[traveler-at-heart]

Masterlist

Everything I write is pretty much fluff. If anything changes I’ll be sure to tag it accordingly. Thank you to everyone that reads, likes, reblogs and comments on fics <3

If you have an idea or request hmu, maybe I can come up with something :)

Natasha Romanoff x Reader One Shots

Taken

Happy Birthday, Nat

Nerd, you are Natasha’s Infinite Playlist

Keep reading

[bgwlsmahf25]

Farmers Market

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x female reader

Warnings: none, just fluff

a/n: something from the drafts

Everyone on the team knew one unspoken truth: you couldn’t tease Natasha Romanoff. She was sharp, quick-witted, and always one step ahead. Whether it was a sarcastic remark or a playful jab, Natasha had a comeback ready – often sharper, often deadlier – or she would just glare at you with those piercing green eyes until the teasing stopped, the silence ringing louder than any words. The kind of silence that made even the bravest think twice before opening their mouths again. Everyone, that is, except Clint Barton... and you.

You’d always been different. Maybe it was your patience, your quiet steadiness, or the way you moved through the compound without demanding attention. Nobody could say exactly when Natasha began to accept your presence as something more than just another teammate. It didn’t happen in one sudden moment, but rather in countless small ways that gradually wove themselves into the fabric of daily life.

There was the way you made her coffee every morning, carefully assembling the drink just the way she liked. Once it was ready, you quietly handed her the steaming mug with a small smile. And when you knew she hadn’t eaten all day, you’d find a snack and leave it on her desk or slide it across the table during brief moments in the common room.

During team movie nights, you found yourself curling into her side on the couch, the noise and light from the screen wrapping around you both. You noticed, over time, how Natasha’s arm would slowly slide around you, first hesitantly, then with quiet confidence. The comfort of those evenings wasn’t just in the films but in the simple, tender warmth of being close without needing words.

Sometimes, you’d show up unexpectedly at the gym, leaning casually against the ropes of the boxing ring while Natasha trained fiercely with Tony or Steve. You always had a water bottle ready, your smile steady and encouraging when you handed it to her. “You’ve got this,” you’d say softly, and she’d nod, a brief flicker of gratitude passing through her eyes before she launched herself back into the fight.

Missions changed everything. On the field, you were sharp and focused, both of you synchronised in a way few others could be. When an operation required an overnight stay in a safe house, you’d creep into Natasha’s room late at night, slipping beneath the covers beside her without a word. You’d curl into her side, your body pressing close. Natasha would soften in the darkness, her expression gentle, bordering on tender, as she watched you sleep, her hand finding yours in the silence between the two of you.

***

You couldn’t say exactly when everything began to shift. It was like waking from a long sleep, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest, as you realised you were catching feelings for your red-headed best friend. Perhaps you’d been too familiar with her all along, too close without naming the growing ache inside you.

That awareness came with a sharp sting, like a bucket of cold water thrown over you. Memories surged through your mind – the long nights spent in her bed, her steady breathing a quiet rhythm next to you. The countless meals you’d prepared when she’d forgotten to eat. The hours spent helping her train, cheering her on quietly from the sidelines. How you’d taken her kitbag after long missions, sending her off to the medbay to get patched up, your hands brushing hers in small exchanges of care.

With this new understanding came a reluctant decision: you needed to pull back. To give yourself space, to protect your heart from breaking silently. So, little by little, you began to retreat.

At first, Natasha didn’t notice. You started spending more time with other team members. Sparring with Steve, feeling the rush of competition. Watching movies with Wanda, the two of you bonding over sitcoms, laughing at silly jokes that filled the air with warmth. Practicing archery with Clint, the familiar twang of the bowstring a welcome distraction from your swirling thoughts.

And then, you made a bigger change. You’d recently bought your first apartment in the city – a quiet sanctuary away from the compound’s bustle. Gradually, you moved out, retreating into your new space on weekends and rest days. You decorated it with care, finding mismatched throw blankets and cushions to cover your sofa. You wandered through markets, picking out plants that now adorned nearly every windowsill, bringing life and colour into your quiet retreat.

It was a small, careful escape from Natasha’s world – a way to protect yourself, to figure out what you wanted. No matter how far you stepped back, a part of you still longed for those moments with her, for the warmth of her presence, and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she felt it too.

***

It took a few months before you were fully out of the compound. Once you were firmly settled in your apartment, Wanda started coming over. The two of you spent evenings laughing at sitcoms, wine-drunk, sharing cold pizza and filling your space with quiet friendship.

During one of these evenings, the witch turned to you, a glass of wine balanced in her hand. “Y/n, I have to ask you something.”

“Sure,” you replied easily, turning towards her and reaching for your own wine glass. Taking a sip, you glanced at Wanda over the rim.

“What happened with you and Natasha?”

You choked on your drink, hastily setting the glass down and gasping for breath, eyes watering. Longing and lust burned through you at the thought of the other red-headed Avenger. “What do you mean?” you spluttered. “Everything’s fine.”

“You no longer live at the compound and she’s walking around like a bear with a sore head. Nobody’s talking about it but everyone’s talking about it.” Wanda looked at you, equal parts amusement and concern. “Don’t tell me nothing happened.”

“I just think it’s better if I… moved out,” you muttered awkwardly.

“Better for whom?” she said gently. “I’m not reading your mind, y/n, but I can see you’re in pain.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

Wanda decided not to probe further. She could see you were putting walls up and realised that you probably needed a friend right now, not more questions.

***

The following morning, you headed to your local farmers’ market. It was warm and sunny, and the market was bustling. Young families wandered around, examining fresh produce and sampling the range of cuisines in nearby food trucks. Stall holders shouted about their products, mingling cries about cheese and garlic hitting you as you ambled through the stalls.

A tote bag hung off one shoulder, crammed with a variety of things that looked too good to be left. You were hesitating between two different types of ham when it happened.

“There you are.”

Startled, you looked around – straight into the piercing green eyes of your best friend.

Natasha looked unbothered, but you could tell by the worry in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders that everything was not okay. A pair of sunglasses – you realised with a jolt that you’d gifted them to her – were tangled in her vibrant hair. She had an off-white shirt, black jeans and Converse on.

“Natasha, I –” you stuttered, unsure what to say after not seeing her for several weeks. Or was it months?

“Silence always was your forte,” she said dryly. “I didn’t think you’d use it on me though.”

“What – no, I – Nat…” You were fumbling for words, everything you wanted to say bubbling to the surface, but you couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her what had really happened.

“Y/n, it’s me.” She stepped closer, her hand reaching out then falling back to her side. She wanted to reach out for you but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. In that moment, you missed her touch more than the previous weeks put together. “You can talk to me,” she continued gently. “You could’ve just told me you needed some space.”

Biting your lip, you debated how much to tell her. “I didn’t know how to say it.”

Natasha gave you a long look. She wasn’t angry, she was just tired. “You didn’t think silence would do exactly that?”

Shuffling awkwardly, you looked down at your feet. Bringing one hand to your mouth, you began biting the skin around your fingertips. It was a bad habit – one that Natasha had helped you break, but with her absence, you’d fallen back into it.

Gently, a hand reached out and enclosed your own in hers. You quietly looked up at her, tears appearing in your eyes. “I missed you,” you whispered.

“I miss you too,” she said, voice cracking slightly. She gave you another long look. “I got used to you being there… Maybe more than I should have.”

Hope bloomed in your chest. Was she admitting something you’d never quite dared to hope for? That she maybe, possibly liked you too.

“It wasn’t about space, Nat.” You chewed on your lip. “It was about feelings I didn’t – don’t know what to do with.” Gently pulling your hands from hers, you stepped back and looked at her, your expression tender but serious. “I don’t want a reply. Not yet. I just wanted you to know.”

Turning, you carried on walking through the farmers’ market, eyes blurring with tears. You could feel Natasha’s stare burning a hole in your back, but you didn’t look around.

***

Natasha:

You always did have a flair for dramatic exits.

Are you gonna drop the emotional equivalent of a mic and then ghost me?

Y/n

Come on, it’s me

I know you’re reading these. I can see the read receipts.

Y/n:

I told you I didn’t want a reply.

Natasha:

Yeah well, I don’t take orders.

You should know that by now.

…

Look, y/n, I don’t want to do this over text

Please

Are you free tonight?

…

Are you free right now?

Y/n:

Depends.

Are you gonna make a joke and disappear?

Natasha:

That’s your thing.

…

Sorry

That was mean

And no, to answer your question.

I’ll make a joke. Or 2.

But I’m gonna stay.

Big character development moment for me.

…

Come over

Please

Or I’ll turn up at your door with wine and something that looks like dinner

Y/n:

You’re cooking?

Talk about character development

Natasha:

I said, “looks like dinner,” not “is edible.”

Don’t push it

…

Seriously though. Come over. Let’s talk

No pressure

Just me and you. No markets this time

Y/n:

Okay

Natasha:

That sounds like a yes.

Y/n:

God, woman, let me finish typing

I’ll come over

What time?

Natasha:

7.

Bring whatever was in that tote bag. I’m still thinking about the cheese.

Y/n:

At least we’ll be eating something edible.

…

Too soon?

…

Nat?

Natasha:

Just bring the damn cheese

And you

Obviously

[sweetromanova]

Matching Napkins & Mixed Feelings🕊️

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: A story of a fake date with real chemistry and absolutely zero self control.

Word Count: 11k

Weddings were supposed to be happy.

Natasha Romanoff scowled at the cream-and-gold envelope like it had insulted her personally. Which, in a way, it had.

Natasha wasn’t sure what annoyed her more: the fact that everyone was going, or the fact that they were all excited about it.

The invitation had been couriered in a velvet-lined box, a typically extra touch from Tony, who had apparently gone full sentimental since his wedding to Pepper. Stark had insisted on hosting Wanda and Vision’s nuptials himself, at some sprawling manor house he owned in the Hamptons. Big enough to fit the entire SHIELD team, plus family, plus plus-ones.

That was the part Natasha kept getting stuck on.

‘You are warmly invited to join us for the weekend- rehearsal dinner Friday, ceremony Saturday, brunch Sunday. Formal attire. Plus-ones welcome!’

The words stared back at her from the heavy cardstock like a dare.

Everyone was talking about it. Clint was coming with Laura and their kids. Steve had RSVP’d “maybe” because apparently he was still awkward about parties and modern social norms. Sam had mentioned bringing a woman he’d been seeing, serious, apparently. Even Carol had raised an eyebrow and said, “Think I’ll ask Maria. She’s better at tuxes anyway.” And true to her word, the next time Natasha saw them they were planning on matching suits.

And Natasha? She had… no one. Which wasn’t tragic, just a little inconvenient. Because for all her sharp edges and hard-earned detachment, even she knew what it would look like when she showed up alone to a house full of love and champagne flutes. She didn’t need the stares or the nudges or the pity disguised as small talk.

Not to mention: if she had to listen to one more person ask. “So… who are you bringing?” She might snap.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning, she was more in her head than she liked to admit. Her boots echoed through the sleek hallways of Stark Tower, a bitter coffee gripped loosely in one hand, the other tucking her hair back absently. She hadn’t slept. Her thoughts spun circles, rehearsing excuses, brushing off questions, imagining herself at the rehearsal dinner with an empty chair beside her and a glass of vodka she didn’t want.

Which is probably why she didn’t see you coming.

You stepped out of a side hallway with a tablet in one hand, reading something intently, just as Natasha rounded the corner.

The collision was minor. The spill was not.

Splash.

Dark liquid sloshed across your blouse, splattering your chest and neck in one fast, shocking second.

“Shit-“

You froze, flinching at the sudden heat.

Natasha swore under her breath and reached instinctively for a napkin tucked into her jacket. “Damn it. I didn’t see you. I’m sorry.”

You blinked, not out of fear, just processing the impact. Your shirt was soaked and your tablet was now dripping and beeping sadly.

“Well...” You said after a pause, “I guess I’m awake now.”

Natasha looked you over quickly, assessing but not in a threat analysis way. You were younger than her, dressed in business casual with a lanyard tucked into your jacket. She didn’t recognize your face and she always recognized people in this building.

“Do you work for Stark?” She asked, brows drawing together slightly.

You nodded, still dabbing at your shirt. “Marketing. Technically Pepper’s team. I do a lot of the external communications stuff. Press kits, campaigns, corporate fluff.”

“Figured.” Natasha said. “I know every face in this tower. Yours isn’t one of them.”

You raised a brow. “I’m new. Just finished onboarding last week. I guess you really do know everyone.”

“I make a point of it.”

The way she said it wasn’t bragging, just fact. You tilted your head slightly, as if seeing her with fresh eyes. “That’s… a little intense.”

“I’m a little intense.”

