your hand over hers before she can tug the book out.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you demand, far too quickly, far too defensively.
Natasha blinks, then lifts an eyebrow. She says nothing. Instead, she glances meaningfully down at where your hand covers hers.
Heat floods your face. You snatch your hand away as if burned and hastily slide the book back into place.
Natasha lets out a single soft breath, a half laugh, as she gestures around your shelves.
“You and my mother would get along well,” she muses, “judging by all these books you have.” Her gaze flicks to you, lips curling mischievously. “Probably not as close as how you treat me, though.”
Your cheeks flare instantly. Of course, she brings that up.
You bite down a retort, inhale deeply, and force yourself to meet her eyes.
“I apologize,” you say stiffly. “For kissing you so suddenly.”
Natasha tilts her head, considering you as though the apology is unexpected or not where she planned this conversation to go at all.
Not wanting her to have a chance to fluster you again, you take a step into her space, boldly or foolishly, you aren’t sure, and her eyes widen ever so slightly.
“However,” you challenge, “why did you kiss me back?”
Her lips quirk upward.
“You mean: why did I play along with your lie, so you wouldn’t have to endure another suitor?”
You nod, feeling absurdly anxious for her answer.
Natasha shrugs, utterly unapologetic.
“Your brother’s been wasting my time for weeks. Bothering him a little felt…deserved.”
The reason makes you laugh softly in surprise despite yourself, and Natasha smiles in return. The atmosphere in the room eases instantly, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.
Until you accidentally glance down at her lips. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But enough that your pulse stutters at the memory of her touch.
You immediately clear your throat and turn to the shelves, pretending to tidy a book that was perfectly aligned already.
“Well,” you say tightly, “I wouldn’t worry too much. Tony will probably rush to meet with you before the day ends just to remove you from my vicinity.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, leaning her shoulder against the bookcase. Her eyes track you lazily, amusement softening her features.
“Was that your plan all along?” she asks.
“Yes,” you answer. “A mutually beneficial solution.”
“I’m impressed,” she admits. Then she tilts her head to catch your gaze before you can dart away again. “But am I really that bad of an option to be with?”
Your heart nearly stops. The immediate, instinctive answer—No, you’re not—rises too quickly. You swallow it down, refusing to let it escape.
“I didn’t say that,” you mutter instead.
Her eyes brighten. A small smile tugs at her lips, one softer than any she’s shown so far.
Silence settles between you. And yet the room doesn’t feel empty. Her presence fills the space in a way you can’t exactly define. Warm, magnetic, and quietly disarming all at once.
A knock breaks the peace.
“My lady,” Jarvis calls, voice muffled through the door. “The king requests the Romanov queen’s presence to complete the trade negotiations.”
You give Natasha a pointed look. Told you.
Opening the door, you catch Jarvis’s eye and ask, “The truth, Jarvis.”
A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before he relents.
“His Majesty does not wish the two of you to spend too much time alone in your bedchamber.” He bows politely to Natasha. “No offense, Your Majesty.”
“None taken,” Natasha replies easily. “I should go and finish this. I was meant to head back home days ago.”
You frown at the reminder of how long Tony’s negligence delayed her work.
“I’m sorry again for my brother,” you say.
She shakes her head and waves off your apology.
“I should thank you. Without your help, I doubt I’d have secured a meeting at all.”
You scoff lightly. The woman overcame the castle’s security measures and climbed a tree just for the chance to complete her duties.
“Somehow, I doubt you’re incapable of achieving anything you want,” you tell her sincerely.
Natasha blinks, momentarily surprised at the trust in your words, before a grin spreads across her face, warm and genuine. You find yourself smiling back.
Jarvis politely clears his throat, and the spell breaks.
“Shall we go, Your Majesty?”
“Right.” Natasha takes a step forward but stops at your doorframe. Turning, she reaches into her cloak.
You freeze as her hand lifts toward your face. Gently, carefully, she tucks something into your hair.
“A little farewell gift,” she murmurs.
When she steps back, you brush your fingers through your hair and feel a soft petal. You turn to the vanity. The flower from the tree, scarlet, bright, and unmistakable, rests just above your ear.
A laugh slips from you.
“Now I wonder if you fell because of me…or because you were reaching for these flowers.”
Natasha’s expression softens into something tender. Something dangerously close to affection.
“Whichever reason,” she says quietly, “it was worth it.”
Your heart lurches. You open your mouth—maybe to ask her to stay for dinner, maybe to say something you’ll regret not telling her—but remember she must leave soon. So instead, you nod toward Jarvis.
“Take care of her. And try to keep Tony from tormenting her too much.”
Jarvis inclines his head. “Of course, my lady.”
Natasha steps out into the hall after Jarvis, but pauses with one hand resting lightly on your doorframe. She glances back at you, eyes warm.
“I noticed you don’t have any of my mother’s newer works,” she says. “When I return home, I’ll have fresh copies made and bring them with me the next time I visit.”
Your breath catches. Next time. She’s promising to meet with you next time. Not for diplomacy. Not out of royal obligations. But just to spend some time with you.
The realization sparks a quiet flutter in your chest, one you can’t quite hide. You manage a steady nod.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Her smile blooms instantly, unguarded and radiant. She lingers there for a heartbeat longer, as if reluctant to leave, before finally turning to go.
You lean against the doorway, watching her retreat down the corridor until she disappears from sight. Only then do you pluck the flower from your hair and turn it slowly between your fingers.
It had all begun with a single drifting petal, a simple brush of red against your palm. And somehow, you can’t help feeling that moment is what led Natasha Romanov into your world.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: thank you for reading!
This was finished long ago, and I decided to just post it now for some happiness in the midst of all the angst right now in the main story.
An alternate universe to my alternate universe, so that no matter which world, these two will somehow always find each other ♥️
I always knew to be scared if you ever wrote something angsty😭😂😂
Your writing is amazing as always ❤️ take care of yourself (no part 2 make the people suffer)
Nooo don't be scared 😂 Also your 'no part 2' genuinely made me laugh 😆 and you're not the only one. This is a first where I've had both people want and don't want a part 2
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has made a lot of mistakes. Leaving you behind was one of them. Regret comes easy. Repairing what she broke may already be impossible.
Warnings: angst
Words: 2108
Natasha peers around the corner of the hangar corridor. Her eyes carefully track the clusters of Avengers Compound personnel moving across the bay. Engineers and techs reorganize equipment cases while visiting SHIELD agents check their tablets and talk in low voices.
Everything looks normal, except for the way Natasha hovers near the shadow of the wall, weight shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.
She scans every face that passes, her breath stilling whenever someone gets too close. Then releases a breath of relief when she sees who they were. Or more accurately, who they are not.
