Let's just pretend that Lena chopped Kate's hair, while she was sleeping, so in return Kate died the blonde's hair brown. Because that's something they totally would do
Summary: It was you who was shy before dating, but now its her that gets shy
Warnings: None
--
Three months into dating Natasha Romanoff and you discovered something fascinating.
The Black Widow—
legendary assassin, terrifying interrogator, woman who could kill someone with a paperclip—
got embarrassed when you kissed her unexpectedly.
Not dramatically.
Natasha was still Natasha.
She still walked around the Tower like she owned it. Still gave people that dry, unimpressed look that made trained agents fold instantly. Still fought like a force of nature.
But around you?
There were cracks now.
Soft ones.
And you noticed every single one.
—
It started small.
The first time you casually hooked a finger through one of Natasha’s belt loops while passing behind her in the kitchen, she nearly dropped her coffee.
You blinked at her.
Natasha blinked back.
“…Did you just short-circuit?”
“No.”
“You froze.”
“I did not.”
“You looked terrified.”
“I was assessing a threat.”
You grinned slowly.
Natasha narrowed her eyes immediately because that expression never meant anything good.
“Oh, you think this is funny now.”
“A little.”
She scoffed, but there was color creeping into her cheeks already.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
—
Now you tested it constantly.
Not maliciously.
Mostly because Natasha getting flustered was the cutest thing you’d ever seen.
Like this morning.
She was reading mission reports on the couch, glasses low on her nose, one leg tucked under herself.
You walked past, leaned down, kissed the top of her head, and kept moving.
Silence.
Then—
“…Rude.”
You turned.
Natasha was still staring at the report, except she hadn’t turned the page in a full minute.
“You’re upset I kissed you?”
“You distracted me.”
“You hate affection now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You wandered back over innocently. “You want another one?”
Natasha finally looked up.
Big mistake.
Because now you could see the faint pink dusting her ears.
“Oh my God,” you whispered delightedly. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m going to kill Barton.”
“What did Clint do?”
“He noticed first.”
—
Natasha’s shyness mostly appeared in very specific ways.
She got weirdly quiet when you looked at her too long.
Not in a bad way.
Just… attentive.
Like she suddenly forgot how to speak.
One night you found her in the gym wrapping her hands before training.
You leaned against the doorway watching her for a second.
Natasha glanced up. “You planning on helping or staring?”
“You’re pretty.”
Instant mistake.
Natasha stopped wrapping mid-motion.
You watched the exact moment her brain lost connection.
“…That’s illegal,” she muttered finally.
You snorted. “Illegal?”
“You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere.”
“You literally flirted with me for months.”
“Yes, but then you started flirting back.”
“That’s generally how dating works.”
Natasha pointed at you accusingly with the hand wrap hanging loose from her knuckles.
“You’re smug now. I created a monster.”
“You like the monster.”
The look she gave you should’ve been lethal.
Instead it was soft enough to ruin lives.
“…Unfortunately.”
—
The thing about Natasha was that she wasn’t clingy.
Neither of you were, really.
You both liked your own space.
Which somehow made the smaller moments feel more intimate.
Like her automatically sitting close enough for your knees to touch.
Or silently sliding her hand into the back pocket of your jeans when standing beside you.
Or the way she’d rest her chin briefly on your shoulder when passing behind you in the kitchen.
Tiny things.
Domestic things.
The team noticed immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam said one afternoon, watching Natasha unconsciously fix the collar of your jacket before a mission.
Tony looked horrified. “Romanoff’s gone soft.”
Natasha didn’t even look at him. “I can still break your nose.”
“See?” Sam pointed. “That’s how you know it’s real love. Threats.”
You laughed.
Natasha’s fingers brushed the side of your neck absentmindedly before she walked toward the quinjet.
And because you enjoyed making her malfunction—
“Hey, Romanoff.”
She glanced back.
You crooked a finger for her to come closer.
Suspicious immediately, Natasha still obeyed.
The second she stepped within reach, you grabbed the front of her tactical vest and kissed her quickly.
Short.
Sweet.
Natasha made the tiniest startled sound against your mouth.
Behind you, Sam yelled loud enough to echo:
“THAT WAS DISGUSTING.”
Natasha pulled back just enough to glare at him over your shoulder.
“Get shot on this mission.”
“See?” Sam sighed. “Romance.”
—
The funniest part was how automatic Natasha’s softness around you had become.
She didn’t even realize she was doing it half the time.
You did, though.
You noticed how her voice changed slightly when talking to you.
How she always checked your injuries first after missions even if hers were worse.
How she leaned into your touch before she consciously registered it.
One evening after a rough mission, you were both sprawled across her bed in exhausted silence.
Natasha lay beside you staring at the ceiling while you lazily traced shapes over her wrist.
The room was quiet.
Comfortable.
Then softly—
“You make me weird.”
You looked over.
Natasha still hadn’t moved her gaze from the ceiling.
You grinned a little. “Weird good or weird concerning?”
“…Both.”
Your thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist.
“For the record,” you murmured, “you made me climb out a thirty-eight story window once.”
Natasha finally turned toward you, horrified. “That was because of me?”
“You were making coffee in the kitchen.”
“Oh my God.”
“You were terrifying.”
“I thought you hated me.”
You barked out a laugh.
Natasha squinted at you. “Don’t laugh. That genuinely upset me.”
“You thought I hated you while I was looking at you like this?” you asked, turning toward her fully.
Natasha’s expression went dangerously blank.
Which meant she was flustered.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you look at me like—”
“Like what?”
She stared at you for a long second.