You laughed, not mocking but genuinely surprised. “Good to know.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

You were standing in a puddle of cooling coffee, your blouse stained and your morning derailed. But you didn’t look angry. If anything, you looked curious like she had just disrupted your day in a way you hadn’t been expecting and maybe didn’t mind.

“I should sort this-“ You excused. “New shirt, coffee bath, and my calendar’s erased itself. Great day.”

“I can call down for dry cleaning.” Natasha offered, already pulling out her phone. “Or get someone from facilities to grab you a spare shirt from the merch room.”

You shook your head, still smiling faintly. “It’s fine. I was overdue for chaos today anyway. Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

Natasha wasn’t used to this. Casual ease. Civilians who didn’t flinch. You didn’t try to make conversation or ask for a selfie, you just were. Steady, warm, smart-mouthed. A weird comfort she hadn’t expected on a Monday.

“No, please. The dry cleaning downstairs can have it washed and dried in 30 minutes.”

“That’s impressive.”

“And needed.” Natasha eyed your blouse, the brown stain almost bleeding further across the stark-white material. “And I’ll buy you a coffee for the trouble?”

“Aslong as I don’t have to wear it this time.”

You laughed softly, trying not to fidget too much in your damp shirt and followed the redhead as she turned and led you toward the elevator. You tried not to stare at the way she moved, efficient, confident, like she was wired tighter than everyone else in the building. There was no wasted motion. No small talk, either. She held silence like armour.

“Stark really has his own laundry service in the building?” You asked after a moment of silence, trying to fill the quiet.

Natasha glanced sideways, a trace of amusement in her voice. “This building has a quantum-powered smoothie bar. Laundry’s not the weirdest part.”

“Right. Forgot I work in sci-fi now.”

She actually smirked at that.

The laundry room was pristine, tucked down a narrow hallway you were sure wasn’t on any public floor plan. Matte steel machines lined the walls, humming softly, nothing clunky or coin-operated about them.

Natasha tapped in a short code at the touchscreen console and one of the machines slid open like a bank vault.

“Drop it in.” She said, nodding toward the opening.

You hesitated, eyeing your blouse. “Right. Should probably take it off.”

Natasha, already crouched by the control panel, paused. “Yeah.”

You started to unbutton it slowly, aware of her presence, but doing your best to play it cool. The fabric peeled away sticky and cold from your skin. You folded the shirt and passed it to her, now left standing in your bra. lacy, a soft lavender and probably not entirely office-appropriate.

You could feel her glance before she looked back at the machine, slipping your shirt inside like it hadn’t just gotten a little awkward.

“Timer’s set for twenty-eight minutes.” She smiled, her voice steady. “You’ll get it back warm.”

“Great.” You said lightly. Then added: “Just one problem.”

Natasha turned. You were hugging your arms over your chest now. “I didn’t exactly plan on stripping in front of the whole of SHIELD today, so I don’t have anything else to wear.”

For a beat, she didn’t say anything.

Then without ceremony, she reached for the hem of her long-sleeve black shirt and pulled it off in one motion.

You blinked. She was already holding it out to you. “Here.”

“Are you-“

“I’ve got a sports bra on. You don’t.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

You took the shirt, trying not to stare at her bare shoulders, the faint glint of a scar along one collarbone. Her sports bra was simple and sleek. Functional.

Natasha Romanoff was all sharp lines and quiet edges. And yet, somehow, she was handing you a piece of herself like it didn’t matter at all.

You pulled it over your head. It was loose, warm, smelled faintly like cedar and something darker like wind after a storm. It covered you down past your hips.

She looked at you, nodded once then leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“So.” You smirked, not quite sure what to do with yourself. “How many coffee related injuries do you cause per week?”

Natasha’s mouth quirked. “You’re the first.”

“Well.” You gestured at your borrowed outfit. “Glad I could make an impression.”

That pulled the smallest smile from her, a ghost of something wry and curious.

And just like that, the silence between you didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“I still owe you a coffee.”

“Lead the way.”

Ten minutes later, you were seated across from her in the sleek Stark Tower café, far less flashy than expected, tucked into a glass alcove overlooking Midtown. It was quiet this time of day and your coffee order had come out faster than it should’ve. You suspected Natasha had something to do with that.

“You know…” You said, cupping your hands around the mug. “I expected you to be way scarier.”

Natasha leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “Disappointed?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Not sure yet.”

She let out a low laugh, barely audible but real. “You’ve got guts.”

“And caffeine.”

“Same thing.”

There was a comfortable beat of silence as you sipped. You weren’t sure how this had happened, being here, sitting across from her but you weren’t about to question it. Not when the tension had softened into something almost easy. Almost fun.

Natasha was watching you. Not obviously, not unkindly but carefully. Like she was trying to figure out what box to put you in. You weren’t sure she’d found one yet.

“So.” She said finally. “What were you doing in that hallway anyway? Not just wandering around looking to catch flying coffee cups, right?”

You smiled. “Helping Pepper with some last-minute wedding planning.”

That earned a groan. You couldn’t tell if it was dramatic or genuine.

You grinned. “What?”

“She’s been in a spreadsheet induced spiral for three days.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve seen the color-coded seating charts.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course she color-coded.”

“She color-coded by personality type.” You added, with a smirk.

She stared at you, deadpan. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You both laughed and for a moment it felt like you’d known her longer than thirty minutes.

“Why the face?” You asked, stirring your coffee idly. “You groaned at the word ‘wedding’ like someone was threatening you.”

She hesitated, just long enough for you to notice.

“It’s not really my thing.” She shrugged. “Big groups. Matching napkins. PDA. Plus-ones.”

You raised your brows. “Don’t like a good open bar?”

“I like vodka.” She countered. “I don’t like pity small talk from married people asking me why I’m alone.”

“Wow.” You said, deadpan. “Whoever asked you that must have a death wish.”

“They were brave. And drunk. Didn’t last long.”

You laughed, fully this time, a rich, bright sound that made her glance up again, this time without the usual walls behind her eyes.

“Well…” You said lightly. “I also hate matching napkins and PDA. I’m also being a loner this weekend and every other weekend.”

Natasha tilted her head, amused. “Are you offering to be my plus-one?”

You shrugged with a grin. “I mean, I wasn’t but I’d be happy to be of service. Besides don’t I owe you for the courageous offer of your shirt so I wouldn’t flash government officials.”

“Pretty sure I owe you.”

You sipped your coffee. “Exactly. I’m repaying a debt. Like some kind of marketing department damsel in distress.”

Natasha considered you for a long moment then set her cup down.

“…Alright.”

You blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“You basically offered.”

“Yeah but-“

“And I accepted.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “Wow. I didn’t think that would actually work.”

Her lips twitched. “You said it yourself, you’re free this weekend.”

You tried to look nonchalant and failed completely. “Guess I am.”

Natasha picked up her cup again. “Good. Then pack something formal. Stark weddings are never subtle.”

“Noted.”

Another beat passed. This time, the silence felt like static, charged, not quite flirty, not quite serious. You broke it with a grin.

“So… is there a dress code or expectations for being an Avenger’s fake date?”

Natasha didn’t blink. “Don’t die.”

You raised your cup in a toast. “I’ll do my best.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Your phone buzzed while you were packing.

Unknown Number:

Send a pic of the dress.

You blinked then stared at the text for a second too long.

Well, that wasn’t ominous.

You texted back immediately.

You:

Bold of you to assume I’d be into anonymous dress kinks.

But sure, what are you wearing?

It only took a second before a reply came through.

Unknown Number:

It’s Natasha.

Shut up.

You grinned, already halfway laughing.

You:

Ohhhh well in that case? Still no.

You’ll see it at the wedding. I like the dramatic reveal.

Three dots appeared… then vanished. Then again.

Natasha:

Why are you being weird?

You:

You asked for a picture of my outfit like a sugar daddy? What’s the protocol here?

Do I send you feet pics too?

Across the city, in her apartment, Natasha stared at her phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone questioning every decision that had led her here.

Then, finally.

Natasha:

Just tell me the colour.

You chewed your lip, fighting a smirk, then typed.

You:

Technically? It’s ‘shadowed evergreen with cool ash undertones and a satin twilight finish’

Ten seconds of silence.

Natasha:

What the hell does that mean?!

You:

It means it’s a very sexy forest🫶

Natasha:

That’s all you had to say at the beginning.

Also that’s not a colour.

You:

You asked.

Don’t get snippy just because you don’t understand fashion.

Another pause.

Natasha:

...Is it short?

You felt your heart skip once, just once then smiled as you typed back.

You:

Wouldn’t you like to know?

It’s fitted. High slit. Low back.

You’ll manage.

Natasha:

You’re enjoying this.

You:

You asked.

Natasha:

I regret it.

You:

You’ll regret it more when you see me.

Try not to let it become a problem.

Natasha:

What I regret not leaving you soaked in coffee.

You:

Two more days and you can have a do-over with champagne…

Three dots. No reply.

You pictured her somewhere in her minimalistic apartment, tossing her phone onto the couch and muttering something Russian under her breath.

It made you grin harder than you wanted to admit.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The trees were thinning out ahead of them, tall pines giving way to the manicured gravel drive that wound toward Stark’s Hamptons estate. But the car ride still had time to stretch, twenty more minutes of shared space and too much quiet.

You shifted in your seat and glanced over at Natasha, arms on the wheel, eyes fixed on the blur outside the window. She looked like a statue someone had wrapped in black silk.

“We should probably get our story straight.” You commented, putting your phone down and turning towards her.

She blinked, just once then looked at you. “What story?”

“How we met.” You gave her a shrug and a crooked smile. “We’re supposed to be dating, remember? People are going to ask.”

Natasha made a face like she’d just remembered she agreed to something ridiculous. “Can’t we just say we matched on some app, I spilled coffee on you, which I did and kept it vague?”

“That’s your fantasy origin story?” You teased. “You spill coffee on my shirt and you’re like Better take this one to a wedding.’”

“I’ve done dumber things.”

You laughed. “Okay, fine. Let’s workshop it.”

She sighed and leaned back into the leather. “Alright. Shoot.”

You held up an imaginary notepad. “Option one: You saved my life during a corporate hostage situation. You fell for me literally, as crawled through the air vents.”

She looked at you flatly. “Pass. Also you work for Stark, I think he’d know if there was a hostage situation with his employees.”

“I work with Pepper and can say Stark doesn’t even know what time to shower unless Pepper tells him. Anyway, no problem.” You grin. “Option two. We were seated next to each other on a red-eye. You stole my pretzels. We fought. Then we made out somewhere over Nebraska.”

Her expression didn’t change but her lip twitched. “That one’s better.”

“Thought so.”

“But I don’t take red eyes. I have a quinjet.”

“Ok, show off.”

“What else have you got?”

“The boring kind. Meet cute in the supermarket? Friend of a friend set us up on a blind date? I stalked you like a weirdo fan.”

“The last one!”

“Of course you’d say that.”

“It’s realistic.”

“Not quite, I’m more of a Wanda fan.”

“She’s getting married, tough.”

“Only because she hasn’t met me yet.”

“You’re so-“

“I know.” Natasha went quiet, not in anger but admiration, she’d met her match.

She was quiet for a moment, then said. “So what’s your real type? Since we’re lying to each other.”

You looked out the window. “Hopeless romantic. The usual.”

“Fairy tales. Flowers. Making eye contact during sex?”

“Exactly.”

She snorted. “You don’t strike me as the hearts and roses type.”

You smiled, a little softer now. “I don’t believe in love. I just like pretending it’s real.”

That made her glance at you again, properly this time.

You added. “It’s like horoscopes. Bullshit but comforting.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I hate love.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“So’s ‘forever.’”

“Touché.”

“I like what love pretends to be.” She shrugged. “But love itself? Messy. Manipulative. Weak.”

You didn’t push. Just nodded. “So what do you believe in?”

Natasha stared out the window again.

“Control.” She deadpanned. “Chemistry. Sex.”

“Ah.” You said, biting back a grin. “The holy trinity.”

She finally smiled, crooked, deliberate. “At least I’m honest about it.”

You shrugged, settling into your seat. “Alright then. New origin story? We met at a bar. You said something cold. I said something stupid. Then we slept together. And just… kept doing it.”

“That…” Natasha said, eyes still forward, “…is the most believable thing you’ve said all day.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car pulled up to the Stark estate, all towering stone archways and elegant glass, an estate that looked like it had been custom-built to host emotionally complicated billionaires and superhero weddings.

Natasha stepped out first, looking entirely unbothered. She wore a smart-casual line shirt tucked neatly into lightweight black dress pants, sleeves pushed just enough to show her forearms. Her sunglasses sat low on her nose, her expression unreadable.

Effortless. Controlled. Of course she looked good.

You followed her out of the car, brushing your palms over the fabric of your summer dress, a soft floral number, simple and light. It was the least daring of the dresses you’d packed for the weekend. You weren’t easing into things. You were pacing yourself.