“Who are you looking for?” a voice drawls behind her.
Natasha jumps before she can stop herself and turns to look over her shoulder.
Maria Hill stands there, arms folded and expression carved with amused curiosity.
Natasha straightens at once, face smoothing into a practiced calm.
“Just assessing the agents you brought with you,” she says coolly, crossing her arms.
Maria’s brow arches.
“Mm. And your assessment requires hiding behind a wall?”
Natasha goes to defend herself when the sound of approaching footsteps makes her glance over Maria’s shoulder. She then turns to the wall and lifts a hand to shield her face, staring at the metal plating as if suddenly deeply fascinated by the wall’s infrastructure.
The footsteps pass by without stopping.
Natasha slowly lowers her hand and sighs softly in relief when she sees that it wasn’t anyone familiar.
Maria watches this entire display with open delight.
“Ah,” Maria hums. “So. Who are we avoiding?”
“No one,” Natasha snaps defensively.
Maria raises a brow, giving her a pointed look at her response.
Not wanting to explain herself, Natasha turns to leave, eager to put this whole situation behind her—only to collide with a figure rounding the same corner at the same time.
Her hands act on reflex, steadying you with a firm, sure grip. Only to jolt back the second her brain catches up with her body. She drops her hold on you like she’s been burned, fingers hovering inches from your sleeves.
Your eyes, also wide and startled, lock with hers, recognition flashing across your face before anything else. Then, just as quickly, something colder settles in.
You step back, composing yourself.
“Hey,” Natasha breathes softly, almost tentative in her tone, like a request for a peace offering disguised as a greeting.
You look at her for a lingering second before dismissing her just as quickly. You turn to Maria instead, voice steady and professional.
“I have the reports you asked for, Commander.”
Maria’s lips curl into a grin she doesn’t bother to hide. She takes the tablet from you, glancing pointedly between the two of you.
“Well, hello, ‘no one,’” she says under her breath to Natasha in a singsong tone.
Natasha stiffens before throwing a warning glare at the other woman, but Maria just chuckles in response before gesturing for you to follow her to the conference room.
You walk away without another glance at her.
The rejection lands sharply in Natasha’s chest, but she doesn’t chase it. She watches instead as the door closes behind you, cutting her out.
Natasha shifts her weight, gaze drawn to the narrow pane of glass alongside the door. Inside, you stand across from Maria, already focused on the briefing. As if sensing her, your eyes lift and meet hers through the glass.
No surprise this time.
Only cold acknowledgment.
Then in one smooth motion, you reach up and slide the privacy screen down, shutting her out completely.
A quiet exhale slips past Natasha’s lips. She looks away, jaw flexing once.
You deserve that, she tells herself. You’re the one who disappeared.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The hum of quiet conversation dwindles as Steve steps forward, tapping the screen behind him to display the layout of a distant Hydra compound. Lights dim. The atmosphere shifts into focus. Everyone directs their attention toward the front.
Everyone but Natasha.
Despite her best efforts, her gaze keeps drifting to the other side of the long conference table to where you are.
You sit upright, attention locked on Steve, eyes deliberately avoiding the left side of the room where she is.
Even from here, Natasha can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw tightens every time Steve mentions the two teams working together.
A low, quiet sigh escapes her before she can stop it. Then a nudge at her elbow draws her attention.
Maria leans slightly toward her, voice pitched just low enough to blend into the shuffling of papers and muted voices around them.
“So,” Maria says, sounding almost casual, but Natasha catches the glint of mischief in her eyes. “Want to tell me what all that was earlier?”
Natasha’s brows pull together. She crosses her arms, posture defensive.
“Not particularly, no.”
Maria huffs in amusement.
“I don’t think you have a choice here,” she says.
Natasha scoffs and shakes her head lightly in disbelief.
“And why’s that?”
Maria holds up a finger.
“One: she’s one of my agents. And I need to know if there’s going to be any problem here.” A second finger. “Two: she had you—Natasha Romanoff—hiding behind walls.” A third finger. “And three: I promised Fury I’d mess with you at least once while we’re here since he can’t anymore. Something about tradition.”
Natasha slowly turns her head to stare at Maria with an unimpressed look.
Maria only smiles.
Natasha exhales sharply through her nose and glances back toward you, only to find your eyes already on her. The contact is brief and immediately electric.
However, your expression hardens on instinct, gaze sharpening into a glare before you turn away, chin lifting slightly in silent dismissal.
The reaction is expected. But that doesn’t make it sting any less.
You used to smile when you looked at me.
That thought makes Natasha lower her eyes to the table, fingers worrying the corner of the mission dossier. She can’t seem to keep them still.
“We…uh…” she murmurs under her breath.
Maria tilts her head, listening patiently.
Natasha’s lips press together. There isn’t a word that feels right. Dating was too small a label. Together too uncertain. Neither of you ever defined what it was.
But the outcome is the same, regardless of the label you two refused to give.
“I don’t know,” she finishes quietly, almost to herself.
Before Maria can respond, Steve’s voice cuts back through the room.
“Alright,” he says firmly, clicking the remote to shift the slide. “We’ll be working in joint units with SHIELD on this one.” He nods toward Maria. “Commander Hill will give assignments.”
Maria stands and moves to the front, clipboard in hand.
Natasha forces herself to sit up straighter, though she can feel dread coiling low in her stomach, a premonition she can’t quite shake.
Names are read. Agents are paired.
She barely registers them until she hears yours.
“Agent Y/l/n,” Maria announces, “you’ll be with Romanoff.”
Stunned silence hits Natasha like a physical force.
Across the table, you stiffen. Your chair scrapes softly as you sit up, eyes snapping toward Maria in immediate protest. Your hand starts to rise, ready to argue, refuse, do anything to prevent this.
But Maria has already moved on.
You slowly lower your hand, fingers curling into a fist on your lap. Then your head turns, not toward Maria, but snapping directly toward Natasha.
The glare you level at her is sharp enough to make her wince.
Behind the raised clipboard, Maria flashes Natasha a discreet thumbs-up.
Natasha groans internally.
It’s not fair. This isn’t even her fault.
But as she risks one more glance at you and sees the fury, the betrayal, and the pain you don’t bother hiding, Natasha knows that whether it’s her fault or not doesn’t matter.
Because she’s the one who ran away first.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Snow crunches beneath Natasha’s boots with each step, the air growing colder with the silence stretching between you. Frost clings to the dark branches above, and the pale moonlight breaks in fractured beams across your shoulders as you lead the way. The only sound is your steady breathing—measured, controlled,…and entirely devoid of any acknowledgment of her presence.
Your avoidance becomes obviously deliberate to her.