Then suddenly buried her face against your shoulder instead.
You froze triumphantly.
“…Natasha Romanoff,” you whispered. “Are you hiding?”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m resting my eyes.”
“Against my neck?”
“Yes.”
You laughed quietly, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Natasha made a soft annoyed noise that held absolutely no annoyance in it whatsoever.
Then, after a second, she pressed one quick kiss against your jaw without lifting her head.
Summary: After you get hurt on a mission is when Yelena realises shes acting weird. Even worse, she likes you
Warnings: Blood, gunshot injuries, grenade
---
The safehouse smelled like antiseptic, burnt coffee, and gun oil.
You were pretty sure that was going to permanently become the scent of your life now.
“Do not move.”
Yelena’s voice came sharp from somewhere near your shoulder. A second later, cold fingers pressed against your side again, and pain split through your ribs hard enough to make you hiss.
“I wasn’t moving,” you muttered.
“You were thinking about moving.”
“I think about lots of things.”
“Yes. Terrible habit.”
You glanced up from the bed you’d been patched onto. Yelena sat on the chair in front of you, one knee propped up, med kit spread around her like she was performing surgery in a war zone instead of a dingy apartment in Latvia.
Her blonde braid hung over one shoulder. There was dried blood on the sleeve of her tactical shirt — yours, probably. A bruise purpled the edge of her jaw.
She looked furious.
Which was confusing.
You’d only joined the Thunderbolts three months ago. You were still the newest one there, still getting weird looks from Walker, still getting evaluated by Bucky every five minutes like he expected you to explode. You and Yelena got along fine — sarcastic comments, occasional shoulder shoves, one memorable argument over instant ramen preparation — but not close-close.
Certainly not close enough for her to practically carry you out of a collapsing building after you got shot.
You still remembered it too clearly.
The mission had gone bad fast. HYDRA remnants, bad intel, too many exits not covered. You’d taken a bullet through the side trying to get Yelena behind cover after a grenade rolled too close.
And afterward—
Yelena kneeling over you in the rubble, eyes wide.
Actually wide.
“Hey,” you’d slurred. “You look… scary.”
“You are bleeding everywhere.”
“Yeah. That usually happens.”
Then she’d cursed in Russian so violently you were fairly certain nearby ghosts got offended.
Now, six hours later, she was still hovering.
It made no sense.
“You are staring,” Yelena said without looking up.
You blinked. “Sorry.”
“No, is okay. I am very pretty.”
Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. “There she is.”
She snorted softly, but it disappeared almost immediately. Her hands slowed while wrapping fresh bandages around your ribs.
Too careful.
Yelena Belova was many things. Efficient. Brutal. Weirdly competitive about hot sauce tolerance.
Careful wasn’t one of them.
“You can go sleep, you know,” you said quietly. “I’m not dying anymore.”
“I know.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
There was a beat.
“…Why?”
That finally made her look at you.
Blue eyes. Exhausted. Annoyed.
Something else underneath.
“I do not know,” she said honestly.
And somehow that was worse.
Because if she’d laughed it off, or brushed you away, or said something casual, maybe your stupid heart would stop doing this awful hopeful thing every time she looked at you.
But this?
This strange intensity?
It felt dangerous.
You looked away first.
“Oh.”
Yelena’s brows pulled together immediately, like she’d heard something wrong in your voice.
The apartment radiator clanged somewhere in the distance.
Yelena finished securing the bandage, but her hands stayed resting lightly against your side. Warm through your shirt.
You tried very hard not to think about it.
Failed horribly.
“You were stupid today,” she said suddenly.
You laughed weakly. “That’s your big emotional speech?”
“You jumped in front of grenade.”
“It wasn’t a grenade.”
“Explosive device. Same thing.”
“You would’ve done the same for me.”
“No.”
You finally looked back at her.
She was already looking at you.
“I would have killed them before they got close,” she corrected.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Right. Of course.”
“But—” she hesitated.
Actually hesitated.
“I did not like seeing you hurt.”
Your chest tightened painfully for reasons that had nothing to do with the bullet wound.
“Oh.”
“There is the sad oh again.”
You swallowed. “Sorry.”
Yelena leaned back slightly, studying you with that unnervingly sharp assassin focus.
“You think I do not care about you.”
You nearly choked on air. “What? No.”
“You are bad liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You avoid eye contact. Very dramatic. Like wounded Victorian child.”
Despite everything, you barked out a laugh.
Yelena looked pleased for approximately half a second before the confusion returned.
“I do not understand this,” she admitted quietly.
Your smile faded.
“Understand what?”
She gestured vaguely between the two of you like the answer should be obvious.
“This.”
Your heart began beating way too hard for someone recovering from blood loss.
“Oh.”
“There it is again.”
“Yelena…”
“I keep wanting to check if you are okay.” Her voice had gone strangely frustrated now. “I keep thinking about stupid things. If you ate. If your stitches reopened. If you are sleeping enough. It is very annoying.”
You stared at her.
Because Yelena sounded genuinely inconvenienced by her own feelings.
“I do not do this with anyone,” she continued. “Not even Alexei, and he cries dramatically if left alone too long.”
A nervous laugh escaped you. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”
“Neither do I.” She frowned harder. “This is why feelings are terrible.”
You looked down at your hands.
Because this was dangerous territory now. The kind where hope could ruin you.
Quietly, you said, “You don’t have to force yourself to feel something just because I got hurt.”
Yelena immediately looked offended.
“I am not forcing anything.”