Her eyes flicked over you, unreadable.But her fingers brushed your lower back as you stepped up beside her.

Instinct? Acting? You weren’t sure. Neither was she.

Inside, the front room was alive with voices, laughter, clinking glass and the full roster of Avengers in various states of casual travel attire. Sam, Carol, Maria, Clint, Tony, Steve and Bucky, all circling round the reception.

All eyes went to you and Natasha the moment the door closed behind you.

“Romanoff brought a date.” Sam said, mock-scandalised.

Carol blinked. “Wait, seriously? You weren’t kidding?”

Maria nudged her. “Let her get a drink first, damn!"

Natasha just raised an eyebrow like this was nothing new.

You smiled, stepped closer, and casually slid your hand into hers. She didn’t flinch or pull away. Just laced her fingers with yours like she’d done it a thousand times.

Pepper spotted you across the room and froze. “Wait- What?!”

You grinned. “Hi, boss.”

“I- I- How did I not know about this?”

Natasha answered smoothly. “We’re very discreet.”

“I work with both of you.”

“Exactly.” Natasha added, stepping in close to your side, her hand still warm in yours. “She only visits me after hours.”

“Please stop.” Pepper muttered.

“We met after work.” You explained. “At a bar… we didn’t know at first. A few drinks and Natasha was all charming but just so so broody-“

“Then we slept together.” She finished flatly, cutting you off.

Sam snorted into his drink. “Okay. I like this story. Let’s go back, don’t spare any details.”

“We’ve been inseparable ever since.” You smile, cuddling up against her side like it was second nature.

Natasha’s arm instinctively wrapped around your waist.

She gave you a sideways glance, low and amused. “That’s funny. Because someone didn’t text me back for three days.”

“I was playing hard to get.” You said, nudging her. “You liked it.”

“You were ghosting me.”

“I was thinking!” You turned to Pepper. “She’s so clingy.”

“I left for a mission.” Natasha said, deadpan.

“Exactly. Clingy and mysterious.”

“Please. You begged me to take you home.”

“Well maybe because your flirting was so bad, someone had to do something about it!”

“Maybe if you weren’t so unemotionally available to talk to!”

“I was not!”

“No, she’s right. She wasn’t…” Natasha’s hand slid a little lower on your back. “She cried after sex.”

“I did not-“

Maria burst out laughing. Sam actually gasped. Pepper covered her mouth.

You gasped, indignant. “You said I was the best you ever had!”

“I say that to everyone.”

You slapped her arm lightly but enough to earn a subtle smirk in return.

“Can we get our keys before I commit a public murder?” You asked sweetly.

Pepper, still recovering, handed over a sleek black envelope. “Second floor. Shared suite. Far end of the east wing.”

“I hope the bed’s big, we need a big enough one to fit her ego.” Natasha said, locking eyes with you.

You didn’t blink. “So do I, you snore like a pig.”

Natasha just smiled. “You’ll be too busy crying after sex again to notice.”

The whole room groaned.

As you tugged Natasha toward the stairs, hand still in hers, you leaned in and whispered. “Bet you’re not used to being out-charmed in your own games.”

Natasha just squeezed your hand and muttered under her breath, low and amused. “Game’s still on.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The suite was exactly what you’d expect from a Stark estate, bigger than most apartments, with sleek wood floors, modern furniture and a full glass wall that overlooked the trees outside. One kingsized bed sat against the far wall, all clean lines and crisp sheets, like every other part of the estate, nothing out of place.

Natasha walked in first, tossing her jacket on a chair, already scanning the place like she was expecting it to self destruct.

You followed behind her and dropped your bag on the bed closest to the window.

“So.” You said, eyeing the space. “Do you want the side near the door so you can make a quick escape or shall I take that one and make things interesting?”

She glanced at you with that unreadable look. “You were projecting down there, you're the one who snores. I can tell.”

“Wow. Judgy.”

“You talk in your sleep too.”

“Oh so now you’re just fantasising.”

She let out a short breath, maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh. Hard to tell. Then she said: “Rehearsal dinner starts in thirty. Don’t be late.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying you want to match outfits or?”

But she’d already disappeared into the bathroom, and the door shut behind her with a soft click.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You changed into one of the nicer dresses you’d brought not the showstopper, that was for the ceremony but the second-best one. Fitted, with a complicated strappy back, a deep neckline and a stunning shade of red that didn’t just draw the eye, it demanded attention and held it hostage.

You were just putting in earrings when Natasha emerged.

She’d traded the linen for something sharper. Dark, tailored, open collar. A suit jacket this time, no tie. Hair in loose waves, something nobody saw often with a few braids scattered.

She stopped when she saw you. Just for a second.

And then she said. “That’s the second least daring dress you packed?”

You smirked. “I told you I was pacing myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes dragging over the length of you. “You pace like you’re trying to kill someone slowly.”

“And you look like someone who doesn’t believe in foreplay.”

“Only with people who’ve earned it.”

You stuttered out a laugh, caught off guard but you’d never give her the pleasure of knowing that. “Let’s go, there’s a champagne glass with my name on it.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The rehearsal dinner was already in full swing by the time you reached the main hall, tall ceilings, string lights overhead and a long banquet table running the length of the room. Waitstaff circled with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Soft jazz floated in from a live trio in the corner.

Wanda spotted you immediately and lit up. She hugged Natasha first, quick and surprisingly warm then turned to you.

“And you must be…” Wanda’s eyes sparkled.

“Trouble.” You finished, smiling.

Wanda laughed. “I like her.”

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous, excited. The wedding is this easy part, it's keeping up wit this spectacle Stark forced on us."

You mingled easily. More easily than Natasha expected, judging by the way her gaze kept flicking toward you from across the room.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t fake. But you were good.

Polite. Political. Smart. The kind of person who answered nosy questions with grace and just enough mischief to keep them guessing.

“I work in marketing for Stark Industries.” Natasha overheard you say once, hand resting lightly on someone’s arm. “Which means I lie for a living but only beautifully.”

You handled Clint with charm, Bruce with kindness, and Carol with so much wit that Maria had to hide her grin behind a champagne glass.

You even made Tony pause.

“Who is she?” He asked Natasha at one point, halfway through a glass of scotch. “She works for me?!”

Natasha didn’t answer, just watched you from across the room.

You caught her eye once and held it. And smiled like you knew something she didn’t.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Wanda stood near the fireplace, her glass of wine barely touched. She watched Natasha across the room, now alone, swirling a drink slowly in her hand. The corner of her mouth twitched.

She walked over.

“I like her.” She said softly, without preamble.

“She’s good at pretending.” Natasha didn’t look up. There was no point in lying to a literal mind reader.

Wanda smiled. “That wasn’t pretend.”

“She’s charming. It’s a skill.”

“Maybe. But she wasn’t the one pretending tonight.”

Natasha glanced at her then, sharp, neutral. “You reading me now Maximoff?”

“I don’t have to.” Wanda said, swirling her wine. “You wear it like perfume."

“Wear what?”

“The way you look at her.” Wanda said, her voice velvety smooth. “Like she’s a loaded weapon you’re hoping never gets aimed at you.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “She’s not a threat."

Wanda tilted her head. “Exactly.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Wanda added, low and knowing, “She wants you. And you’re trying so hard not to want her back, it’s practically screaming.”

Natasha’s jaw flexed.

“I can help you lie to everyone else.” Wanda said gently, stepping back. “But not yourself.”

And with that, she slipped away, leaving Natasha standing in the amber-lit room, silent, glass still in hand.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The rehearsal dinner had finally wound down, the last glasses of champagne drained and someone, probably Clint, caught trying to sneak dessert into a napkin for later.

The suite was dim when you returned. You kicked off your shoes, sighing like you’d just survived a battlefield. In a way, you had.

Natasha followed you in, quiet as ever, closing the door behind her.

“So?” You asked as you started to undo the copious amount of jewellery that adorned your body. “How did I do?”

There was a pause.

“You’re terrifyingly good at this.”

You grinned, stepping towards her and turning, gesturing towards the zip. “Told you I lie beautifully.”

Her hands shook as she pulled down the zip, watching more and more skin appear, the curve of a shoulder, the dip of her spine, each inch undoing her composure like thread unraveling in slow motion.

“Done.” She croaked out, immediately clearing her throat after.

“Thanks.” You smiled, holding up the dress with your left hand, disappearing into the bathroom, hearing a sigh of relief behind you.

When you came back out, you were in an oversized tee, bare legs, no makeup and smelling of a mix of vanilla and coconut. You looked casual but soft. Natasha had already stripped down to a tank top and loose joggers, sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through something on her phone like she wasn’t hyper-aware of you.

You walked over and flopped down beside her.

And the second your weight hit the mattress, her eyes flicked to yours. “I can take the sofa.”

“I think we’re a little past pretending we’re that polite,” You told her, pulling your legs up and stretching out beside her. “Besides, I don’t bite.”

Her lips curled slightly. “That’s disappointing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t if provoked.”

She didn’t look away. “Noted.”

And just like that, neither of you moved, the bed suddenly feeling too big and way too small at the same time.

You turned off the bedside light.

And in the dark, your voices felt quieter. Closer.

You rolled onto your side, your arm brushing hers. “Don’t worry. I don’t kick or snore or talk in my sleep. No matter how much you insist I do.”

“Great.”

“But I do cuddle.”

“Immediately no.”

“I can’t help it. I’m like a koala bear.”

“Yeah well I’m like a polar bear so don’t try it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You mumbled tiredly. “Big, scary, dangerous assassin. I could do some damage too, you know?”

“Oh yes, I’m so scared of the biting, cuddle threatening koala that knows all things marketing, how will I ever escape colour coded files and manipulative email- OW.”

“I told you I bite.” You simply murmured, watching through lidded eyes as she rubbed her arm where your teeth sank.

“You are insane.”

“I must be to be here right now.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You really do have a thing about control.”

“And you really like pretending that doesn’t interest you.”

You smiled into the dark. “Just trying to understand the rules of the game.”

“There aren’t any.”

You let that hang between you for a moment, the silence heavier than it should be.

“Sweet dreams Natasha.”

She didn’t respond but she didn’t roll away, either.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You felt her move before you heard her, the shift of weight on the mattress, the whisper of sheets, the near-silent sound of feet hitting the floor.

Natasha never really slept, not the way most people did. It was more like she paused… reset. Eyes still closed, you heard her zip something up, then the faint creak of the door opening.

Of course she would run more miles than you could count on both hands before a wedding like it was any other day.

You didn’t move. Just let the door click shut behind her and sank a little deeper into the pillow, the scent of her shampoo still clinging to the sheets beside you.

By the time she returned, you were out of bed, hair half-styled, robe cinched loosely at your waist, mascara in hand and one earring in.She stepped inside, sweat-slick and infuriatingly calm, like her pulse had never spiked.

Her eyes flicked over you, bare legs, flushed cheeks, one slipper on.

“Morning.” You grinned, like it wasn’t completely unfair how good she looked post-run.

She nodded once. “You start getting ready without me?”

“I figured you wouldn’t need help getting dressed.”

Her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.

“You’d be surprised.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Is that a request?”

“Not yet.”

And just like that, she disappeared into the bathroom, leaving you there, smiling into your second earring like this wasn’t building toward something inevitable.

The sound of running water humming to life seconds later. You stared at yourself in the mirror, hair nearly finished, makeup done, skin still warm from the hair appliance and nerves.

Then you turned to the dress. That dress.

That deep shade of green, open back, structured yet slinky all at once. You’d worn it in theory before when you described it to her via text and she acted unimpressed.

But now it was real.

You stepped into it slowly, carefully adjusting the fabric where it hugged your hips, smoothing it over your thighs. The straps fell into place across your shoulders, fabric twisting at the bottom of your back in delicate, purposeful chaos.

The zipper was halfway up when the bathroom door opened

You didn’t turn around.

“Romanoff?” You called over your shoulder, playing it casual.

A pause, a few footsteps. She didn’t answer, not right away.

You reached behind you, fingers fumbling at the zipper.

“Can you help?”

A moment of silence followed before a few footsteps again. Slower this time.

She came up behind you, close enough that you could feel her body heat before she even touched you. You caught her reflection in the mirror, damp hair swept back, skin still flushed from the shower, eyes locked on the open expanse of skin down your spine.

Her fingers brushed the small of your back, just once. Then found the zipper.

She pulled it up slowly, carefully, dragging the fabric into place with the kind of precision that felt practiced. Mechanical. Except her touch lingered a second too long at the top, fingertips brushing your skin before dropping away.

You exhaled. “Thanks.”

Natasha’s voice came quiet behind you. “You were right.”

You blinked. “About what?”

She met your eyes in the mirror.

“That dress is a problem.”

“I could take it off if it’s going to cause problems.”