Every time Natasha speeds up, you quicken your pace. Every time she slows, you pull further ahead. It’s not just silence. It’s punishment.
And she deserves it.
But you’re also the only other member of this infiltration team. If you don’t work together, the rest of the Avengers won’t even make it past the perimeter of the Hydra base.
Natasha takes a slow breath, watching it cloud the air before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“We need to work together on this,” she says quietly, matching your pace again. “You can’t avoid talking to me forever.”
You stop so suddenly that she almost walks right into you. Muscle memory kicks in as her hands lift instinctively, hovering inches from your back, her body swaying as she catches herself before making contact. Natasha steps back quickly like she’s burned.
You pivot slowly, eyes sharp at her. Your gaze flicks to her raised hands, then back to her face, disbelief curling your lip.
“You’re one to talk, Natasha.” You jab a finger into her shoulder. “You ghosted me first.”
Natasha freezes, breath catching. She opens her mouth, a response forming, then failing. The truth stands between you like a wall she built with her own hands.
You huff a quiet, bitter laugh.
“And of all the underhanded tactics…” You gesture vaguely, as if the entire mission briefing is still hovering over your head. “Now you’re forcing me to be with you on this mission.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens. Hands slowly lower to her sides, fingers flexing once before curling into loose fists.
“Hey, this was not my fault,” she says, frowning. “I had nothing to do with this. If it were my choice, I wouldn’t have chosen you—”
You scoff in disbelief, cutting her off and turning your back to her.
“Right. Great talk.”
Realizing how her words landed, Natasha reacts on instinct. She steps forward quickly, boots crunching through the snow as she moves to intercept your path.
The cold air stings her lungs, but not nearly as much as the panic rising in her chest. She lifts her hands to stop you—not yet touching—her fingers splayed in midair as though even the ghost of contact might shatter whatever fragile boundary still exists between you.
“Wait,” she says, voice softer now, no longer the practiced calm of the legendary Black Widow. There’s something raw in it. Something unarmored. “I didn’t mean—”
Her throat works as she swallows, eyes tracing over your features like she’s memorizing them all over again. A flicker of vulnerability slips through her usually unreadable gaze.
“I just meant I wouldn’t have made you put up with me. Again. Given our…history.”
The word falls hesitantly into the space between you. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of everything you two used to be. Everything she walked away from.
You stare at her in silence, expression unreadable. Then your gaze lowers to her hands. Suspended between you. A breath away from your jacket sleeve. So close. Trembling.
Natasha tries to hide it, curling her fingers back into her palms, but you already saw.
When you finally speak, your voice is gentle. Soft and devastating.
“What history?”
Natasha’s breath hitches. No enemy’s ever thrown her off the way you do with just two words.
“Last I remember,” you continue, taking a step toward her as if challenging her to deny your words, “You said it was nothing.”
Natasha flinches, not outwardly, but she still feels it like ice through her bloodstream. A familiar shame crawls up her spine, the same shame she felt the moment she said those words to you. Words she didn’t mean. Words she used as armor. Words that did exactly what they were designed to do—create distance.
Except now she has to live in that distance.
Natasha’s gaze falls to the ground as you walk past her, your shoulder brushing so close she can feel the warmth radiating from you in the freezing air. Your footsteps pause beside her.
And when you speak again, your voice is quiet. Barely more than a whisper. But it carries more impact than a shouted accusation.
“Stop acting like it ever meant anything to you, Natasha.”
You continue walking without looking back.
You don’t see the way Natasha stops moving entirely, her lungs forgetting how to draw breath. Her eyes fall closed, lashes trembling. A faint gasp escapes her, not from physical exertion but from the emotional blow she didn’t even try to dodge.
Because the truth is—
It was something to her.
It still is.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: thank you for reading! I’m back? I think 😅 Took a long break from writing so I’m still trying to figure out where I left off on things and also how to write again, hopefully it’s not too rough
I was wondering if you were going to continue the PR Nightmare story? It is literally the best Natasha story I have read on tumblr !!! ☺️
Lots of love !
Hello! I'm doing better now. Thanks for asking! I'm happy to hear you liked PR Nightmare (saying it's the best is too much praise for me though 🫣). There will likely be more parts with that story eventually, but I don't have any updates on it yet. Unfortunately, I'm just getting back into the groove of attempting to write again, so no promises right now. 😣
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 😂
Summary: Natasha thought keeping things casual would be simple, that is, until the lines between what’s casual and what’s not start to blur.
Warnings: fluff, light angst, sexual themes
Words: 5768
The Avengers Compound kitchen is unusually calm that afternoon. Just the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the soft afternoon light spilling through the large windows as the two agents engage in a deeply serious debate.
“No, but listen,” Clint insists from the other side of the kitchen counter. “They made a good point.”
Natasha barely looks up from where she’s resting her forearms against the counter as she waits for her coffee to finish, but the faint curve of her lips shows she’s listening.
“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.
“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”
Clint brightens immediately.
“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”
Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.
Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.
It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.
The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.
“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.
Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.
“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.
You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.
“Mmmhmm.”
Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.
“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”
Natasha snorts softly under her breath.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.
Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.
When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.
“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”
Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.
For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.
“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.
Your smile appears instantly, but then—
Flick.
Her finger taps your forehead.
“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.
Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.
You respond with an exaggerated pout.
Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”
A beat passes before she continues.
“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”
You roll your eyes and sigh.
“Alright, guess I’m going now.”
You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.
“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”
Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.
“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.
You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.
Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.
When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.
Natasha narrows her eyes.
“What’s with your face?”
Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.
“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”
Natasha’s expression immediately flattens.
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”
Clint waves his hand vaguely.
“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”
He points toward the door you just exited through.
“However…”
Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.
“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”
Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation.
“It was a hug, Clint.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clint nods thoughtfully.
“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”
Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.
“It’s just a hug,” she insists.
“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”
Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.
Because…no. Not really.
You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.
But that kind of hug?
Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.
That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.
Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.
You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.
Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.
Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.
“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”
Clint raises both hands in surrender.
“If you say so.”
His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.
Instead, he nods toward the counter again.
“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”
Natasha smirks again.
“Doesn’t make you worthy.”
Clint sighs dramatically.
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The room is quiet.
Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.
This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.
Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.
Sleep refuses to come.
It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.
Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.
Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin.
You usually aren’t here this long.
Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.
And then you leave.
Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.
But tonight is different.
You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.
Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.
Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.
But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.
And Natasha had let you stay.
Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.
Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.
For a long moment, she simply watches you.
There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.
And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that.
Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.
Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.
Did it mean anything?
“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.
Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.
Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.
“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.
“Barely,” you grumble.
You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.
Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.
“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.
You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.
“What hug?”
“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”
Your brows draw together slightly.
“What about it?”
Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.
“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”
She trails off, searching.
“…intimate.”