“I know, but—”
“You think I am pitying you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
You’d spent weeks carefully swallowing this thing down — every smirk she aimed at you, every accidental touch, every late-night conversation in quinjet cargo holds.
You knew better than to fall for someone emotionally unavailable and heavily armed.
But apparently your heart was an idiot.
“You don’t like me like that,” you said finally, trying to sound casual.
Yelena stared at you blankly.
“…Like what?”
Oh god.
Oh, this was humiliating.
You rubbed a hand over your face. “Forget it.”
“No. Explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“Explain or I will wake Walker and tell him you cried during Top Gun.”
“You are a menace.”
“Yes. Explain.”
You groaned softly, then instantly regretted it because ribs.
Yelena immediately leaned forward again. “See? Pain. This is because you avoid communication.”
“You’re literally the worst person to give emotional advice.”
“I did not say I was good at it.”
Another silence.
Then, carefully, you said, “I like you.”
Yelena blinked once.
You kept going before you could lose your nerve.
“And I know you don’t feel the same way, so this whole… whatever this is? It’s confusing me a little.”
For a second, Yelena just stared.
Then:
“Oh.”
You looked at her suspiciously. “That’s my line.”
“No, because now I am having strange realization.”
Your stomach flipped.
Yelena sat there motionless for several long seconds, processing with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
Then she said slowly, “I threatened a nurse because she touched your arm too hard.”
“…You did what?”
“In my defense, she was very rough.”
You stared.
Yelena stared back.
And then, very abruptly, she put both hands over her face.
“Oh my god,” she muttered through her fingers in horrified realization. “I am in love with you.”
The room went dead silent.
You blinked.
“…What?”
She dropped her hands just enough for you to see her expression — equal parts betrayed and disgusted with herself.
“This is terrible.”
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.
Yelena pointed at you accusingly. “Do not laugh. I am having emotional crisis.”
“You just said you love me like you were diagnosed with a disease.”
“Because this is worse. Bullets I understand. This?” She gestured violently at her chest. “Disgusting.”
You were laughing harder now despite the pain, clutching your ribs while Yelena glared at you with absolutely no real heat behind it.
Then her expression softened.
Tiny.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
"I am going to have a talk to Barnes"
And with that she had basically bolted out of the room, which had you overthinking. Did she actually love you? What did she want to talk to Bucky about?
—
It was past midnight when your bedroom door creaked open.
You sat up immediately.
Yelena stood there awkwardly holding a plastic grocery bag.
For an assassin, she was remarkably bad at dramatic entrances.
“Hi,” you said softly.
“Hi.”
She stayed near the door.
Like approaching too quickly might scare you off.
You tried not to read into that.
“I brought…” She frowned into the bag. “These stupid gummy things you like.”
Your lips twitched. “The sour ones?”
“Yes. They smell toxic.”
“You bought me toxic candy. Romance is alive.”
The joke slipped out before you could stop it.
Yelena went still.
“Right,” you said quickly. “Sorry.”
But then—
“I spoke to Barnes.”
“Oh?”
“He said I am idiot.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He also said running away from feelings is ‘emotionally constipated behavior.’”
You snorted.
Yelena rubbed a hand over her face.
“I do not understand this,” she admitted. “I understand guns. And knives. And how to remove spleen through someone’s mouth probably.”
“…Probably?”
“But this?” She gestured angrily to herself. “This is terrible.”
You smiled despite yourself.
She looked at you then.
Really looked.
And all the sharp edges in her expression softened into something terrifyingly vulnerable.
“You almost died,” she said quietly.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
Your smile faded.
“I’m okay.”
“I know.” Her voice dropped lower. “But for five minutes, I thought maybe you would not be.”
The honesty in it hit harder than anything else had tonight.
“And I realized…” She exhaled shakily. “Nothing has ever scared me like that.”
You couldn’t speak.
Yelena stepped closer.
“I do not know how to do this properly,” she confessed. “But I know I want you near me all the time. I know I look for you first in every room. I know hurting you feels like someone is peeling my organs out with spoon.”
“That’s… weirdly sweet.”
“Thank you.”
“And graphic.”
“I am trying.”
You laughed softly.
Then her expression faltered again.
“But if you do not want—”
You cut her off by grabbing the front of her shirt and kissing her.
Yelena made a startled noise against your mouth.
Then immediately kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.
Like she’d been holding it in for months.
When you finally pulled apart, she stared at you with wide blue eyes.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
“Oh, this is why people write songs.”
You burst out laughing, and she joined in.
When the laughter died down, Yelena looked at you like she still didn’t fully understand what she was feeling, only that it scared her.
And maybe that should’ve terrified you too.
Instead, your chest ached warmly. You patted the empty space on the bed next to you.
She climbed into your bed like she belonged there. Carefully avoiding your injuries.
Instinctively.
Without thinking.
You reached out carefully, brushing your fingers against hers.
Yelena looked down at your hand like it was another unexploded bomb.
“…This is still very embarrassing for me,” she warned.
You smiled softly. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“But you love me?”
She sighed heavily, deeply offended by the universe.
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
You laughed again, but she moved in just a bit closer.
Hi can you write Natasha x fem reader where reader is slightly younger and is new on the team. Shes got a crush on Natasha and reader is really shy and obvious about her crush but is too shy to be near Nat.
Hii,
here's the fic
I hope you like how i wrote it. I didnt make R a generally shy person, just around Nat
I don't remember if i used this gif already, but there's not enough Nat gifs out there.
Summary: You're the new rookie to the avengers. Shy? Definitely not you. Sarcastic? Yes. But around a certain redhead, shy is all that you are
Warnings: Just you being a shy mess around her
------
You noticed it the second week you moved into the Tower.