She didn’t flinch, just tilted her head, lips curving slightly. “You’ll have to behave yourself at dinner. We’re with the team.”

“Oh, I won’t.” You said, brushing past her on the way to the bathroom. “But it’ll look polite.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The ceremony was beautiful. Wanda glowed. Vision looked like he’d downloaded five separate wedding manuals and still managed to look overwhelmed.

You and Natasha sat close, too close in the front row. Her knee bumped yours once. You didn’t move. When the bride walked down the aisle, you leaned in just enough, your voice low, words almost too casual.

“Is it wildly inappropriate to admit I’ve been undressing the officiant with my eyes for the last ten minutes?”

Natasha choked on her breath and tried to cover it with a quiet cough.

“Unbelievable.” She muttered. “She’s at least double your age, if not triple.”

"She’s giving such divorced professor who teaches ethics but definitely doesn’t follow them energy.”

Natasha blinked. “What is wrong with you?”

You shrugged, sipping your drink. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a type. Emotionally distant women with sharp tongues and commitment issues.”

Her jaw ticked. “Charming.”

You glanced at her. “Takes one to know one.”

You’d never seen her look more alive than when she was trying not to smirk in public.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, at the reception, the two of you drifted between conversations, hands brushing, fingers ghosting over the backs of chairs, subtle glances exchanged across champagne flutes. Your act was flawless. But something was cracking at the edges.

Natasha watched you laugh at something Sam said and looked away too fast.

You caught her watching and smiled like you’d caught her red-handed.

At one point, Tony stood up, scotch in hand, eyes already a little too glassy and tapped his fork against his glass like he was hosting an awards show.

“Alright, alright.” He grinned. “I’m invoking a sacred wedding tradition.”

Groans went up across the long room.

“Oh, shut up. I’m being romantic.” Tony insisted. “To celebrate love, passion, mutual tax benefits, all the lovers in the room, grab your partner and kiss ‘em.”

You and Natasha exchanged a look across your wine glasses, a perfect mix of horror and absolutely not.

Then, in unison, you both made a very quiet, very dry fake gagging sound. It was subtle. Synchronized. Discreet enough for dignity.

Until you looked up and realised everyone else was actually doing it. Lips meeting. Hands on cheeks. Some modest, some… very much not from those who had indulged in a glass of champagne too many.

You froze. Natasha went unnaturally still beside you.

And then, of course. “Don’t be shy, Romanoff!”

Sam called across the table, raising his glass with a grin. “We know it ain’t your first time.”

The whole table turned.

Carol looked way too amused. Bucky raised an eyebrow. Even Pepper was watching with the kind of polite curiosity that made it worse.

You turned slowly toward Natasha.

She didn’t say anything, just arched a single brow.

You cleared your throat, leaned in slightly. “Well…” You murmured. “…you did say we were committed to the bit.”

“I said I was committed, not an exhibitionist.” She gave you a once over, slow and unreadable. “Just keep your hands to yourself.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

And then, with every eye on you, she leaned forward.

One hand rested on your thigh beneath the table, grounding. The other found the edge of your jaw, fingers light.

She kissed you.

Not quick. Not hesitant. Not entirely performative.

Just long enough to hush the room. Just slow enough to register.

And then she pulled back, face impassive like she hadn’t just lit your entire nervous system on fire.

“Better?” She said quietly, looking around the table.

Sam raised both eyebrows. “Well damn.”

You reached for your wine without a word, mostly to hide your smile.

Natasha’s thumb brushed your knee before she let go.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

After dinner, music picked up. Lights dimmed. Someone tried to drag Natasha to the dance floor. She muttered something about bruised toes and melted into the shadows, only to appear beside you five minutes later with two glasses of wine.

You took yours and clinked gently against hers.

“To fake love.” You said.

“To real chemistry.” She replied. You didn’t break eye contact.

And for a moment, nothing existed beyond the space between your knees brushing under the table, her gaze flicking to your mouth and that magnetic pull that had stopped being part of the performance sometime around… yesterday.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You didn’t drag her to the dance floor. Not really.

You just walked up behind her during some slow jazz instrumental and held out a hand without looking like she’d already agreed.

Natasha gave you a flat look then sighed like it pained her and followed you out anyway.

She didn’t dance, not properly. She shifted her weight, let you twirl lazily in front of her, arms loose around your waist like she was making sure you didn’t trip. You teased her about her rhythm. She muttered something about ‘former assassins not being trained for ballroom etiquette’.

“Yeah but you’re holding me like you’ve done this before.” You said under your breath.

She didn’t deny it.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You ended up back at the table after a few too many wedding cocktails. Natasha stretched out beside you, one ankle crossed over the other, wine glass spinning slowly between her fingers.

Bucky was mid story when you casually dropped. “Oh, Nat? She told me when we first met that she’d have left if I’d ordered a mojito.”

“She did what?” Clint asked.

“Swear to God.” You said. “It was the mint. Apparently it’s weak.”

Natasha didn’t blink. “You told the bartender you wanted a cocktail that ‘tastes like a vacation and a bad decision.’”

You nodded proudly. “And you stayed.”

“I was bored.” She drawled. “And you were wearing that backless thing. I was curious how it came off.”

Carol spit her drink.

You just raised your glass and said. “So I won.”

“I meant to ask earlier…” Sam trailed off. “How hard were the new agents coming at you? Your arm is a mess.”

Natasha frowned, looking at where Sam had pointed and saw exactly what he meant. The smirk immediately appeared, her voice teasing. “That's not from the agents."

“Oh.” The fake couple saw the realisation set in. “OH!”

“Sorry.” You shrugged, brushing your knuckles against the blossoming bruise.

“You two are something else. Remind me to thank Pepper for putting my room the hell away from yours!”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You volunteered to get the tequila. Seemed fair since Natasha had endured dancing, your relentless one-upping and two rounds of you using her as a human shield to avoid sentimental speeches. A round of shots felt like a peace offering.

The bar was busy. You leaned against the counter, waiting for the bartender, when someone slid up beside you.

Tall. Confident. Overconfident. Drunk.

You clocked the energy before he opened his mouth.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” He sneered, eyes flicking down your dress in a way that made your skin crawl. “You here with someone?”

You gave him a polite smile. “Yeah. My girlfriend.”

“Yeah?” He grinned. “Where is she?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Somewhere very close.”

He laughed like that meant something else entirely. “You sure she wouldn’t want to share?”

You blinked. “I’m gay.”

He leaned in a little. “That’s because you’ve never tried me…”

You opened your mouth, not entirely sure what you were going to say when a voice slid in behind you, smooth and cold.

“She has.”

You turned slightly, and there was Natasha. Calm, unreadable, dangerous in that effortless way she carried herself. Her arm slid around your waist, her other hand casually taking the shot tray from the bar like this was all completely ordinary.

“She’s not interested.” She said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut glass.

The guy didn’t take the hint.

He gave her a slow once over, cocky grin in full force. “What, you speak for her now?”

Natasha’s smile turned razor edged. “When you stop listening? Yeah.”

He laughed, short and loud like he thought he was still in control. “You got attitude. Bet you’re a real bitch in bed.”

You felt Natasha’s body shift beside you. The hand on your waist tightened, just slightly, not for show this time but restraint.

She stepped in, slow and deliberate, her mouth right near his ear. “I’ve killed men for less than what just came out of your mouth.”

He pulled back, startled, blinked like he’d just realized he was speaking to the Natasha Romanoff.

“Now baby…” Natasha said, her voice smooth as silk but still humming with the edge that made your heart pound. “Are you ready to go back to the table?”

You should’ve said yes. You should’ve grabbed the tray of tequila and made a joke, rolled your eyes, kept the game going like nothing happened.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stared at her, flushed, breath tight, stomach doing somersaults and before you could second guess it, you stepped in.

And kissed her. Not for show. Not for the team. Not to out-do anyone. Just because she was so hot it physically hurt.

Because her voice in your ear, her hand on your waist, the look on her face when she threatened that man like it was just another Tuesday, it short circuited your good sense. The kiss was firm, deliberate, a little reckless. You felt her inhale sharply through her nose, like you’d surprised her and maybe you had.

But she didn’t pull away or laugh or joke or make it part of the bit.

Her hand came up, thumb brushing your cheek as her mouth moved with yours, just once. And the team lost their minds somewhere in the distance.

“Holy shit.”

“Okay, damn.”

“YES, NATASHA!”

You barely heard them. You were too busy clinging to the edge of breath.

Then she pulled back, barely, her eyes somehow darker than before. 

“Now I’m ready.” You breathed, pupils blown. 

“Good girl.” She murmured quietly, taking your hand in her spare one and pulling you back to the table.

And just like that, you knew you were in trouble.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

By the time the last round of drinks hit the table, you were both quieter. Not tired but full of whatever this was now. Charged. Loosened. Buzzing.

The kisses, plural now, had come and gone. One from Tony’s toast. One you initiated because she’d said baby like that.

But neither of you had really recovered.

Natasha was sitting too close, thigh pressed to yours under the table, hand resting dangerously high on your knee. Her arm wrapped around the back of your chair and her fingers running up and down the skin of your arm. At one point, you leaned in to say something and didn’t pull back. Her lips brushed your jaw like it was an accident. It wasn’t.

You fed her a lime slice with your fingers. She licked the juice off and smirked when you stared.

You said goodnight to the team, barely got the words out between half-laughs and flustered smiles.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She just stood when you did and followed. Her hand landed on your lower back like it had every right to be there.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The hallway was quiet, carpet soft beneath your heels and her presence behind you was heat.

You were laughing about something stupid, something she said in your ear that made you snort and nearly trip out of your heels. She caught your elbow automatically, steadying you, her fingers lingering. You didn’t step away.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You said without turning, your eyes a little glassy.

“I’m not looking at you.” She replied.

You could feel her looking at you.

“You’re bad at lying when you’ve had tequila.”

“I’m bad at pretending you’re not beautiful when you laugh like that.”

You stopped walking and turned to her. 

She nearly ran into you, didn’t bother stepping back. Just stared down at you with that half smile, half dare playing on her mouth.

Your voice came out a little breathless. “This isn’t part of the bit anymore, is it?”

Natasha’s gaze flicked between your eyes, her voice low. Honest.

“It hasn’t been for hours.” And then she kissed you. Not careful or playful or performative for the others.

It started soft, mouths brushing, testing but there was nothing uncertain about it. Her hand found your waist, pulled you flush and your breath hitched as you reached for her shirt like it might ground you. She broke the kiss for half a second. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you.

Then her body pressed forward, backing you into the hallway wall with a clumsy, desperate kind of precision. Her mouth found yours again, messier this time, deeper and needier. 

One hand slid to the side of your neck, her thumb under your jaw, holding you there like she needed the contact. The other braced flat beside your head, trapping you in like she wasn’t giving you the option to think, let alone run.

You moaned into her mouth, surprised, maybe by how badly you wanted this. Somewhere between kisses, your hand fumbled for the key card. It slipped once. She cursed softly against your lips, took it from you and shoved it into the lock like she could break it open with willpower alone.

The door swung open. She guided you inside without looking. The room was dark, quiet, unfamiliar and none of it mattered.

You kissed her again, harder now. A laugh caught in her throat as you tugged at her blazer, fingers sliding beneath the hem. She turned you, walked you backwards blindly until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

Somewhere in the dark, her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I do.” Your answer was instant. “I want you.”

And then her mouth was on your throat, your hands under her shirt, her laugh low against your skin as you gasped. All heat and grip and tension finally snapping.

Fingers tangled in hair, knees shifting on sheets, hands gripping thighs. You felt her everywhere, her hands skimming under your dress before she near enough ripped it off, her mouth dragging across your collarbone, her breath at your ear like a promise and a warning all at once.

You gasped something, maybe her name, maybe just a sound and she answered with a shiver, a press of lips against your throat, a whispered “I know.”

And everything you hadn’t said, written across skin instead.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You woke first. Kind of.

Your eyes opened slowly, sunlight spilling across the room in quiet gold. The sheets were twisted around your waist. The air smelled like hotel linen and skin. Warmth bloomed behind you, a body, close, breathing even.

Natasha.

She was still asleep or doing a very convincing impression of it. One arm slung low across your stomach, her legs tangled with yours, her nose tucked into the back of your shoulder like she’d meant to keep her distance and just… hadn’t.

You stared at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot.

When she finally stirred, a soft sound in her throat, a stretch, a slow blink, her hand flexed where it rested on your ribs.

“Morning.” You said, voice scratchy.

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, heavy-lidded and sleep-mussed and hummed like you were a warm secret she hadn’t meant to keep.

Then she flopped onto her back and muttered. “You snore.”

You gasped. “I do not.”

“You do.” She said flatly. “I knew it. Cute but loud. Like a small, overconfident animal.”

You rolled over and hit her with a pillow.

She caught it mid swing, smirking.