The word lingers between you.
You go still for a second, thinking.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.
Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.
The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.
Natasha hates how quickly she notices.
You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.
“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”
Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.
It was just—
Nothing.
For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.
You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.
Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.
The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.
Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.
The contrast is jarring.
Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.
When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.
Then your lips press softly against hers.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.
For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.
Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.
But before she can act on it, you pull away.
“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”
Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.
“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.
You smile, soft and small.
But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.
“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”
Your expression softens further.
“At least when we’re not hooking up.”
The words settle heavily in the quiet room.
“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.
Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.
The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision.
The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.
And what that would mean.
In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.
They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.
Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.
So Natasha made it simple.
No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.
And it has worked so far.
You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.
“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.
“Sweet dreams.”
The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.
Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.
The misunderstanding is gone.
Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.
What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.
She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.
Again. And again. And again.
Eventually, sleep begins to take her.
But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.
The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.
Everything appears normal.
But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.
The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.
And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.
She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.
When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.
At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.
But she had been wrong.
It started small.
A movie night in the common room.
Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.
Then in the gym.
After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.
But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.
Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.
You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.
Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.
Still beside her but never close.
Always careful. Always just far enough away.
Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.
So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.
And she had agreed to it.
So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?
Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.
Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.
Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.
Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.
Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.
It should mean nothing. It is nothing.
Just like how it is for her.
But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.
Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.
A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.
Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.
Then she moves.
Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.
You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.
“Hey—”
Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.
Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.
“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”
Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.
You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.
“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.
The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.
You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.
There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.
She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.
For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.
The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.
Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.
Mine.
The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.
Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.
When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.
“Hey, what’s wr—”
She silences you with another forceful kiss.
Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.
Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.
“Natasha…” you murmur.
The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.
Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.
Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.
The contact draws a quiet breath from her.
Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.
Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.
But the sensation is complicated.
Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.
Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.
Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.
The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.
But the thought does not fade.
Only here. Only like this.
Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.
She shakes her head.
“I can’t do this.”
The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.
You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.
“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”
She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.
“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
The words settle heavily in the space between you.
Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.
For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.
“Oh.”
The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.
You look hurt, though you try not to show it.
Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.
But she remains still.
What right does she have?
She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.
Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.
She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.
She wants you.
Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.
The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.
Because the words still refuse to come.
You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.
Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.
You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.
Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.
Only now does she understand why.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.
She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.
The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.
It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.
Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.
However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.
Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.
A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.
She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.
The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.
Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.
You appear just as surprised to find her there.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.
Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.
But you do not step closer.
Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.
And Natasha notices it immediately.
You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.
“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”
The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.
Everything surrounding them, however, is different.
There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.
Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.
She understands what this moment means.
You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.
“Good luck,” she says quietly.
The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.
Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.
“Thanks, Natasha.”
Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.
That is what breaks her composure.
It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.
Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.
Her body moves before the thought fully settles.
“Wait.”
The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.
You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.
Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.
Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.
Then she kisses you.
There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.
A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.
Then instinct takes over.
Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.
In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.
Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.
Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.
When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.
The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.
Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.
This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.
Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”
“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”
You do not look away from Natasha.
There is a brief pause.
“…Understood.”
Silence settles again, softer now.
Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.
“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”
The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.
Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.
“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.
Your brow lifts slightly.
“And they are...?”
She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.
“Whatever lets me love you.”
The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.
For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.
Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.
The distance is gone.
Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.
She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.
“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”
You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.
“…Did it mean something?”
After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.
“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”
Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.
“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.
You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.
“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”
You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.
“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”
She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.
Your grin returns instantly.
“Oh?”
Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.
“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”
Amusement flashes in her eyes.
“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”
You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.
“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: hope you enjoy the fic and thank you for reading! (love/hate relationship with this one but I needed to get it out of the drafts so that I can stop editing it every time I see it 😅)
I wanted to give a little update on my series (mainly about Everlasting Devotion, Fate's Last Soul, and yes even Criminal Temptation—I haven’t forgotten about that one 😅).
For some context, my first ever long series was Boundless Devotion, and when I initially posted that story, I had a couple chapters written already which let me have a more consistent posting schedule without too much of a wait in between.
I want to be able to do that or at least return to doing that for the remainder of these series as well but that means that I'm going to hold off on posting the next parts until I have at least the following part after completed or almost completed.
I'm sorry for all those who have been waiting for the updates. I just feel really bad for the long waits in between each part, and hopefully, this will give me some buffer when I start posting the updates for those series again.
As for the mini? series (Secret Admirer, PR Nightmares, side stories of past series), those honestly comes when inspiration hits so they will be posted whenever they're completed.
In the meantime, I will still release one shots as they are completed, so don't worry, there will still be stories for you all to read.
Thank you so much for all of your support and patience! And once again I'm sorry about the wait!
Summary: Part 2 of PR Nightmares
Being the PR manager for the Avengers means spinning disasters into headlines and keeping gods, soldiers, and billionaires on message. It would almost be manageable—if only a certain red-haired agent didn’t treat every press event like optional side quests, rumors like entertainment, and you like her favorite game.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 5914
Camera flashes cut through the night in relentless bursts as reporters press forward, each one trying to force their way to the front for a quote or even a glance.
You lift a hand toward security, signaling for them to hold the line and keep the crowd contained behind the velvet barrier before turning back to the two figures waiting behind the backdrop.
“Are you both ready for your first appearance as official Avengers?” you ask, keeping your tone steady despite the chaos only a few feet away.
“Um…kind of?” Peter fidgets with his collar, tugging at the tie in a clear attempt to loosen it.
You immediately swat his hand away and straighten it again before he can undo your work.
“Are you sure I can’t just wear the spider suit?”
You give him a firm look and shake your head without hesitation.
“No. Your identity has already been revealed to the entire world, which means your media training starts now,” you reply, leaving no room for argument.
With everything that followed the exposure of his identity and the retaliation that came with it, the situation needs to be redirected. The only effective way to counter the wave of negative press is to replace it with something positive, something controlled. Tonight’s event, the formal introduction of the newest Avengers, is meant to do exactly that.
You shift your attention to the second recruit, who will also undergo the same training, whether she likes it or not.
“And you, Kate? Still feeling nervous?” you ask.
She leans against the backdrop, bracing herself with one hand while the other fans at her face in quick, restless motions.
“What? No, I am fine. Totally fine. Completely calm. Is it warm out here?” she says in a rush, her eyes darting around.
Considering that it is the middle of winter in New York, her answer does nothing to reassure you. You exhale quietly and step closer, reaching up to smooth a stray strand of hair back into place in an attempt to ground her.
“Take a breath, Kate. You don’t even have to answer questions yet,” you tell her gently.
She nods, slower this time, following your lead as she inhales and exhales.
“Right. Okay,” she murmurs, straightening her posture before glancing around again. “Wait. Where is Yelena?”