Not the crush. God, no. You’d noticed that the first time Natasha Romanoff leaned against the briefing table and gave you a lazy little “you keeping up, rookie?” with one eyebrow raised.
No, the thing you noticed in week two was worse.
You physically could not act normal around her.
Everyone else? Easy.
You sparred with Steve without flinching. You stole fries off Sam’s plate. You sat cross-legged on Bruce’s lab counter while he rambled science at you for an hour straight. You even let Tony drag you into one of his chaotic workshop arguments.
But Natasha?
Natasha walked into a room and suddenly you forgot how chairs worked.
It was humiliating.
“Pass the salt.”
You nearly dropped the entire container into your soup.
Natasha blinked at you from across the dinner table.
“…You okay?”
“Yep,” you answered too quickly.
Sam snorted into his drink.
You kicked him under the table without looking.
Natasha took the salt from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for maybe half a second.
You stopped breathing.
Actually stopped.
She frowned a little. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Mhm.”
Your voice cracked.
Clint outright choked laughing.
—
Natasha, somehow, did not get it.
Which made absolutely no sense because she was literally one of the best spies in the world.
She could tell when people lied before they even opened their mouths. She noticed tiny shifts in posture, changes in breathing, microexpressions.
But apparently your painfully obvious crush existed in a blind spot.
Or maybe—
Maybe she noticed and just didn’t care.
That possibility haunted you most.
So you avoided her.
Not dramatically. You weren’t hiding behind walls or sprinting in the opposite direction.
You just… strategically disappeared.
If Natasha entered the kitchen, suddenly you remembered you had laundry.
If she sat beside you during movie night, you’d excuse yourself for water you didn’t need.
If she tried talking to you one-on-one for too long, your brain melted into static.
It got so bad that one morning Steve found you fully climbing back out of the common room window.
“…Why are you using the fire escape?”
You glanced past him.
Natasha was inside making coffee.
“…Fresh air.”
Steve looked unconvinced.
“You live on the thirty-eighth floor.”
“Cardio?”
—
The thing was, Natasha made it impossible.
She wasn’t even trying.
She’d casually sling an arm around your shoulder after missions.
She’d smirk at you from across the training room.
She’d praise you in that low, rough voice like it was nothing.
“Nice shot.”
“Good work.”
“You’re improving.”
And every single time, your brain replayed it for the next six business days.
The worst part?
Natasha liked being around you.
A lot.
She liked your dry sarcasm. She liked how you got protective over the team despite being newer and younger. She liked how your hair curled slightly at the nape of your neck after training.
She especially liked making you flustered.
Not maliciously.
It was just… cute.
You’d get all stiff and avoid eye contact while trying so hard to act normal.
And Natasha, despite decades of emotional repression and spy instincts, had somehow mistaken your crush for intimidation.
Which honestly offended her a little.
One night after a mission, she cornered Clint in the kitchen while he dug through the fridge.
“She’s scared of me.”
Clint stared at her.
Then he started laughing.
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You seriously don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Clint.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then realization slowly crossed his face.
“Oh my God,” he said again, quieter this time. “You like her too.”
Natasha scoffed immediately. “I do not.”
“Nat.”
“I don’t.”
“You look at her like she personally invented sunlight.”
Natasha opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“…That dramatic?”
“Worse.”
—
After that conversation, Natasha started paying attention.
And suddenly everything clicked into place.
The nervous fidgeting.
The avoiding.
The staring when you thought she wasn’t looking.
The way you’d go completely silent whenever she sat too close.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization hit her so hard she nearly walked into a glass door.
You had a crush on her.
A big one.
And somehow, impossibly—
Natasha felt warmth bloom low in her chest at the thought.
—
The next few days were torture for both of you.
Because now Natasha noticed everything.
Like how your ears turned red when she touched your arm.
Or how you always looked for her first after missions.
Or how your entire face softened whenever you thought no one was watching.
It was unbearably endearing.
Which became a problem when Natasha started getting shy too.
Not externally, obviously.
Natasha Romanoff didn’t really do externally shy.
But internally?
Disaster.
You smiled at her in the elevator one morning and she forgot what floor she needed.
You complimented her fighting stance during training (something which you had taken a whole of 30 minutes to muster up the courage for) and she spent the next hour punching the bag hard enough to split seams.
It was deeply inconvenient.
—
The breaking point came during movie night.
You were curled into the far corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves shoved over your hands, trying very hard to focus on the screen.
Natasha arrived late carrying popcorn.
Your heart immediately started acting traitorous.
There was exactly one open spot left.
Beside you.
Of course.
You contemplated death briefly.
Natasha sat down close enough that your shoulders touched.
You froze.
Completely.
She noticed instantly.
And this time, instead of pretending not to, Natasha tilted her head slightly.
“You always this nervous around me?”
Your eyes widened.
“…No?”
“Liar.”
The fondness in her voice made your stomach flip.
You stared determinedly at the TV.
“I’m not nervous.”
Natasha hummed softly. “So if I did this—”
Her fingers slipped carefully around your wrist where it rested against your knee.
Gentle.
Warm.
You nearly short-circuited. Luckily no one noticed, at least, they pretended not to
“Shut up,” you muttered weakly, still staring straight ahead.
Natasha’s thumb brushed against your pulse.
Way too aware. She was way too aware of how fast your heartbeat got.
Her expression softened.
“You know,” she murmured quietly enough just for you, “for someone so confident around everyone else…”
You finally looked at her.
Big mistake.
Natasha was already watching you with this small, impossibly soft smile.