The sheets fell to her waist. You stared for a second too long.

She noticed but did nothing about it.

“You hungry?” She asked, casual.

“Starving.”

“I saw the menu for the brunch downstairs last night. It looks incredible, we should sneak down early to get the best stuff.” 

You grinned. “Why sneak? We’re practically newlyweds now.”

She snorted. “Right. Mission complete.”

You blinked.

“Huh.”

“Mission complete.” She repeated. “One more day of fake hand holding and pretend kisses and you can go back to emails and tinder.”

Just like that, it shifted. She didn’t mean it cruelly. It wasn’t harsh. Just a throwaway comment. A reminder. That it was fake. That it was supposed to end.

“Right. Of course.” You nodded, quiet. "Mission complete."

She didn’t notice the change in your voice. Or she did, and ignored it. You sat up, reaching for your robe, trying not to show the sting.

Her eyes flicked to you. Opened her mouth. Closed it.

But she didn’t say anything. 

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Brunch was already in full swing when you and Natasha arrived. She should have known the team would think the same as her and beat her to the good stuff.  The sun was too bright, everyone a little hungover and louder than they should’ve been. Mimosas clinked. Chairs scraped. Someone cheered when you stepped onto the terrace.

“Look who finally emerged!”

“Hey, lovebirds! Rough night?”

“Hope the hotel charged double for damage.”

You smiled, barely but just enough to be polite.

While Natasha gave them a look. “You’re all disgusting.”

Clint wiggled his eyebrows. “You’re glowing, Romanoff. I’m just saying.”

You laughed, quiet and short, and reached for a glass of juice instead of champagne. Natasha followed you to the table, sliding into the seat beside you. Her hand found your thigh under the table, thumb brushing slow circles, familiar, casual.

You stiffened. Not entirely dramatically but just enough. Then, without a word, you crossed your legs and gently dislodged her touch.

Natasha stilled. Her eyes flicked to you, studying your face like a puzzle she hadn’t realised she needed to solve.

You didn’t look at her.

You were busy stirring sugar into your coffee, listening politely to Pepper talk about the speeches later, nodding along like you hadn’t been wrapped around Natasha Romanoff eight hours ago whispering her name against her skin.

She leaned in, voice low near your ear. “You okay?”

You didn’t look up. “Fine.”

Something inside her curled. Wrong. Tight. Had she said something? Had some done something? You were happy this morning, right? Even happier last night.

This was different. You were different.

Still warm on the outside, still smiling, still engage but that spark, that electricity she’d gotten addicted to overnight? Gone. Like you’d pulled it back behind your ribs where she couldn’t reach it.

And Natasha didn’t understand why it felt like a loss.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Natasha didn’t push it.

She let you be, all through brunch, all the way to the car. No comments, no teasing. Just silence, stretched thin between you in the back seat.

She glanced at you as the engine started. “Want to talk?” She asked, voice low.

You didn’t look up from the window. “I’m just tired.”

And true to your word, you were asleep within minutes. Head tipped against the glass, arms folded across your stomach. The kind of sleep that only happens after emotional exhaustion, not rest.

Natasha watched you for a long moment before settling back, quiet. When the road curved, she took it slower than necessary. At one point, you shivered, even in the sun. She peeled off her hoodie at a stop light and carefully laid it across your lap, tucking it under your arm so it wouldn’t fall.

No one spoke the entire ride home.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

When they pulled up to the tower, she turned in her seat and touched your shoulder gently. You stirred, eyes slow to open, still soft from sleep.

“We’re here.” She said.

You blinked, sat up, then slowly started gathering your things. No words yet. No smile.

Just quiet.

And then at the curb, you turned to her, expression calm but something unreadable behind your eyes.

“This weekend was nice. Really.” Natasha opened her mouth but you kept going. “Thanks for inviting me. And… I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She blinked. “Wait- Can we just-“ 

But you were already stepping out, already walking toward the elevators with that same gentle poise that had undone her all weekend. Not angry. Not cruel. Just done.

The doors slid closed before she could follow.

Natasha sat in the car a while longer, hoodie still warm from where it had rested against your skin and didn’t move.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It was late afternoon when Natasha found herself standing in the common room, fingers curled loosely around a mug she hadn’t touched. She hadn’t meant to linger in the tower like a lost puppy but her legs didn’t take her anywhere else.

The doors hissed open behind her, soft heels and familiar energy.

“Hey.” Wanda said, breezing in with a duffel bag over her shoulder. Her hair was braided loose, the way she always wore it when she traveled. “I’m grabbing some things before we disappear. Don’t tell Tony or he’ll throw another brunch.”

Natasha gave a faint huff. “The last thing I need is to be sat on another table with all of them again.”

Wanda paused, looked at her properly and could sense the turmoil. “You okay?”

Natasha hesitated.

Then, finally and for once, honestly. “No.”

Wanda said nothing, just walked to the kitchen, poured herself a coffee and leaned against the counter, waiting.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I’m right where I need to be right now.”

Natasha didn’t look at her when she started. “You know I invited someone to the wedding. And I know you know it was supposed to be a fake date. But it wasn’t fake. Not really.”

Wanda tilted her head, quiet.

“There was always something there.” Natasha continued. “We kissed, more than once. We-“ She stopped, swallowed. “Saturday night, we- It wasn’t pretend anymore. But I said something this morning about the whole thing being a bit, about it being over. And she-"

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “She just… shut off. And left.”

Wanda was quiet for a moment, sipping slowly. Then, gently. “So let me get this straight. You took a girl you really like to a romantic weekend with your entire found family, made her feel wanted, kissed her like she was yours, slept with her and then reminded her it was all pretend?”

Natasha winced. “It wasn’t like that.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t it?”

“She knew the deal. We were joking about it from the start.”

“And did you tell her when it stopped being an actual joke for you?”

Silence.

Wanda softened. “Nat… that girl looked at you like you hung the moon. I saw it. Everyone saw it.”

“She brushed me off.” Natasha said, quietly. “Didn’t even want to talk about it.”

“Because she was probably humiliated.” Wanda said, still kind but honest. “She gave you more than she meant to. And she probably thought you didn’t even notice.”

Natasha’s jaw tensed. “I did.”

Wanda set her mug down. “Then maybe it’s time to tell her.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You weren’t supposed to see her.

That was the whole point, sneak in, drop off the hoodie, grab Pepper’s flash drive and her backup files and get the hell out. You were already late, already unraveling.

Your bag felt like it weighed thirty pounds. You’d dropped your phone directly in some stupid water feature at the office and somewhere between your apartment and the security desk, your lanyard had vanished.

“Ma’am.” The guard said, definitively. “I can’t let you in without ID.”

“I work here.” You snapped, trying to keep your voice polite. “Well not here but for Pepper Potts so I kind of do! I’ve been in and out of this building for months.”

“And today…” He said, unmoved. “…you don’t have ID.”

“I just need to go up and drop something off. I’m not trying to hack the Pentagon for god sake-"

“I need you to calm down.” He interrupted, like it was a reflex.

You bit down hard. “I am calm.”

“Ma’am.” The lead guard said, clearly already bored. “We’ve been over this. No ID, no entry.”

“I’m literally on the list-“

“There is no list.”

“I’ve been here dozens of time-“

“And today?” The younger guard cut in, smug. “You’re not cleared. So either step aside or-“

“I don’t have time to step aside! Do you not understand I’m trying to do my job?”

The younger one moved. “And so am I-“

“No, you’re being unreasonable! Just call Tony Stark.”

“We will not be bothering Mr Stark!”

“Call any of them, they know me!” You almost begged now.

"Yeah, yeah, they always do." He laughed. "Why don't you call him?"

"I can't because my phone isn't working-"

"Convenient. If you continue to harass the Avengers or any SHIELD agents, I'm gonna have to take you into custody."

"Custody? I WORK HERE!"

“Look ma’am, I need you to calm down and come with us.”

“No.” You snapped, chest tight now. “I am not being manhandled because I can’t find my damn badge when I WORK here!”

Before it could escalate further, he moved again, grabbed your arm, too hard.

You yanked back instinctively. “Get off me-“

That was it. He spun you, fast, one hand in the middle of your back, the other twisting your arm behind you. The cuffs were on before you could catch your breath. Too tight. Metal biting into skin. The hoodie you had clenched in your fingers, her hoodie, that had been dry cleaned and ironed was down crumpled on the dirty tiles. 

“I said stand down!” He barked, like you were some kind of threat. “Do you know how many stupid people I deal with a day? Pretending The Avengers know them?!”

“I do know them!”

The pressure on your wrist made your knees buckle. “Yes and I know Barack Obama.”

“No, wait- You’re hurting me!” You gasped, trying to squirm free, tears springing hot and sharp at the corners of your eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you-“

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“Security breach in the Lobby, Zone A.”

Friday's voice came through the tower’s comms, flat and automatic. Most people ignored it.

But Sam, glancing at the monitor, frowned. “What now?”

He tapped into the security feed, projecting it on the flat screen that hung on the wall in the common room and just as the camera came into focus. “Wait, is that-"

Natasha was already gone.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You were still protesting when the elevator doors opened, his voice echoing in your ear, loud enough for Natasha to hear and to almost sprint over.

“Little girls like you need putting in their place, it’s all women’s rights these days and you think you can do what you want.” He sneered, tightening the cuffs. “You just need a firm hand like me to put you in your place.”

You didn’t see her at first. You were too busy trying to breathe, wrists burning, arm throbbing from where it had been twisted up too far. Your voice had broken halfway through yelling.

And then. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Everything stopped. Natasha’s voice cut across the lobby like a gunshot. The guards froze.

You turned, dazed. She was stalking toward you, red-faced, furious, lethal. She didn’t care who was watching.

“Take those off her. Now.”

The younger guard stammered. “Ma’am, she- she was uncooperative-“

“She works here. She’s cleared under Pepper Potts’ access and under mine.

He quickly worked to undo the handcuffs and it took one look at your face for Natasha to crumble. You knew you probably looked a mess, tear streaked cheeks, pouting with your arm held by your other, rubbing softly over where the pain was currently throbbing, drops of blood running down your arm from where he had inappropriately tightened the handcuffs. 

Natasha was in his face now, pure venom in her voice. “She’s bleeding. She was detained over what? A lanyard and a bad attitude? You think that justifies twisting her arm? Do I look like I tolerate that kind of shit?”

No one answered.

“Did she ask for clearance?”

“She said to call you but- Ma’am- Agent Romanoff, a lot of people ask to see you. Fans and-“

“I’ve heard enough.” She silenced him, turning to you, hands already at your wrists.

Her fingers were feather-light as she ran her fingers over  the marks the cuffs left, like even touching them hurt her more than you.

Your breath shuddered.

“Come on.” She said softly, eyes locked on yours now. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Natasha didn’t say a word as she led you through the tower. No more guards. No apologies. Just her hand hovering close to your back, not touching but there if you needed it.

Her room was dark and quiet when she opened the door for you. Unfamiliar but predictably minimalist. The hoodie you’d meant to return was still clutched in your good hand, wrinkled and useless now.

She flicked the bathroom light on, rummaged silently through the cabinet and returned with a small kit.

“Sit.” She said, gently, nodding toward the bed. 

You sat, too tired to argue, too raw to speak.

She knelt between your legs without hesitation, ignoring the squeeze in her chest. She didn’t say much, just moved with quiet purpose, opening the first aid kit, switching on a soft lamp. Her touch was gentle as she cleaned your wrists, one hand steadying you, the other dabbing antiseptic with controlled care. Almost too gentle. Like she was scared you might flinch away.

Her eyes kept flicking up to your face, trying to read you, trying to make sense of what she’d done, what she hadn’t said.

You flinched slightly when her fingers grazed a nasty spot on the inside of your wrist. “Sorry.” She murmured.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“I had this dry cleaned and ironed but now-“ Your voice cracked as you placed the hoodie on the bed, the day weighing heavily. “Now it’s creased and he made me drop it.”

“Shhh.” She soothed. “It’s okay. It’s okay. They shouldn’t have hurt you.”

You didn’t speak, just looking down at her to finally meet her eyes. 

“I hate that you got hurt.” She murmured, voice low. “I hate that it happened here, where you were supposed to be safe.”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s not the point.” And then she reached out, slow, careful and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. Her hand lingered. Your breath caught. The look between you shifted, it was too warm, too familiar. 

You didn’t know who leaned in first.

But suddenly, her mouth was on yours.

A kiss that meant too many things. And for a moment, just a moment, you self indulged and let you let it happen.

Until the weight came crashing back. You pulled away with a sharp inhale, standing too fast. “I can’t.”

“Wait-“

“I shouldn’t have come. I just- I need to go. Pepper is waiting and I-“

You turned, heading for the door but her hand caught your arm, not tight, just grounding. “Please.” Her voice was almost a beg. “Don’t go. Just… talk to me.”