You close your eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a steady breath as the beginnings of a headache settle in behind your temples. Of course, she is missing. The third new member seems to have adopted the same habit as her sister when it comes to avoiding events you explicitly told her to attend.
Unfortunately, your influence only goes so far. You have never had much success persuading Natasha to follow a plan exactly, and while she will occasionally compromise with you, Yelena has even less interest in doing so.
“She will be here later,” you say, even though you are not entirely convinced of that yourself. There is no time to dwell on it. You focus on what can still be controlled.
“Peter, you’re up first. Smile, wave, and keep moving. Do not stop for questions. Understood?”
“Got it,” he replies, giving a quick nod as he shakes out his hands and steps forward into the storm of cameras and voices.
You watch closely as he does exactly what you instructed, moving through the crowd without hesitation and making it inside the ballroom without incident.
“Alright, Kate. You’re next,” you say, giving her a reassuring pat.
She hesitates for only a moment before stepping out. There is a slight stumble at the start, but she recovers quickly and manages to make her way inside as well.
A quiet breath of relief escapes you. You have spent weeks preparing all three of them for this, and at least two seem willing to follow directions without complication.
The rising volume of the crowd signals the next arrival before you even turn to look. A sleek black car pulls up, and as the door opens, the original Avengers step out one by one, each of them dressed exactly as you arranged.
Tony. Check.
Steve. Check.
Bruce. Check.
Thor. Check.
Clint. Check.
Your attention sharpens as you wait for the final figure.
The car door closes.
No red hair. No Natasha.
Your phone is already in your hand before the realization fully settles, the call ringing as you peer through the tinted windows in a last attempt to convince yourself she is simply taking a moment before stepping out.
The line connects, and your assistant speaks immediately, her voice rushed with panic.
“I am so sorry! I tried to get her ready on time, but then she offered me a drink, and then we got distracted talking, and by the time I realized what time it was, the event had already started.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose as the headache fully settles in. This is not your assistant’s fault. You already guessed that before calling.
You know exactly who is responsible.
“Just…switch with me,” you say, your voice tight but controlled. “Stay here and keep an eye on the new members during the event. I will…” You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “I will handle Romanoff.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the common floor, the doors sliding open to reveal exactly what you expected. Natasha is sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas, completely at ease, her attention fixed on the movie playing across the small laptop balanced on her lap.
“Romanoff!” you call, exasperated.
She glances over her shoulder the moment she hears you, and her lips immediately curl into a knowing, infuriating smile.
“You made it just in time. Popcorn?” she asks casually, as though she is not currently skipping an event you explicitly told her to attend.
You exhale sharply and stride across the room until you are standing directly in front of her.
She does not move. If anything, her smile deepens as she lifts another piece of popcorn to her mouth, finger deliberately lingering on her bottom lip as her gaze drags slowly over you in open appraisal.
You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, refusing to react to the warmth that threatens to rise under her attention. Instead, you reach forward, snap the laptop shut, and toss it onto the couch beside her.
“Get up,” you say.
One of her brows lifts slightly, amusement flickering in her expression, but you do not give her the opportunity to respond. You grab her hand and pull her to her feet yourself before guiding her firmly down the hall toward her room.
Once inside, you release her and move straight to the bed, grabbing the dress you had already laid out for her. You turn and press it into her hands.
“Change. Now,” you tell her.
Natasha glances from you to the dress and back again, a slow smirk forming as she considers your words.
“If that’s what you want,” she replies, and before you can prepare for it, she lifts her top over her head in one smooth, effortless motion.
You freeze for half a second at the sudden sight of her toned naked body, your eyes widening before you quickly turn your head away, heat rising to your face as you push the dress more firmly against her.
A quiet, amused laugh escapes her, and you shake your head, letting out a restrained breath.
“You are impossible,” you mutter.
Her laughter lingers as she disappears into the bathroom to finish changing, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since arriving.
Your gaze drifts around the room, taking in the sparse details. There is very little here that marks the space as hers beyond a few carefully placed photographs. Most of them are what you expect, moments captured with the rest of the Avengers at events and gatherings, a few with her sister, each one offering a rare glimpse into a life she rarely shares.
Then one photo draws your attention and holds it.
It is the two of you, caught mid-moment on a dance floor from a previous event, her arms wrapped around you while you leaned into her.
The tension in your shoulders eases as the memory surfaces, vivid and warm, and a quiet breath leaves you before you can stop it.
Arms slide around you from behind without warning, pulling you back into that same familiar warmth.
“Have you decided to stay instead?” Natasha murmurs near your ear, her chin settling lightly against your shoulder.
You suppress the shiver that threatens to betray you, choosing instead to step out of her hold with a sigh and turn to face her with your hands planted firmly on your hips.
“Nice try,” you reply. “But you agreed to attend three more press events without causing problems.”
Natasha laughs softly, turning her back to you as she gathers her hair over one shoulder. She glances at you over the curve of her shoulder, the look in her eyes far too deliberately teasing.
“Help me with this?” she asks, gesturing slightly.
You hesitate, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. There is no way someone like her would need help with something so simple, and yet time is slipping away, and you both can’t be any later than you already are.
That is the only reason you step closer. At least, that is what you tell yourself.
Your hand settles lightly against her lower back as you reach for the zipper, drawing it up slowly.
The quiet stretches for a moment before her voice breaks it, softer now, almost thoughtful.
“I made that promise to you, not your assistant,” she mutters.
Your brows draw together as her words sink in, and realization follows almost immediately.
“Are you actually upset that I sent my assistant instead of coming myself?” you ask.
She doesn’t answer right away, but beneath your hand, you feel the subtle shift in her posture, the tension that gives her away even when her composure does not.
Natasha finally lets out a quiet breath, then shrugs as though it means nothing.
“No,” she replies lightly.
You step around her, folding your arms as you study her more closely.
“I’ve been busy managing Yelena and the others, which means you have not been the center of my attention for once. Is that what this is about?” you press, a hint of challenge slipping into your tone.
Her eyes flicker, and for a brief moment, you catch something unguarded before it disappears behind her usual composure.
“You think I’m jealous?” she asks, her voice carrying a quiet edge.
“I think you’re used to having my attention,” you counter, not backing down. “And I think you did not like losing it.”
Silence hangs between you for a heartbeat.
Then Natasha steps forward, closing the distance in a way that feels entirely intentional, her gaze steady on yours.
“Maybe I don’t,” she admits, her voice low enough that it almost brushes against you. “Does that mean I get to keep you here tonight instead?”
Your breath catches as you become acutely aware of how close she is, how easily she always manages to turn the situation back around on you.