Not smug.
Not teasing.
Just… warm.
Your face burned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Probably.”
But she still didn’t let go of your wrist.
Actually, her fingers slid down slowly until they tangled with yours.
Your brain stopped functioning entirely.
Natasha squeezed your hand once.
Then, very casually, she leaned her head against your shoulder.
You looked at her like she’d personally rewritten reality.
Natasha didn’t look up from the movie.
But you caught the tiny smile tugging at her mouth when your fingers squeezed hers back.
Hi, I had an idea for a fluffy fic with natasha x f!reader, where reader "doesn't do dancing", but Natasha persuades her to anyway (i'm looking for a slow-dancing-in-the-kitchen-vibe). Maybe when one of them is coming home from a mission and reader can't say no.
Summary: Natasha Romanoff comes home from a mission and asks you to dance with her.
Warnings: None. Except some cute couple banter and fluff
--
You could tell before FRIDAY even announced the landing sequence, that you're girlfriend was back.
Natasha was always different after missions.
The hard ones left her quiet in a way you’d learned not to interrupt—she’d come home exhausted and distant, winding herself down silently while you took care of the little things around her without making a fuss. Tea left waiting on the counter. Food reheated when she forgot about it. A hand brushing her shoulder only when she leaned into it first. Eventually, after enough hours, she’d come find you in bed and curl close like she was trying to remember what safety felt like.
But tonight hadn’t been one of the hard ones.
Not easy, exactly. Nothing SHIELD-adjacent ever really qualified as easy. But there were missions Natasha returned from with less blood in her eyes.
Those nights she came home restless instead of hollow.
Like tonight.
You heard the training room before you heard her. (Yes, Natasha had Tony put in a small training room in your shared floor)
Punching bag.
Rhythmic.
Sharp.
You glanced toward the clock in the kitchen. Nearly 10 PM.
“She’s been at it for forty-three minutes,” FRIDAY informed you helpfully.
“Snitch,” Natasha called from down the hall, slightly breathless.
You grinned.
By the time she finally wandered into the kitchen after a shower, your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows and music played softly from your phone on the counter. Something old and slow and warm.
Natasha stopped in the doorway.
Her copper-auburn hair curled at the nape of her neck. Sleeves pushed up. Tiny bruise blooming near her jaw.
God, she was beautiful.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi yourself.” You pointed your wooden spoon toward the sink. “Wash up. You smell like violence.”
“That’s discrimination. I just showered”
“It's hygiene.” You chose to ignore her second statement
She smirked faintly and obeyed.
You watched her from the corner of your eye while you stirred the sauce. She seemed lighter tonight. Still decompressing, but less distant. The tension in her shoulders looked survivable.
Natasha dried her hands slowly, gaze drifting toward the music.
“You’re cooking to jazz again.”
“It helps me chop onions dramatically.”
“Hm.”
You felt her come closer before she touched you.
Warm hands slid around your waist from behind, chin settling on your shoulder.
Your body relaxed instantly.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
“Mhm.”
That hum against your shoulder lingered.
Then:
“Dance with me.”
You barked out a laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Natasha didn’t move. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t dance.”
“You can.”
“No, I physically cannot. Doctors are still studying it.”
Her laugh came softer this time, low against your neck.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic.”
Natasha tugged against your shirt so you turned off the stove and turned in her arms until you faced her. Up close like this, you could see the post-mission restlessness still flickering behind her eyes. Not bad enough to bury her, but enough that she was reaching.
For grounding.
For softness.
For you.
And suddenly this wasn’t really about dancing anymore.
“Nat,” you said quieter.
Her fingers curled loosely in the front of your shirt, as mall pout forming on her face.
“Please?”
God.
That stupid tiny hopeful look she got sometimes absolutely ruined you.
“You fight aliens for a living,” you muttered. “Why are you scared of being adorable?”
“I’m not scared of it. I weaponize it.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Mhm.”
You sighed dramatically, setting the spoon down. “Fine. But if you laugh at me, we’re breaking up.”
“That seems extreme.”
“You’ll survive.”
Natasha smiled then—small, real, the kind she saved for private moments—and reached for your hand.
“Come here.”
The music drifted low through the kitchen while she guided you toward the open space between the island and the fridge.
You immediately looked suspicious.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes I do. There are rules.”
“There are no rules.”
“There are absolutely rules. This is why I avoid dancing.”
Natasha stepped closer until your bodies nearly touched.
“You trust me?” she asked.
The answer came easy.
“Always.”
Her expression softened at that.
“Then just follow me.”
She placed your hand on her waist and her hand settled on your shoulder waist. The other threaded through your fingers. She started swaying first—slow, barely more than a shift in weight.
You stumbled immediately.
“There it is,” you deadpanned. “A disaster.”
Natasha laughed quietly. “You’re fine.”
“I stepped on your foot.”
“You’ve done worse things to me.”
“That’s true.”
“Relax your shoulders.”
“You sound like a yoga instructor.”
“You sound nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
Her thumb brushed over your knuckles once.
“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”
“You’re manipulative.”
“Yes.”
You snorted despite yourself.
After another minute, the embarrassment started fading. Natasha moved easily, guiding without forcing, patient in a way almost nobody else ever got to see from her.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and tomato sauce.
The overhead light cast everything gold.
Outside the compound windows, rain tapped softly against the glass.
And Natasha looked at you like you were something unimaginably precious.
Your hand settled more confidently at her waist.
“There you go,” she murmured.
“Don’t patronize me. I’m vulnerable right now.”
“I’m appreciating you.”