You stopped. What did you have to lose anyway?

“The weekend wasn’t fake to me.”

She didn’t speak.

You turned back around, heart pounding. “I know it started out as just some fun but I didn’t pretend. I wasn’t acting. And you were- God, you were so there. And then the second it was over, it was like none of it mattered.”

Natasha opened her mouth but you kept going, hurt spilling out like a slow unraveling.

“You kissed me like you meant it. You held me like it mattered. And then you went back to pretending. You shut me out. You made me feel stupid for believing any of it meant something. And I shouldn’t be blaming you because I knew this was fake and I’m a big girl. It’s my fault if I felt something and you didn’t but I-“

Her eyes flickered. “I did.”

“What?”

“I did feel something- I do feel something.”

You hesitated. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t know how.”

She stepped closer, carefully, like she was afraid of breaking whatever was left between you.

“You’re not stupid. You’re not overreacting. I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I should’ve said it then, I should’ve stopped pretending sooner. But it was real for me, too.”

You stared at her, trembling, still a little breathless.

“You’re not just saying it?” Your voice came out so small, it shattered Natasha’s heart just a little. 

“I’ve pretended to be a lot of things but this? I never pretended to want you.”

And when she kissed you this time, it wasn’t desperate.

It was an apology and a new beginning all in one.

You let her guide you backwards, falling slow into the sheets, her mouth never leaving yours. Her hands moved with confidence now, familiar, dragging your jacket down your arms, fingers ghosting under the hem of your shirt like a promise.

You arched up into her, breath hitching when her mouth trailed along your jaw. She was just starting to slide over you fully, knee between your thighs, when-

Bzzz. Bzzz.

You groaned. “You have got to be kidding!”

Natasha reached over without looking, snatched the phone from the nightstand, glanced at the screen, and smiled. wicked, unhurried.

“It’s Pepper.”

You sat up halfway, flushed and disoriented. “Oh god- Just ignore it!"

But she’d already answered. “Potts, now’s really not a good time.”

A pause.

Then Natasha glanced at you, smile deepening as she looked you over, shirt half-off, lips kiss-bitten. She’s… extremely unavailable.”

You couldn’t hear Pepper’s reply but Natasha eye-rolled fondly. “Pepper, I will do anything you want me to do if you just give us 30 minutes-“ She smirked. “Make it an hour and then I’ll come over and help you myself.”

She hung up before Pepper could reply, tossed the phone somewhere behind her and leaned back down with a smirk.

“Now.” She murmured against your throat. “Where were we?” You laughed, breathless and buzzing.

And then you stopped thinking altogether.

[natanymore]

This is insanely good, I might just cry.

[natanymore]

Hello blackwidow fans who read fanfics, I genuinely don’t know the name of the fan fic but I remember the story quite a bit. It’s about an established marriage between reader and nat but nat/both of them get into an accident and nat looses her memories. They have twin (?) daughters too that they decided to adopt I think. It’s an old fic, I just randomly remembered it lol

[sweetromanova]

Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

More To Lose (Series: Finished)

You thought your life with Steve Rogers was what love looked like. But love isn’t quiet disappointment or fading into the background. It’s soft hands when you’re breaking. It’s someone who sees you, even when you don’t see yourself. And just maybe, it’s Natasha Romanoff, waiting for you to see her too.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Epilogue

Meet The Parents (One Shot)

Handle With Care (One Shot)

Off The Record (Series: Ongoing)

She’s built a career on keeping secrets and defending the worst with nothing to lose. That changed when Natasha Romanoff showed up on the other side of the courtroom.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve

Operation: Obedience (One Shot)

It starts with chaos in a pink harness and a trainer who makes obedience sound like a love language. It ends with Natasha finally understanding what it means to be chosen and choosing to stay.

Yelena’s Home (One Shot)

Emergency Contact (One Shot)

A Black Widow and a paramedic walk into a crisis… sparks fly, and every date ends in explosions, sirens, or stitches.

Crisis Management (Mini Series: Finished)

Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

One, Two, Three, Four

Claw & Order (Mini Series: Finished)

Natasha Romanoff is being accused of grand theft feline. The evidence? A very smug tabby. The problem? She kinda loves him now.

One, Two, Three, Four

Matching Napkins & Mixed Feelings (One Shot)

A story of a fake date with real chemistry and absolutely zero self control.

Marriage Proposals & Miscommunications (One Shot)

A story of a proposal tangled in miscommunications and weaponised orgasms. (Unofficial sequel to Matching Napkins & Mixed Feelings)

Fur Better or Worse (Mini Series: Finished)

Natasha Romanoff has survived aliens, norse gods and the world ending and now her cat is apparently on a mission to ruin her life, one litter at a time.

One, Two, Three

High Risk, Higher Maintenance (Series: Ongoing)

Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve

Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff x Original Character

This Is Home (Series: Ongoing)

There were strict rules before. Now there’s freedom, feelings and a toaster.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight

[westwriteswhatever]

Player

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: For four weeks straight, the same redhead has rolled into your ceramic studio with a new date on her arm. Between sharp banter and messy paint, you can’t help but wonder why this textbook player has the nerve to keep flirting with you right in front of her dates. 

Word Count: 4k

Tags: Fluff, banter, misunderstandings

— The weekend rush is always loud, but brings life and energy to the studio. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off the rows of finished glazed pieces lining the shelves, while the low hum of the pottery wheels blends with customer chatter and easy laughter.

Wiping a fresh streak of gray clay onto your navy apron, you rise from your chair, stretching your shoulders after a long lesson. 

A student complains about how unlucky they were to have gotten clay stuck on their shirt.

“Unlucky?” you call out to a group of amateur potters, your voice easily carrying across the busy floor. “If your refusal to wear an apron and leaning directly into a spinning lump of mud counts as unlucky, then sure. Let's go with that.”

They let out a dramatic groan, followed by a chorus of laughter from the back. Your knuckles are dry from use, and there is a tired weight in your shoulders, but you feel bright with the space you created.

Walking around the corner to the paint-your-own-pottery section, you pause by a low table to check on a little girl. You crouch down, giving her your full, undivided attention as she passionately explains her chaotic color choices for her mug. You give her an honest nod, enthralled by her next choice of electric pink.

As you stand up, your eyes track across the room and catch vibrant green eyes staring straight at you. 

A striking woman with red hair is resting her chin on her hand. Against the backdrop of messy water cups, splattered paint, and children covered in clay, she looks jarringly out of place—wearing a sleek black leather jacket that seems built for a completely different world.  She’s trapped on what looks like a devastatingly boring date. Across from her, a blonde woman is gesturing toward her own eye, completely running the conversation in a continuous, relentless monologue.

The red-haired woman doesn't look away when you catch her staring. There is a steady, unhurried intensity to her gaze that pulls you in before you can even process it.

Your eyes drop slightly, noting the completely untouched bisque whale sitting directly in front of her. She hasn't even picked up a brush. A chime rings above the front entrance, breaking your focus, but the combination of her lingering stare and the blank piece of clay prompts you to talk to her. 

You stop right beside her chair, evaluating the chalky white whale. When she looks up, you’re met with a cool, guarded expression that you feel compelled to break. Your eyes narrow with a small grin, a playful challenge pulling at the corner of your lips as you tilt your head.

“Would you like some suggestions?” you ask, gesturing softly toward the bottles of acrylic paint resting on the table. “Or are you planning on staring it into submission?”

The woman doesn't look away. She lets an amused smile pull at her lips, her voice dropping into a quiet register as if to match your challenge.

“I might,” she says, her green eyes holding yours steady. “Depends on how good your advice is.”

You scan her face, your grin widening slightly. “Well, it may be a whale, but that doesn’t mean it has to be blue.”

“No?” She tilts her head, leaning in just a fraction of an inch. “What are my options?”

You gaze into her eyes as if magnetized, the intensity of them drawing you.

“It could be green, like your eyes. Though,” you pause, looking deeper into them, “I don’t know if we have a shade back there that can replicate the exact vibrancy of them.”

Her green eyes widen for a split second, her smooth expression fracturing just enough for you to catch the sudden break in her composure. Then, as if it never happened, her lips curve seamlessly into a little smirk, her chin tilting up.

“Is that an admission that your inventory is lacking,” she murmurs, her tone smooth and deliberate, “or are you just trying to flatter me?”

You rest your chin in your hand, completely unfazed by her counter. “I don’t give empty compliments,” you say with a half-grin. “Maybe you can make it red like your hair. Or both. It’ll be a Christmas whale.”

A short huff of laughter escapes her, her shoulders instantly dropping their rigid posture. “A Christmas whale,” she repeats softly, looking down at the piece before meeting your eyes. “Do you give these kinds of suggestions to everyone?”

“Only with students who look like they can handle it,” you say with a warm laugh, your eyes dancing with amusement.

Instead of deploying another quick comeback, she just holds your gaze. You track the way her cool demeanor seems to melt, a small smile pushing past her guarded expression as she listens to your laughter.

Her date suddenly clears her throat, cutting right through the space between you. “I think we’ll be fine,” the blonde says with forced pleasantry. “We’re on a date, so we’ll just talk about it on our own.”

The sharp edge is incredibly clear, but you’ve worked in customer service long enough not to let it faze you. Your eyes drop down to the bisque unicorn she has chosen, which is currently covered in a messy, highly questionable mixture of green and brown paint.

“I like the swamp theme,” you remark with honesty. Who were you to judge? Art is art.

The blonde's jaw drops. “It’s not a—”

Before she can finish, the chime above the front entrance rings again. You glance toward the door at the sound of a new group arriving, quickly assessing the crowd before turning back to the table. “Sorry, duty calls. If you need any help, just call me over. I'm the owner of this place.” You turn your full attention back to the red-haired woman, giving her one last playful wink. “Whale, good luck on the Christmas whale.”

You leave the table with a bright grin, the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders suddenly feeling a bit lighter. Glancing back momentarily as you head toward the front, you catch her dropping right back into her bored expression while her date gestures angrily across the table. But right before you turn away, you notice her finally pick up a thin brush from the plastic cup, her green eyes dropping to the blank clay whale as she opens a red acrylic paint bottle. 

A small, quiet spark of curiosity lingers in your chest as you speak to the new customers.

—

The following Sunday brings quiet rain that keeps the studio warm and packed with people looking to escape the weather. The scent of wet earth from outside blends with the familiar, comforting smell of damp clay and fresh wood varnish. You find your mind drifting to the bored red-head from last week between processing transactions and pottery lessons, a small trace of curiosity refusing to completely leave your mind. 

When the red-haired woman walks through the door, you feel pleasantly surprised. 

She actually came back.

But the feeling instantly pauses the moment she moves toward an open table. She isn't alone. Walking right beside her is a man with short brown hair, carrying himself with an easy, unbothered confidence. A flash of disappointment lingers in your chest as you watch them converse casually while he paints. Looking around at the tables, you notice the need for more water cups and take a lap around the floor before finally landing at hers.

“Back so soon?” you ask, keeping your tone light as you stop beside their table. You nod toward her companion, giving him a quick, polite evaluation. “And with a new face.”

“Yeah, her last date didn’t exactly work out. So here I am,” the man responds smoothly, extending his hand across the wooden table. “I’m Clint. Nice to meet you.”

At the word date, you feel a quiet shift in your chest. A different person in seven days, you note silently, though you keep your expression unchanged. You shake his hand with a seamless smile, catching the comfortable way his chair is pulled tightly alongside hers.

“If you ever need any help, let me know,” you tell him, keeping your voice smooth as you look down at the bisque owl he chose, which is being painted with surprising, hyper-realistic detail. “But I see you’re doing well already.”

“Actually, I think Nat here might need a little more help than me,” Clint says, a teasing grin pulling at his lips.

So her name is Nat, you note.

Clint suddenly flinches as if he just got struck. He reaches out and claps his hand over hers, his fingers lingering there for a moment before he lets go. Your eyes drop to the casual proximity of their hands, tracking the easy familiarity of the touch. So she’s already dating him, you accept without judgment. You aren't about to step over a boundary, but the charming smile she’s giving you and the lingering challenge from last week make you want to prod at her composure just a little bit.

“Hmm,” you drawl, your smile shifting into a slightly more analytical look as you shift your focus entirely to the bare plant pot in front of her. “Well, we already did a Christmas theme last week. I would’ve saved that brilliant idea if I'd known you were coming back so soon.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” she responds softly.

You look up, catching her eye, the words come out much quieter than you expect, completely lacking that slick, polished confidence you saw on day one. At the sudden shift in her tone you find the corner of your lips tug upwards into a small, familiar smile, the quiet warmth filtering back into your eyes. You quickly look down at the array of colors beside her before she notices.

“Maybe a bright yellow,” you murmur, your finger tracing a slow line over the plastic caps.