Before you can respond, your phone vibrates sharply in your pocket, breaking the moment. You glance down at the alert, your expression shifting instantly as reality forces its way back in.
“We don’t have time for this,” you say, though your voice is not quite as steady as before. You straighten slightly, regaining control. You poke at her shoulder. “If you behave at the event, we can finish that movie later tonight.”
Natasha tilts her head, considering you, and then a slow smile returns. She catches your hand in hers before you can pull away.
“That sounds like a date,” she says.
Heat rises to your face immediately, and you look away, pulling your hand back to your side and clearing your throat as you try to recover.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you reply quickly, far too quickly to be convincing.
Her soft laughter follows you as you reach for the door, already knowing you have not heard the end of that.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha glances toward you while keeping one hand steady on the wheel, guiding the car through the slow crawl of traffic on the way to the event. Her attention lingers for a moment as she watches you type rapidly on your phone, messages flying in and out as you coordinate updates and issue last-minute instructions.
Your brows are pinched in concentration as you read the words on your screen under your breath in a soft mumble.
A faint, teasing smile forms at the corner of her lips before she looks back at the road.
“You’re being cute again,” she says lightly.
Right on cue, you let out a long, exasperated sigh, dropping your hands into your lap before turning to face her.
“And whose fault is that?” you reply, your tone edged with disbelief. “Sometimes it feels like you deliberately put me in stressful situations just so you can see that ‘cute’ expression.”
Natasha lifts one hand slightly from the wheel in mock defense, gesturing toward the sea of cars surrounding you.
“We’re almost there. Besides, I don’t remember being responsible for New York traffic,” she answers, easing the car to another stop before glancing at you with a raised brow.
You shift in your seat so you are fully turned toward her.
“Your sister is why I am stressing right now,” you insist. “She is not responding to any of my calls or messages.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, then reaches for her phone. She sends a quick message, and your phone chimes almost immediately with a reply. Yelena confirms that she will be at the event.
You look back at Natasha and find her watching you with a proud, self-satisfied smile.
You roll your eyes and tuck your phone away.
“If you are waiting for a thank you, you are not getting one. We’re still late,” you point out, settling back into your seat as you take advantage of the brief moment of quiet.
Her smile does not fade as she returns her focus to the road.
“Doesn’t have to be a ‘thank you.’ I’d even accept something as simple as holding my hand as thanks,” she says, her tone laced with amusement.
You give her a flat look when she glances at you again for your reaction, and a quiet laugh escapes her in response.
Despite the noise outside, horns blaring and voices carrying through the traffic, a calm settles inside the car. When the vehicle slows once more, Natasha relaxes slightly into her seat, one hand slipping from the wheel to rest against the center console.
Your gaze drifts to it, lingering longer as you weigh the sudden thought.
A soft sigh of resignation escapes you before you can stop it.
Natasha begins to turn toward you at the sound, but before she can ask you about it, your hand moves. Your fingers brush lightly against hers before you turn her hand over and lace your fingers together with hers.
She looks down at where your hands are joined, then lifts her gaze toward you.
You are not looking back at her. Instead, you lean your head against your other hand, staring out at the city lights beyond the window.
Something in her instantly softens at the sight. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze before chuckling softly in amusement.
A quiet huff leaves you at her action, but you do not pull away. Your fingers remain intertwined as the car finally begins moving forward again.
By the time you arrive at the venue, the crowd has thinned somewhat, though the flashes begin again the moment Natasha steps out from the driver’s side.
You remain seated, confident that she can make it inside without issue. Just as you reach for your phone to message your assistant, the door beside you opens.
You look up in surprise to find Natasha leaning against it, that same familiar smile on her lips as she offers her hand toward you.
You tilt your head, letting out a tired sigh.
“What are you doing, Romanoff? The entrance is in the other direction,” you point out.
Her smile sharpens with playful intent.
“I am escorting my plus one,” she replies with a casual shrug. “Personally, I think bringing a date might help with those rumors you keep worrying about.”
You shake your head, though you still take her hand as she helps you out of the car before closing the door behind you.
“That would not help at all. Everyone knows I handle public relations for the Avengers,” you remind her. “Why would I risk the scandal of being involved with one of my clients?”
Natasha places a hand against her chest in exaggerated offense.
“I’m only a client?” she asks.
You cross your arms and give her a flat look.
“Are you finished?” you ask dryly.
She drops the act, though the teasing glint remains in her eyes.
“You’re not even slightly intrigued?” she presses, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “A secret romance at work. Blending business with something far more interesting.”
You place a hand against her shoulder and guide her back into a proper stance before adjusting the strap of her dress.
Her expression softens as she watches you, something quieter settling behind her gaze as you focus on fixing the small details.
You tuck a loose strand of hair gently behind her ear, your hand lingering for a moment before shifting to lift her chin so that her eyes meet yours.
“That sounds like more trouble than it is worth,” you say, keeping your voice steady.
“You would be worth it.”
There is no teasing in her tone when she answers, and there is no hesitation either.
The familiar flutter rises in your chest again, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, the same reaction she always manages to draw out of you, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. You press your lips together to keep your expression controlled, unwilling to let her see the effect she has, but your eyes still remain locked on hers.
For a brief moment, everything else fades into the background, leaving only the quiet weight of her words and the unwavering sincerity in her gaze.
“Agent Romanoff! Over here, please!”
The calls from the reporters cut through the moment, pulling you both back.
Natasha’s expression shifts easily, her usual smile returning as she tilts her head toward the entrance.
“Back to work then?” she asks.
Taking a deep breath to regain your composure, you drop your hand and follow her toward the waiting reporters.
“Agent Romanoff,” one of them begins. “You didn’t arrive with the rest of the Avengers, but now you’re here, and not alone either. Should we assume this is a dramatic reveal of a possible new relationship?”
You narrow your eyes at Natasha, silently warning her to respond appropriately, but she remains completely unfazed by the look you give her.
“Not exactly,” she answers smoothly, then glances at you with a small, knowing smile. “She’s smart enough not to take that kind of chance on me, especially given the reputation you all give me in the news.”
That draws a few chuckles, and the atmosphere instantly eases. It’s not surprising, but it still amazes you every time she shifts people’s attitudes in a single interaction.
Natasha then nudges your shoulder lightly.
“She is only beside me now to make sure everything goes smoothly for her favorite client.”
You roll your eyes and press subtly at Natasha’s lower back, steering her toward the entrance before the situation can spiral into any dangerous topics.
A soft laugh escapes her as she allows herself to be guided.
“So there is no secret relationship?” the reporter calls quickly after you, still hoping to gather some headline or article.
Natasha waves dismissively over her shoulder.
“There is nothing going on between us.”
“Really?”