You rolled your eyes, but your forehead dropped gently against hers.
She hummed approvingly.
For a while neither of you spoke.
Just slow swaying in the middle of the kitchen while dinner simmered forgotten behind you.
You felt Natasha unwind little by little beneath your hands. The last strands of tension easing from her shoulders. Her breathing evening out.
This.
This was why she asked.
Not because she cared about dancing.
Because after years of violence and survival and being turned into something sharp enough to hurt people for a living, Natasha liked these tiny reminders that she was still allowed to be soft.
Allowed to be held.
Allowed to come home and ask the person she loved for something gentle.
“You know,” she said eventually, voice low, “you’re not bad at this.”
“Don’t lie to me while we’re having a moment.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re blinded by love.”
“Very possible.”
You smiled helplessly into her shoulder.
The song changed.
Neither of you moved to stop dancing.
And somewhere between one slow step and the next, with Natasha warm in your arms and the world finally quiet for once, you realized maybe you did dance after all.
Anyways, i had some personal problems going on, but now i'm back and for good, so feel free to pile in your requests, and as long as you follow the guideline, I'll definitely write it. f you guys also recommend any other universe, let me know, and if i like it, I'll make it.
i have an idea for a fic, since its Halloween month.
natxR already married and have kids and they are trick or treating together as family just like in Wanda vision, its family fun, soft type well you can do the rest of it or maybe something idk...😅 sorry its not make any sense,
hey! this was super cute to write. I had this written earlie rbut ideleted the draft.
Summary: You and Nat take your kids to trick or treat
Warnings: None. Except family fluff and some gross flirting (atleast according to your son)
Mom/Mommy - You
Mama- Nat
--
The sound of tiny boots pattering across hardwood floors is the first thing you hear that evening — right before a triumphant yell of, “Mom! Mama! We’re gonna be late!” echoes from the living room.
You glance up from the mirror, where you’re fixing the last few strands of your messy, dark hair under the tricorn hat. The gold trim gleams in the lamplight, and the white of your open-collared shirt is already smudged with faint traces of your daughter’s face paint — the cost of being her personal pirate canvas earlier.
“Relax, First Mate Mason,” you call out, grinning as you adjust the belt that holds your plastic sword. “The ship doesn’t sail until both captains are ready.”
From behind you, Natasha steps out of the bedroom — or, as she prefers to be called tonight, Captain Romanoff, Queen of the Seven Seas. Her crimson sash sits perfectly at her waist, her long coat swaying as she moves. She’s got the eyeliner smudged just enough to make her look criminally good, and her auburn hair — tied back loosely — glows under the hall light.
“Technically,” she says, crossing the room and resting her hands on your chest to straighten your collar, “you’re my first mate. You swore an oath.”
You smirk, leaning closer until you can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “I don’t remember that being a legally binding oath.”
Her lips quirk. “Oh, it was. In front of witnesses, no less.”
Right on cue, your seven-year-old son, Mason, stomps into the doorway, his own pirate hat slightly crooked. “You two are so gross,” he groans, clutching his candy bucket. “Can we please go before the good candy’s gone?”
From the hallway, a little voice pipes up, “Mama’s not gross! She’s pretty!”
You both turn to see Willow — your three-year-old daughter — toddling in, her pirate coat dragging nearly to her ankles. She looks like a miniature version of Natasha: fiery red hair, bright green eyes, and that same small smirk that could melt the world. And clearly mama was also the favourite.
Natasha chuckles, crouching to adjust Willow’s hat. “Thank you, myshka. At least one of you has taste.”
“Ew,” Mason mutters again, pretending to gag dramatically.
You nudge his shoulder with your sword. “Careful, sailor. Captain Mama might make you walk the plank.”
He narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t let her. You need me for candy backup.”
“True,” you admit. “You’ve got the strategy down. I just provide moral support.”
“Translation,” Natasha says dryly, slipping her hook hand on, “she’s going to eat half your chocolate later.”
“Hey,” you protest, feigning offense. “Pirate’s code: share the loot.”
Willow gasps. “Mama! Sharing is good!”
You go to hi-five your daughter for backing you up, only for her to add "except with mommy"
You're hand drops mid-air and Natasha raises an eyebrow at you giving you her classic smirk. “See? Even the littlest pirate knows.”
You sigh dramatically, slinging your arm around Natasha’s shoulders. “A mutiny already. The crew’s turning against me.”
She grins up at you, eyes glinting. “Maybe I just like a challenge.”
Mason makes a loud “ugh” noise and covers his ears, which only makes Willow giggle so hard she almost drops her tiny sword.
You laugh, kissing the top of her head as she clings to your leg. “All right, all right. Let’s hit the neighborhood before Captain Mason stages a coup.”
Outside, the crisp October air greets you with a swirl of orange leaves and the faint smell of pumpkins. Your small cul-de-sac is glowing with strings of lights and carved jack-o’-lanterns, kids running from door to door in bursts of excitement.
Mason immediately takes charge — naturally — pointing toward the house with the biggest display. “That one first! They have full-size bars!”
You exchange a look with Natasha. “He’s definitely your kid,” you whisper.
She bumps your shoulder. “No, he’s ours. You’re the one who taught him to case candy like it’s a mission.”
You laugh, following Mason up the driveway. Willow trots between you and Nat, holding both your hands, swinging her tiny pumpkin bucket. Her little voice chants “Trick or treat!” at every door, earning coos and extra candy from every neighbor.
At one house, she decides to test her pirate skills. The homeowner drops candy into her bucket, and she dramatically waves her sword, shouting, “Arrr! Thank ye, matey!”