In the corner of your eye, you notice her gaze move. Her eyes stay locked on you instead of the colors you’re suggesting, watching the slight movement of your throat as you speak. When you lean in a fraction closer to point out the tray, she matches your movement.

“Or maybe pitch black?” you ask, turning your head slightly to look at the pot.

The sudden rotation brings your faces close enough that you can see the slight, golden flecks from the studio lights in her eyes. She doesn’t blink, as if in a trance.

“Whatever you think looks best,” she responds, her voice dropping into a quiet register.

“Dirt brown sounds good then?” you offer dryly.

“Perfect,” she agrees instantly, as if you’ve said the most brilliant idea.

You let out a soft, amused hum at how easily she folded, pointing down at the table. “And are you planning on painting your jacket, too?”

Nat follows your gaze downward. Her left elbow is resting squarely on the edge of the plastic palette, the dark fabric of her jacket cuff heavily smeared with a thick streak of bright orange acrylic. Beside her, Clint’s paintbrush freezes mid-air, his eyebrows raised.

She slowly lifts her arm, examining the ruined fabric as if she fully meant to do that. “It’s a bold choice,” she says smoothly. “I’m testing out a new canvas.”

You let out a low laugh, shaking your head as you pull a damp white cloth from your apron pocket. You reach out, your fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist to pull her arm closer. Her skin feels warm against your palm, and her entire frame goes completely still under your touch. You can feel her pulse racing frantically beneath your fingertips. 

Keeping your eyes locked on the dark fabric, you carefully swipe the wet paint off the sleeve before stepping back to re-establish your distance.

“I’ll let you two get back to your masterpieces,” you say, giving her a quiet, knowing nod that lingers just a moment too long on her face before you turn away. “Try to keep the paint on the pottery, Nat.”

—

The next Sunday is a chaotic, busy afternoon. A local birthday party reservation has half the studio covered in colorful tissue paper, and the air smells strongly of paint, wet clay, and fresh glaze. You are in your element, floating between tables to rescue a collapsing clay vase here and mixing custom underglazes there, completely dialed into the rhythm of your space. But despite the noise, you still catch yourself checking the afternoon reservation slots on the clipboard near the register.

When she finally walks through the door, the small, quiet spark of anticipation you’d been carrying all week instantly drops.

Number three, you observe.

Last week it was the owl guy. This week, she’s brought a man who carries himself with a relaxed confidence. He’s wearing a sharp jacket and has a kind of easy, commanding stature.

You watch from the safety of the drying racks as he smirks, pulling his chair so close to hers that their shoulders brush. He slings a casual arm over the back of her seat, leaning in to whisper something against her ear. Nat drives a sharp elbow directly into his ribs, her jaw tightening into a rigid line.

“Sam, knock it off,” she mutters, her voice sharp enough to carry straight across the narrow aisle to where you are standing.

The man—Sam—lets out a low, smooth laugh, entirely unfazed as he rubs his ribs and leans back in his chair. He looks around as if searching for something. Or someone.

You let out a slow breath, wiping your dry, chalky hands on your apron. So that's his name, you note, nodding to yourself. 

You’d spent the last week wondering if you’d over-analyzed the lingering looks or imagined her racing pulse. But seeing her roll in with a brand-new partner for the third week in a row clarifies everything. It was routine for her. You were just the entertaining backdrop for her weekly dating rotation.

You pull your shoulders back, engaging your absolute best, most flawless customer-service demeanor. If she wants to play games under your roof, she can do it—but you aren't going to play along.

You grab a fresh mixing palette from the counter, stepping up to her table with a smooth, pleasant smile. You set the paint tray down with a crisp plastic click.

“Good afternoon,” you greet them, your voice welcoming but stripped of the casual, warm wit you’d given her on day one.

Your eyes sweep over her new companion, giving him a nod. “Welcome back,” you say, looking directly at her. Her green eyes are already locked onto you, wide and intensely focused, but you refuse to let her drop that soft, quiet tone from last week into your space. Amusement pulls at your lips at her audacity to pull this in your studio.

You casually gesture to the acrylic caps between them. “Let me know if you two need any extra water cups or brushes today.”

She leans forward slightly, her eyes searching yours as if she’s trying to hunt for the easy, playful cadence from a week ago. “I’ll try to keep the paint off my jacket this time,” she says, her voice dropping into a charming register.

You let out a polite chuckle that doesn't reach your eyes—the same empty laugh you give to difficult customers or distant acquaintances whose conversations you are quietly praying will end. You don't lean in, and you don't break your posture. You step back, re-establishing the boundary of the table.

“That’s always preferred,” you respond, already looking around the room. You turn and give Sam a friendly nod. “Make sure she keeps it on the clay. Enjoy your afternoon together, guys.”

Before she can respond, you turn on your heel and head straight toward a nearby family table. The immediate shift is a relief, and you feel yourself warming up again at the family's genuine excitement. Your laugh is bright as you help a little boy pick out a vibrant blue for his clay turtle. 

You deliberately keep your back to her sector of the room, entirely starving her of your energy. This is the place that makes you happy, and you won’t let someone else, especially not a player, ruin that. 

A few minutes later, as you walk back to the sink to rinse the blue glaze off your fingers, you catch a final glimpse of her table through the crowded room.

She is sitting completely still. She isn't talking to Sam, and she hasn't even uncapped a single bottle of paint. Instead, her green eyes are locked entirely on the sink station, tracking you with a puzzled expression. When one of your employees approaches her table to offer a clean water cup, she just shakes her head without looking, her shoulders dropping defeatedly.

She picks up a single brush and stares blankly at the plain white bisque, seemingly lost on what to choose.

You pull your gaze away, dry your hands on a towel, and focus entirely on the people who are actually here to paint.

—

The following Sunday brings relentless rain that beats against the glass, keeping the studio dim and quiet compared to the usual weekend rush. You are at the counter sorting clean paintbrushes into plastic cups, when the door chimes.

You look up, and familiar red hair catches your attention instantly. But your gaze drops almost immediately to the person walking in beside her—a quiet, sweet-looking brunette who immediately bypasses the display of mugs and plucks a plain bisque heart from the top shelf.

Oh my God, your eyes drift upwards into the hardest eye roll ever.

You watch from the counter as they sit down at a corner table, their heads huddled close together as the brunette dips a brush into a jar of bright red paint. Nat is leaning back, her green eyes sweeping across the room until they land right on you. You let out a heavy sigh of annoyance. Watching her treat your creative studio like her personal, weekly Sunday dating lounge was starting to become offensive.

When you notice the brunette starting to carefully script a bold red "+" sign right next to the letter N, you decide you've officially hit your limit. You grab a fresh water cup from the back counter, your stance rigid, and walk straight toward their table. You set the water cup down on the wooden table with a heavy snap, crossing your arms tight against your navy apron.

“It really makes you sound like a—”

You cut the brunette off mid-sentence. “Player!” you say, your voice sharp, clear, and cutting straight through the quiet hum of the studio.

The brunette's brush freezes mid-air. Nat’s gaze snaps up, her entire body locking up instantly as she looks up at you.

“A textbook, smooth-talking, revolving-door player,” you clarify, gesturing sharply between her face and the freshly painted red letters on the ceramic heart. “Four weeks. Four different people under my roof. First the girl with the swamp unicorn. Next you’re holding hands across the table with the owl guy. Last week you drag a new guy in here to drape his arm over your seat and whisper in your ear, and today? Today you bring her in here for your weekly rotation while she’s clearly in love with you.” You point down to the heart resting in between you three.

Nat sits with her mouth open slightly as if her mind has just been blown. Beside her, the brunette quietly lowers her paintbrush, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Told you,” she whispers to Nat.

“I am not a player,” Nat manages to say. The words come out flat, completely stripped of her usual cool confidence.

“Oh, really?” You tilt your head, refusing to back down. “Because from where I’m standing, you roll in here every Sunday with someone new on your arm, and you still have the nerve to try and charm me across the table. I’m not letting you use my shop to lead people on, and I’m definitely not feeding into your routine.”

Nat lets out a soft, almost frustrated breath, her eyes locking onto yours with honesty.

“They’re my coworkers,” she says quietly, her gaze unwavering. “The first girl with the unicorn was a blind date I was forced into. Clint, the owl guy? He’s married. The only reason he grabbed my hand was to steady himself because I kicked him under the table.”

The memory of Clint’s sudden, pained flinch flashes in your mind. Huh, you muse. Maybe that’s why he grimaced.

“And the guy from last week—Sam?” Nat continues, leaning forward just an inch as she keeps her green eyes locked on yours. “He was leaning in to ask which one you were.”

The memories since you met her replay in your mind, every scattered, confusing moment from the past four weeks rapidly reordering itself in your head. You remember the way the guy in the sharp jacket had been scouting the room, his eyes scanning the tables as if he were trying to pick out a target.

The memory of her frantic pulse against your fingertips replays in your mind.

Beside her, the brunette lowers her paintbrush completely, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she watches you connect the dots in real time.

Nat nudges the brunette. “Tell her, Wanda.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Wanda tells you, pushing her chair back and standing up from the table. “We’re just coworkers. I was making the heart for you two to tease her,” Wanda recounts with a smile. “Sounds like you two should talk now that the fun part is over.”

She offers you a cheerful, parting wave and casually strolls toward the front door, leaving the heart resting on the table.

Silence blankets the space between you and Nat, standing out against the casual chatter of the surrounding studio. She looks up at you, her voice dropping into an honest plea.

“I only kept dragging them here because I needed the support and I wanted to see you again.”

A breathless laugh escapes your lips as the ridiculousness of the situation settles in. 

“And here I thought I was dealing with a high-profile heartbreaker,” you murmur, meeting her gaze. The warmth from your very first meeting slowly floods back into your eyes. “I almost banned you from the studio.”

“That would’ve been a shame,” Nat responds smoothly, her confidence returning to her voice at the sight of you softening. Her lips curve into a small, genuine smile. “I was actually hoping for a private lesson sometime.”

“Hmm…” you drawl, leaning in closer across the wooden table, fully matching her rhythm again. “Private lessons with the owner aren’t cheap, you know.”

“Name your price,” she says, completely drawn back into your orbit.

You contemplate the question for a brief moment, your fingers tapping a light rhythm against the edge of the table before you meet her gaze with a wicked grin.

“Come by yourself next week. No coworkers,” you tilt your head, your eyes dancing with a playful challenge. “Though, that might be difficult for you.”

Nat lets out a soft laugh, eyes locking onto yours with a profound look of victory. “Deal.”

“Great.” You lean in close to her, the familiar scent of paint and wet clay lingering faintly off your clothes. “See you next Sunday. I’ll pencil you in for one o’clock.”

She moves to lean in closer, but you pull back with a playful wink, turning on your heel and walking back toward the pottery classroom. You can hear her breathless laugh, and when you look back, she’s still staring at the empty space where you last stood.

“See you next Sunday,” you hear her whisper.

You turn back around with a satisfied smile, already thinking of exactly how you’re going to tease her about this next week. —

Sorry for the two short fics in a row 😅 I had a few DMs asking if I'd be willing to do a WandaNat/Reader series so I've been working on a rough draft for that and seeing if I like my idea enough to go through with it. Thank you for the love on the last fic! It'll have a part 2 eventually. Have a good week guys!

[westwriteswhatever]

Letter Know

Natasha Romanoff x Postal Worker Fem!Reader

Summary: Your quiet suburb route has been traded for one in the city. Manhattan. From cozy moderate homes, to the Avengers Tower. You find yourself falling for the resident redhead. You see her multiple times a week, but you can’t help but wonder: Why is she ordering so much?

Natasha looks around her room where five jellyfish lamps stare at her in judgement. Will she finally gather the courage to ask you out before her living space resembles an aquarium gift shop?

Word count: 9.4k

Tags/Warnings: fluff, yearning, Natasha falls first and harder, puns --- You look up to see the gorgeous skyscraper towering over you, an enormous “A” is displayed proudly on the side, barely visible from below.

You eyes drift back to what’s in front of you. The lobby can be seen through the glass doors, its decor sleek and clearly expensive. The hologram behind the reception desk exhibits scenes from the Battle of New York before ending with, “Welcome to the Avengers Tower”.

You take a deep breath in. Last week you had been delivering mail in the suburbs. Chatting with parents whose kids had just left for school, watching dogs run around front yards, and enjoying the quiet that came with not being in the city. 

Now, you’re in the heart of New York. Manhattan. How did I get here? you wonder while exhaling.

Your boss had told you about the route change a few days prior. One of your fellow postal workers was retiring unexpectedly, causing a shift in everyone's routes. Yours just happened to be the most dramatic. 

From having a route that mostly consisted of calm residential roads and sleepy avenues, to busy city streets and the honking of cabs every other minute. You were mostly delivering directly to companies now. The security was tight, but nothing like what you were experiencing at the moment.