The new voice cuts through the noise, and you turn to see Yelena standing nearby, her expression bored but her curiosity unmistakable.
She looks between you and Natasha.
“Then why did I see her leaving your room in the middle of the night?” she asks plainly.
The effect is immediate. Nearby reporters latch onto the statement, voices rising as cameras flash and questions begin flying from every direction.
You close your eyes briefly and press your fingers to your temple as the headache from earlier returns in full force.
Natasha lets out a quiet laugh before leaning in close, her voice brushing against your ear as more cameras capture the moment.
“If it’s any consolation, you look absolutely adorable right now,” she murmurs.
You press your lips together, refusing to react outwardly despite the warmth creeping up your neck. Grabbing both sisters by their arms, you begin guiding them firmly toward the entrance.
“No more questions. We are going inside. Now,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You lean back against the podium in the briefing room, crossing your arms as your gaze moves across the people gathered in front of you.
Yelena sits slouched in her chair with her chin resting in her palm, letting out a quiet yawn as she stares at the screen with clear disinterest. Beside her, Kate is far more attentive, carefully arranging her notepad and pen on the table as if she intends to take this seriously.
Your attention then shifts to the third person seated directly in front of you.
“What exactly are you doing here, Romanoff?” you ask.
Natasha rests her folded arms on the table and leans slightly closer, offering a casual shrug.
“I never had the chance to go through this media training with you,” she replies.
You meet her answer with an unimpressed look.
“That’s because you never showed up when I first started here,” you remind her.
Her lips form a small pout before easing into something softer.
“And that happens to be one of my many regrets,” she says, tilting her head as her usual charming smile returns. “So I was thinking I could maybe learn a few things this time. If you’re willing to let me stay?”
You study her carefully, as though you might be able to uncover the real reason she would willingly spend her afternoon sitting through a public relations lecture, but her smile only grows as she holds your gaze without flinching.
A quiet sigh escapes you as you turn your head slightly to the side, already giving in.
“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.
The door suddenly swings open before you can dwell on it further, and Peter rushes in, slightly out of breath.
“Sorry, I made it,” he says quickly.
You gesture toward the empty seat beside Kate without a word, then turn back toward the screen. With a press of the remote, the opening slide appears, displaying a list of common questions they are likely to face.
“Whether you like it or not, being public figures means you will eventually be questioned,” you begin. “By officials, by interviewers, and by civilians. You need to know how to respond properly so we avoid situations like this.”
You switch to the next slide, and the screen fills with headlines from various media outlets, each one paired with photos of you and Natasha taken over the years, all speculating on the same rapidly spreading story.
“Black Widow’s New Partner in Shocking Reveal”
“Avengers’ Top Spy Reportedly Off the Market”
“From Business to Pleasure? Rumors Swirl Around Natasha Romanoff”
Natasha lets out a thoughtful hum as she studies the screen, then raises her hand slightly as if she were in an actual classroom.
“Do you think I could get copies of those pictures afterward?” she asks, her tone far too casual.
You send her a brief, warning look, choosing not to acknowledge the question as you continue.
“This is what happens when people are given just enough information to start filling in the gaps themselves,” you explain.
You shift your gaze toward Yelena, fixing her with a pointed look. She responds with a nonchalant thumbs up, entirely unbothered.
“You need to be mindful of both what you say and how you say it. People will take any opportunity to make assumptions or twist your words out of context,” you explain.
Kate raises her hand almost immediately.
“Do you mean like when Yelena told everyone that you left Natasha’s room in the middle of the night, so now people think you two slept together?” she asks, her curiosity entirely genuine.
Heat rises quickly to your face.
“That is not what happened! We were preparing for the government hearing and lost track of time,” you clarify.
Natasha lets out a quiet, amused sound as she props her head against her hand.
“Preparing?” she repeats, her voice threaded with mischief. “Is that what we are calling everything that happened that night?”
You shoot her a sharp look and bring your hands down firmly against the table in front of her.
“That is exactly what we are calling it, because that is all it was,” you state with emphasis.
Her smirk only deepens, and she answers your glare with a teasing wink.
You release a controlled breath through your nose and shake your head slightly as you try to regain control of the room. You should’ve known better. Natasha will always manage to find a way to throw you off balance.
Turning back to the others, you gesture toward her.
“This is a perfect example of how easily misinformation spreads when statements are unclear and leave room for interpretation,” you continue.
Peter raises his hand with another question, and you nod for him to continue. As he launches into a detailed scenario that sounds far too specific to be entirely hypothetical, your focus remains on him until a subtle weight settles over your hand.
Your attention dips briefly.
Natasha has shifted closer, her hand now resting over yours, where it leans on the table.
When you glance at her, she lifts an eyebrow in silent question, as though asking whether she is allowed to continue.
You roll your eyes before turning back to Peter, answering his question while keeping your tone steady. You resume the presentation without acknowledging the contact, though you make no effort to pull your hand away.
For the remainder of the session, you try to ignore the warmth of her touch, as well as the slow, absent circles her thumb traces against your skin, while you begin wrapping up the lesson.
A call from Steve cuts through the room, signaling the start of their training session, and the others quickly gather their things.
“Next time, we will move on to practice scenarios,” you say to them, then shift your attention to Natasha. “Don’t leave yet, Romanoff. I need you for something.”
Her expression shifts, a playful glint appearing in her eyes as she leans forward, her fingers threading more deliberately through yours.
“Oh?” she murmurs, a slow, teasing smile forming as her gaze lingers on you. “And how exactly would you like me?”
Kate lets out a startled sound, while Peter nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to leave the room. Yelena laughs as she nudges the stunned Kate toward the door, clearly entertained by the whole situation.
“I meant for a public relations matter!” you say quickly, raising your voice slightly in the hope that they heard you before fixing Natasha with a pointed look.
She shrugs with exaggerated innocence.
“I never received proper media training, remember?” she replies. “How am I supposed to know whether I said something that can be misunderstood for something else?”
Considering she’s a legendary spy, you do not believe a single word of that, and she knows it. Letting out a slow breath, you pull your hand free from hers and reach for your phone.
“I need you to make another statement,” you tell her. “You’re going to deny the rumors about us publicly.”
The playful edge fades from her expression, her lips pressing together in visible reluctance at the idea.
“Is that really necessary? I don’t particularly care what people say about me,” Natasha replies.
You place your hands on your hips.
“Well, I do. Not all of those headlines are harmless or congratulatory, Natasha,” you explain. “I’m not going to sit back and let people suggest that you are using your position to pressure someone who works under you into a relationship.”
Her expression softens as she looks at you, something quieter settling in her gaze. Under that attention, you feel a flicker of sudden embarrassment and look away, turning instead to shut down the presentation on the screen.