The older woman laughs so hard she gives her an extra chocolate. Natasha beams with pride, while you can’t help muttering, “We’re raising chaos.”
“She learned from the best,” Natasha replies, smirking.
A few houses later, Mason and Willow race ahead to the next porch. You and Natasha hang back on the sidewalk, watching them under the soft glow of streetlights. Willow’s curls bounce as she runs, Mason’s laughter carrying across the chilly air.
Natasha slips her hand into yours, fingers fitting perfectly between yours. “You know,” she murmurs, “this is my favorite part of the year.”
“Because of the candy?” you tease.
“Because of this.” She squeezes your hand lightly. “The four of us. No missions. No deadlines. Somehow you with no shift or calls. Just us and a sugar rush waiting to happen.”
You look at her, her face lit by the orange streetlight, her smile soft and unguarded. “You look beautiful, Captain.”
Her eyes flick toward you, amusement and something all too familiar sparking there. “Careful, sailor. You keep saying things like that, and I might have to commandeer you later.”
You lean closer, whispering just for her, “Promise?”
“Gross!” Mason’s voice interrupts from ahead, and you both snap your heads up to see him glaring at you. “You’re supposed to be pirates, not kissy pirates!” he whins
You can’t help it — you burst out laughing, while Natasha just smirks. “Sorry, matey. We’ll stick to plundering.”
Willow, meanwhile, tilts her head. “Mama can kiss mommy if she wants,” she says proudly, then pats Natasha’s hand. “She loves you lots.”
Natasha melts instantly, crouching to kiss her daughter’s forehead. “I love you lots too, malenkaya piratka.”
Mason rolls his eyes, muttering something about “girls being weird,” but you can see the tiny smile tugging at his lips when Natasha ruffles his hair.
By the time you make it back home, everyone’s candy buckets are full, the porch light is glowing warmly, and Willow’s half-asleep in Natasha’s arms. Mason sprawls on the couch, sorting his loot like it’s treasure, muttering to himself about “trading strategies.”
You toss your hat onto the coffee table, stretching your arms with a groan. “That’s it. I’m officially too old for pillaging.”
Natasha grins, placing Willow down gently on the couch beside Mason. “Speak for yourself, sailor.”
You grin, catching her wrist and tugging her closer. “So… about that commandeering?”
She laughs softly, leaning into you, her forehead brushing yours. “Later. Once the crew’s asleep.”
Mason groans dramatically. “Still gross!”
Natasha laughs quietly, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek anyway — a defiant kind of affection that makes you grin.
Willow’s little voice murmurs sleepily from the couch, “Mommy loves Captain, and Captain loves mommu”
“Always,” you whisper, brushing a stray lock of hair from Nat’s face.
The night settles around you — soft and golden, full of candy wrappers, sleepy giggles, and the quiet joy of home.
You never thought a pirate’s life could feel like this — full of warmth and tiny voices and the person who still makes your heart race after all these years.
And as Natasha leans against your shoulder, whispering something about hot chocolate and stealing candy later, you think maybe this — the four of you, the laughter, the small, sweet chaos — is the best kind of treasure there is.
Hi! Can you write a story where Kate has a crush on reader but she’s deaf and whenever Kate tries talking to her reader can’t understand. That’s when Kate realizes reader is deaf and she slowly learns sign language from Clint to talk to reader. It’s also a really cute excuse to see more stuff where Kate sees Clint as a father figure.
Summary: Kate's been trying to talk to you forever, but you always seem to ignore her
Warnings: Deaf reader, thats about it. Its just sweet
-----
Kate Bishop was not used to being this nervous around anyone. She’d faced off with tracksuit mafias, rooftop chases, and even Clint Barton’s disapproving sighs — but somehow, trying to talk to you was worse.
She liked you. Like, really liked you. The kind of like that made her palms sweaty and her words stumble over each other. So when the team wasn’t around, Kate took those rare quiet moments as her chance to finally… talk.
The first time, it was in the training room. You were resetting targets after a round of shooting practice, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up. She walked in with her trademark grin and a casual, “Hey, nice shot, by the way. You’re kinda scary good.”
You didn’t react. Not a glance, not a smile. You just kept working.
Kate blinked, the grin faltering. Maybe you didn’t hear her? Or maybe you were just ignoring her. She laughed awkwardly under her breath and slipped out before Clint could see her embarrassment.
The second time was in the kitchen. You were at the counter, making coffee. Kate leaned against the doorway, trying again. “So, uh, if you ever want to go to that archery range downtown—”
You turned just as she was mid-sentence, but your eyes were on the mug in your hands, not her lips. She said the rest of her sentence to your shoulder before you simply gave her a small nod — polite, unreadable — and left.
Her heart sank a little lower.
After that, it became a pattern. Kate would find you alone — in the weapons room, the balcony, the gym — and every time she tried to talk, it ended the same way. You’d seem distant, distracted, sometimes even cold. She didn’t know that you could only catch fragments of her words when you could see her lips clearly. And she always seemed to be behind you, or turned away, or mumbling mid-motion.
She assumed the worst. That you thought she was annoying. That you didn’t want her around.
Once, she caught your eye across the common room and smiled. You smiled back, soft and brief, before looking away — and somehow, that tiny moment only made the ache sharper.
“Yeah, okay,” she muttered to herself that night, lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling. “Totally fine, Bishop. She just hates you. Cool. Cool cool cool.”
What she didn’t know — what she couldn’t know — was that you’d been trying just as hard. You noticed her glances, her attempts, her nervous little smiles. You just couldn’t hear what she was saying half the time, and you didn’t want to embarrass yourself by asking her to repeat it.