“And it’s also part of my job,” you add more quietly as an afterthought.
A brief silence settles over the room, and you keep your focus on the computer in front of you rather than meeting her eyes.
“Alright,” Natasha says at last.
You glance up to find her resting her chin in her hand, watching you with quiet intent.
“I’ll do it,” she continues, a small smile returning. “After all, I still owe you two more press events without any issues.”
You give her a flat look.
“There was an issue at the last event,” you point out, gesturing toward her with the flash drive from the presentation.
Natasha makes a soft sound of protest and shakes her head.
“That was not my fault,” she counters, her smirk returning.
You let out a quiet sigh, something close to fond exasperation slipping through as you cross your arms.
“Just make sure you clarify what I was doing in your room that night,” you say.
A teasing smile curves her lips as she lifts an eyebrow.
“Of course,” she replies, her voice smooth as she lets the pause linger just long enough to make your stomach tighten. “We were just…” She tilts her head slightly, her gaze fixed on you as her tone drops with deliberate suggestion. “…preparing.”
You throw the flash drive at her with an embarrassed huff, and she laughs as she easily dodges it.
She truly is impossible.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
With Natasha’s official statement reinforcing that her relationship with you is strictly professional, along with a few carefully placed warnings to your contacts across several media outlets, the rumors begin to lose momentum. Speculation fades, and the narrative slowly corrects itself as the misunderstanding is cleared piece by piece.
Standing in the elevator, you continue watching the recorded press conference on your phone. Natasha sits across from an interviewer you specifically chose for their reliability, someone you trust not to twist her words into something damaging.
“So, just to clarify for our viewers,” the interviewer says, “nothing is happening between the two of you?”
“No,” Natasha replies with a soft chuckle. “I am fairly certain she would agree that I’m more trouble than I am worth.”
Your brows draw together at her response, and your hands lower slowly to your sides as the rest of the conversation fades into the background. The words echo something familiar, something you had said to her not long ago.
Before you can linger on the thought, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.
You step out and are immediately met with a familiar sight.
Natasha sits on the couch, cross-legged and completely at ease, a bowl of popcorn resting beside her while a laptop sits open on her lap with a movie playing. She turns her head at the sound of your approach and lifts the bowl slightly.
“Popcorn?” she offers.
You pause, taking in the scene, and after a brief moment of consideration, you power off your phone and tuck it away. The discussion about the next press event can wait.
Natasha’s brow lifts in quiet surprise as you walk around the couch and take a seat beside her, reaching over to take the bowl from her hands.
“What are you watching?” you ask.
A small smile forms on her lips as she settles back, shifting a little closer so you can see the screen more clearly.
“It’s Moonraker,” she answers, pressing play as the movie resumes.
You watch as James Bond leaps from a plane without a parachute, and you glance sideways at Natasha.
“Watching a famous spy while being one yourself feels a little cliché, don’t you think?” you remark.
She lets out a quiet laugh, turning toward you with a familiar smirk.
“That may be true,” she says, leaning slightly closer. “But do you know the difference?”
“What difference?” you ask, your voice quieter as you hold her gaze.
Natasha studies you for a moment before reaching into the bowl in your lap and taking a piece of popcorn.
“I look better doing it,” she replies, punctuating the statement with a teasing wink before leaning back and tossing the popcorn into her mouth, her attention returning to the screen.
You let out a soft breath of disbelief as you watch her, your gaze drifting briefly to her hand resting against the couch. The memory of the interview lingers in the back of your mind.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift slightly and rest your hand gently against hers.
Natasha immediately turns toward you, but you keep your eyes fixed on the screen, avoiding her questioning look.
“I didn’t mean you when I said it,” you murmur.
She says nothing, patiently waiting for you to explain.
“I meant everything else that comes with this job,” you continue, quieter now. “That’s what is troublesome. Not you.”
After a moment, you turn your head and offer her a small, sincere smile.
“You would be worth it too, Natasha,” you add softly.
Her eyes widen slightly at your words.
The reaction makes warmth rise to your face almost immediately, a flicker of embarrassment settling in your chest. You quickly clear your throat as you turn your attention back to the screen, putting distance between yourself and the weight of what you just said.
“Start the movie from the beginning, Romanoff,” you say, aiming for a casual tone that does not quite hold.
She does not respond right away. You can feel her gaze lingering on you, steady and searching, but you keep your focus fixed on the screen, unwilling to turn and discover whether her expression holds surprise, amusement, or that soft look that always manages to unsettle your heart in ways you would rather not examine too closely.
A quiet, warm laugh eventually slips from her, and she reaches forward to restart the film. As the opening scene begins again, her hand shifts beneath yours, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that feels entirely natural.
You don’t pull away. Instead, you allow your hand to remain where it is, resting comfortably in hers.
After a moment, she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before lifting it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, then lowering it once more to rest between you.
“This feels like a very nice date,” she says casually.
“This is not a date,” you reply with a quiet sigh, sending her a brief sideways glare.
Natasha only smiles, that same knowing expression settling back into place.
“Whatever you say.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: finally finished something from my list of WIPs 😭 thank you for reading!
HELLO! i js recently got introduced to your page by my feed and god is it exciting. you legitimately reignited my flame of interest with nat and i js cannot thank you enough! considering ive never noticed how i missed her so much 🥹 is it fine to ask to be in your taglist for the valkyrie x nat series? i js fell in love with it and cannot absolute wait for the next part. and is there any possibility for pr nightmares to be a series too? thats my fav fic of yours. thank you!
Hello! It's always nice to hear about Natasha getting the attention and love she deserves, especially considering we won't be able to get much content from her in the movies anymore, and I'm happy to be able to bring her back even briefly through my fics for you all.
I'll be sure to add you in the valkrie series taglist, and as for PR Nightmares, I don't know about it being an official series yet, but there is a second part coming. Hopefully, you'll enjoy that one as well! 😁
BEEN OBSESSED WITH YOUR SECRET ADMIRER SERIES!!! and got me thinking what if another person who likes reader and takes advantage of the secret notes nat's been giving, then nat sees what happens then she acts all jealous and stuff?
*slides my notes away from view* 🤫
But in all seriousness, thank you so much! We need more silly and soft Natasha in our lives.
hiii are we gonna get an everlasting devotion update at all? no rush I was just curious if it was still in the works!
I'm so sorry for the long wait! 😣 I made the unfortunate mistake of having too much ongoing series at once on both tumblr and AO3, so now I'm feeling a little overwhelmed with keeping track of everything. The good news is that I did get a chance to review my notes on Everlasting Devotion recently and was able to work on its next part, so I would say it's around 75% completed. Hopefully, it won't be too long before I can release it 😅