So you both sat in that quiet, aching space — Kate thinking you despised her, and you wondering why she always walked away right before you could finally see her lips.
--
“I’m just saying,” she went on, pacing in front of him, “I don’t get it. I’ve tried being friendly! I’ve tried being casual! I’ve tried the whole charming-archer vibe— which, let’s be honest, I nail— and she just— ignores me! Every. Time.”
“Uh-huh,” Clint muttered, stirring his coffee like it had personally wronged him.
“She doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look at me— I mean, she looks at me, but it’s like… in that polite, please-stop-talking way. Maybe she hates archers. Maybe she—”
Clint sighed. “Kate.”
“What?”
“She’s deaf.”
The room went quiet. So quiet that even Lucky, curled up on the couch, lifted his head like he could feel the air shift.
Kate froze mid-pace. “She’s… what?”
“Deaf,” Clint repeated, leaning back in his chair. “Can’t hear a thing you’re saying unless she’s looking right at you. Lip-reads a bit, but not when someone’s yelling from across a room, which—shocker—is what you do half the time.”
Kate’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “You— You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“I’ve been— oh my god—” She ran both hands through her hair, pacing again, faster this time. “I’ve been thinking she hates me this whole time, and she literally couldn’t hear me? Clint, I’m an idiot.”
He smirked into his mug. “Well, you said it, not me.”
“Clint!”
“Relax, kid. Happens to the best of us.”
Kate stopped pacing and looked at him, something soft flickering behind the embarrassment. “You knew?”
“Course I knew.” He shrugged. “We talk sometimes. She’s good people.”
“...Can you teach me?”
That made him pause. He set the mug down and studied her for a moment, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You wanna learn sign?”
Kate’s shoulders lifted, awkward and hopeful all at once. “I mean— yeah. If she’s been thinking I hate her, that’s… bad. And I like her. A lot. So, yeah.”
Clint’s grin turned a little too smug. “Ah. Now we’re getting to it.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He laughed — that dry, dad-like chuckle that always made Kate’s chest warm despite herself — and stood up. “Alright, Bishop. First lesson: alphabet and basic phrases. Pay attention, because you’re about to see how much cooler I am than you give me credit for.”
Kate rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her smile.
----
The next few weeks were a series of comically wholesome lessons. Clint would correct her clumsy movements while she grumbled, exaggeratedly mouthing words at him just to make him laugh.
He’d tease her endlessly when she messed up a sign,
“That’s thank you, not taco,” he said one afternoon, stifling a grin.
“I’m trying!” she whined. “My hands don’t bend that way yet!”
But sometimes, when she got it right, he’d just nod with that faint, proud smirk that said more than words could.
By the time Kate signed her first full sentence — Hi, how are you? — without hesitating, Clint grinned and signed back, She’s gonna like you, kid.
Kate felt her cheeks warm as she smiled, heart pounding at the thought of finally — finally — being able to talk to you.
She had no idea how much that would change everything.
---
The compound was quiet by the time you got back — the sun hanging low, painting everything in that soft, golden haze that made even the metal hallways look warm. You were tired but content, bag slung over your shoulder as you headed for your room.
You barely made it past the common area before you saw her.
Kate Bishop — leaning casually against the doorframe, pretending she hadn’t clearly been waiting for you. Her bow was slung over her back, hair pulled into that messy ponytail that somehow made her look both effortlessly cool and wildly huggable.
When you noticed her, you paused, brow raised slightly. She grinned nervously, straightened, and took a small step toward you. This time, she didn’t say anything. She just caught your gaze — really made sure you were looking — before she began to sign.
Her hands moved in small, careful gestures, hesitant but determined. Hi. You—okay? Day good?
The signs were rough around the edges — a few reversed, a couple shaped wrong — but you understood her perfectly. She signed the way she talked: fast, a little messy, full of personality.
Your lips parted in surprise, and then you smiled. Warm, soft, maybe a little shaky. You couldn’t help it.
She noticed and immediately flushed, fumbling through the next few signs. I—uh—learned. From Clint. He—helped. Me. Then she made a face, shaking her hands out like she was physically embarrassed. Sorry. I’m—still—bad.
You laughed quietly, the kind that lights up your whole face. Slowly, you signed back, You’re good. Really good.
Her eyes widened, then softened in visible relief. You—understood?
Every word, you replied.
Kate practically glowed at that, her grin returning full force.
Your fingers moved smoothly again, precise and practiced. You learned this for me?
She nodded immediately, her grin breaking through her nerves. Yeah. I wanted- to - talk. You know. -Properly.
You tilted your head again, smirking just slightly. You did good, you signed, your movements confident, teasingly slow. Very cute.
Kate’s eyes went wide for a second — and that flustered, faintly smug little smirk that always got her into trouble tugged at her lips.
She signed back something that was probably supposed to be thank you, but came out closer to taco again, and you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up.
So you stepped closer, until your hands brushed as you corrected her form, your touch deliberate. Her breath hitched just enough for you to catch it.
You’re getting better, you signed, eyes flicking up to meet hers. Keep practicing with me, yeah?
Kate swallowed, nodding quickly, her grin bright and honestly adorable.
It was the first time in all her failed attempts that she’d finally gotten through to you.
And as you stood there, gently fixing one of her crooked signs and showing her the right motion, her eyes never left yours.
You could see it written all over her face — that same flustered affection that mirrored your own — and you couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, all those awkward misunderstandings had led to somewhere that could be kind of perfect.