The blue light of a scanner runs up and down your body before you hear a polite, but robotic voice above you.

“Y/N Y/L/N, you are now in the system as the mail courier. No threat detected from the packages or mail. You are free to continue into the lobby. The front desk is just ahead of you.”

You look around, searching for the source of the voice.

“I am J.A.R.V.I.S. A software created by Mr. Stark.”

You decide not to question it, pressing your bag more securely against you while a package is under your other arm. You start taking steps towards the front desk while looking around the lobby. There’s waiting areas to your left and right with comfortable looking armchairs and couches. A small coffee kiosk can be seen near the front desk, where the barista is making drinks for employees passing through. You can feel the warmth of the sunlight coming through the floor to ceiling windows. 

You arrive at the front desk where the receptionist greets you with a smile.

“Hi, I’m here to drop off some mail as well as a package,” you say, smiling back. You place the package on the counter while pulling out a stack of mail and handing it to her.

“Of course,” she responds, reaching for the mail. Her eyes scan the package before pointing to the label. “This package is a restricted delivery and needs to be signed by Mr. Rogers directly. I’ll call him to come down to sign off.”

You hadn’t been expecting to meet one of the Avengers, having forgotten about the restricted delivery in the chaos of the route change.

“He’ll be down in just a moment,” she says kindly before turning to sort the mail.

You pull out your tablet from your bag, finding the necessary documents while you wait for him to arrive. 

You look up when you hear the chime of the elevator arriving. Out arrives a nervous looking Steve Rogers.

Taller than he looks on TV, you note casually.

He walks over to the front desk where you’re giving him a little wave.

“Hello, nice to meet you. I have a package that needs your signature before handing it off. I’m going to need to see your ID,” you say with a professional smile.

He looks at you, eyes wide, before pulling out his wallet and handing you his ID.

You give it a once over, glancing down at the photo before looking back at him.

He observes you quietly before saying, “I don’t mean to sound arrogant or anything, but most people would recognize me. I haven’t had someone ask to see my identification since 1943.”

You look up at him before giving him a small smile. “It’s not that I don’t know who you are Mr. Rogers, I just like doing my job well,” you say while handing back his ID.

He looks impressed as you turn your tablet around towards him.

“I’m going to need you to go through these pages and initial and sign where indicated. Also, since whatever you ordered is at a certain value, you’re going to need to sign some additional pages that you can pull up afterwards then press confirm to indicate that the package was handed off to you directly.” You extend the tablet pen to him.

Steve squints at the screen as if that would somehow give him the knowledge of how the technology works. He gives you a shy smile. “Do you mind if I call someone? It’s my first time having ordered something and J.A.R.V.I.S basically did everything for me.”

“Not at all,” you respond good-naturedly. 

He turns to the desk to ask the receptionist to call someone that you don’t catch. She agrees enthusiastically while looking him over.

“Did I mention I’ve only been out of the ice for a few years?” he asks, a little embarrassed.

“You didn’t, but the 1943 comment made this unsurprising,” you say with a teasing tone. “No worries Mr. Rogers, I’ve never been frozen but I still don’t understand how bluetooth works,” you say while laughing.

He gives you an appreciative smile before laughing with you. — Natasha steps into the elevator and presses the button for the lobby. She sighs, this wasn’t her first time having to help Steve with technology. After a few moments the elevator doors open to the sunlit lobby. She can hear Steve speaking excitedly to someone.

“I still don’t trust it,” he says.

“I know right? Online banking is kind of crazy if you think about it,” you agree.

Natasha steps into the lobby to see you and Steve mid conversation. You look as sweet as your voice sounds, nodding at something Steve says when you notice her.

The sunlight makes your eyes shimmer as you regard her. 

“I think your friend is here,” you say to Steve.

He turns around and smiles at Natasha. “Thanks for coming down, Nat. I can’t quite decipher what I’m supposed to do with this.” He hands her the tablet and pen.

She looks over the pages before responding, “I’m used to this by now you dinosaur, no need to thank me.”

She hears you giggle and feels a flutter in her chest, choosing to ignore it and continue to go through the pages, signing and initialing for Steve before handing it back to you.

You take it back gently. “Thank you for your help,” you say to her appreciatively. 

“Problem—I mean, no problem,” she corrects quickly.

Steve gives her a look. 

You smile at her before turning to Steve. “It was nice talking to you today Mr. Rogers but I have to go take care of some more deliveries.”

“Please, just call me Steve,” he says before pausing for a moment. “I just realized I never asked for your name.”

“No worries at all. I’m Y/N. I’m taking over this route so we might be seeing each other more often if you order more things to be delivered. Hopefully next time you won’t need backup,” you say teasingly.

“No promises,” he says with a chuckle. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N. Good luck with the rest of the deliveries.”

Natasha watches as you store the tablet back into your bag.

“It was nice to meet you too, Steve.” You turn to Natasha. “Have a great rest of your day, Ms. Romanoff.”

You give her a bright smile and she feels her brain freeze. She watches as you walk to the lobby doors and exit.

“So she did know who I am,” she says to Steve after a moment.

“She knew who I was too. Still checked my ID and everything. I like that she doesn’t treat us any differently,” Steve says thoughtfully before turning to her with a mischievous grin. “So, what was that?”

“What was what?” she responds with a straight face.

“I’ve never heard you stumble over your words in all the time that I’ve known you.”

“Maybe you haven’t known me long enough then.”

“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” Steve responds with a knowing smile.

She doesn’t catch it—eyes looking towards the doors that you just exited from. — It’s a week later when Natasha sees you again. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter with Steve while eating lunch.

“Captain Rogers, you’re needed in the lobby to sign for a package,” says J.A.R.V.I.S through the kitchen speaker.

Her thoughts drift to you. It had been a while since she met someone outside of the team that talked to them like they were just ordinary people. While Steve was welcoming to others, he generally kept a distance. With you, he was talking as though you two had known each other for a long time.

There was something about you that felt so open that was rare to find nowadays. Like you didn’t have anything to hide.

The complete opposite of me, she thinks bitterly.

She hears the scrape of the chair as Steve moves to stand. She stands as well.

“I’ll go with you. Since you don’t know how to use the tablet and all,” she says nonchalantly. 

Steve looks at her amused. “I’m sure that’s why,” he says while walking to the elevator with her following closely behind him. He presses the button for the lobby.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks defensively.

“Oh, nothing at all,” Steve says with a teasing lilt. “Couldn’t help but notice the great Black Widow getting flustered while we were talking to Y/N.”

“I did not get flustered.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t fully pause when she told you to have a good day?”

“There may have been a pause but I did not get—” The elevator doors open with a quiet chime.

Her words come to a halt when you come into view. You’re wearing your uniform, a blue collared shirt and grey slacks—something most people wouldn’t look twice at, but in Natasha’s eyes it’s like there’s a spotlight on you.

You’re looking outside at a dog passing by with its owner, a soft smile on your face. Natasha feels the same flutter in her chest that she did when she first heard you giggle. This time, she couldn’t ignore it. The feeling of her heart racing and the warmth she felt in her chest betraying her and forcing her to acknowledge it.

She was enchanted by you. Even after only exchanging a few words.

“Definitely didn’t get flustered,” Steve says with a smirk, walking past her to you.

She follows after him, glaring at his back. She wipes the glare off her face the moment you turn to them, noticing their arrival.

“We meet again,” you say with a charming smile. “I thought you said you wouldn’t need backup the next time, not that that’s a bad thing.”

“Well, I didn’t. She—" Natasha jabs Steve in the back with precision, so quick your eyes don’t catch the action. He hunches over in pain.

“Yeah, unfortunately this antique needs a little more time to get his bearings in this day and age,” she says casually, looking at her nails.

“Clearly. I mean Steve, I know you’re technically like 90 years old but you have the super soldier serum in you. You shouldn’t be having that bad of back pain,” you say with amusement in your eyes. You hand Natasha your tablet and pen. “I assume you’ll be signing for him again?”

She accepts the tablet and pen from you. “Yeah, we’ll have to teach him another day.”

Steve glares at Natasha, but decides to let it go when he sees the way she’s looking at you.

“I’m going to head up because it looks like you’ve got it taken care of. I need to lay down for a bit,” Steve says while rubbing his back.

Natasha shoots him a panicked glance, but he meets her eyes with a steady look that screams ‘You’ve got this’.

You watch the exchange with a clueless smile on your face. “I hope you feel better, Steve. Take care of yourself.”

“Sorry we couldn’t chat today. I’ll see you another time, Y/N,” Steve says while walking to the elevator.

She’s left alone with you. Her heart begins to beat faster as she tries to focus on initialing and signing the documents even with her hand shaking from the nerves.

She notices you watching her hand as she writes. She strives to use her best handwriting, finding the lines come out unsteady regardless. It feels like an eternity before she completes all the pages. You haven’t said a word, just observing as she finishes.

Am I too intimidating? She thinks to herself, disappointed. Maybe you would’ve preferred if Steve had stayed. You seem to have fun talking to him.

You meet her eyes as she hands you the tablet and pen back before looking down again to where your fingertips overlap.

“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful your hands are. When you write your hand moves so gracefully. It’s really pretty to watch,” you say sincerely, albeit a bit shy. You take the tablet and pen fully into your hand before storing them in your bag.

She looks at you in disbelief. Beautiful?

Bloodstained, maybe. Lethal, always. Her hands had never known any other description.

Did you not know what she’s done with these hands? All the lives she’s taken? She wonders to herself. There’s no way you didn’t. The files were public, everyone had seen them.

You look nervous that you’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No one has ever said that to me before,” she says softly before you can finish your apology. “I don’t think I deserve that compliment, but thank you.”

“Why do you think that?” you ask gently.

Natasha looks down at her hands, unable to meet your eyes. She rubs the callouses on her palm and fingers that she’s gotten from how frequently she handles her handgun. A constant reminder that she’s battle hardened. Far from beautiful. 

Her head lifts to meet your eyes. Your gaze is so soft and she can’t find the strength to meet it straight on, choosing to avert her eyes. You’re too kind, too untainted for someone like her to even face.

She lifts her hand, her palm facing you. “You don’t know what I’ve done with these hands,” she pauses. “Well I guess you do, everything is out there,” she says with a resigned smile.

“I do,” you agree softly.

“Then you know these hands aren’t beautiful. They’re covered in the blood of people whose lives I took and that won’t go away no matter how many times I wash them.” She doesn’t know why she’s telling you this, someone she basically just met. Something about you felt safe. Like she could entrust parts of herself that she didn’t want the world to see and you wouldn’t look away. 

She feels your hand touch hers, delicately, like you didn’t want to scare her away. Your fingertips trace the callouses and cuts on her hand. She finally meets your eyes, the softness in your expression still remains even after what she had said. Somehow, she felt like you were looking at a version of her that she didn’t see in herself. 

“You’re Natasha Romanoff aren’t you?” you ask suddenly.

“Huh?” You manage to catch her off guard. “I mean—well, yes.”

“The same Natasha Romanoff who protected New York and effectively the world?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t change the past right?” you cut in smoothly. “I know. We can’t change the past. The lives can’t be brought back and the hurt can’t be taken away.”

Her eyes drop, she’s about to lower her hand when she feels you interlock her fingers with yours. You won’t let her run away.

“Everyone says the past doesn’t define you. I agree with that, but that wording makes it seem like it's easy to accept. The past did define you. You sit with what you did and you accept the guilt that comes with it. Saying, 'the past doesn’t define you' after doing something terrible is just a free pass people allow themselves. It’s what you do after your actions that define you” You take a deep breath, bringing your connected hands down and swinging them side to side. It brings her a sense of comfort.

“Did you continue to do what you did in the past? Have the same goals you did when you were in the KGB?”

She shakes her head, unable to speak.

“I won’t act like I know everything, because I don’t. Far from it. The actions that I’ve seen speak volumes about you. Someone who’s brave and selfless enough to protect others who can’t protect themselves.” You stop swinging your hands. She looks up to see you smiling softly at her. “We can do a lot of good, so much that it’s overflowing. It still won’t wash away the bad and that can feel helpless. What we can do though—is forgive ourselves bit by bit everyday and walk, feeling a little lighter in the process.”

She squeezes your hand tightly, feeling transparent in front of you. The heaviness that she’s always carried in her shoulders is still prevalent, but being here with you and hearing your words, she felt a fraction lighter.

She feels your hand loosen, your eyes widening.

“I’m so sorry if I overstepped, Ms. Romanoff. I know I don’t know you personally, I just felt like—”

“No,” she says with a small smile. A genuine one. “I needed that. More than you may realize. Also, just Natasha is fine.”

You release a sigh of relief before smiling back at her. “Well, I’m glad something came out of my ramble.” You let go of her hand, grabbing the package addressed to Steve before handing it to her. “I’m sorry but I have to take care of the rest of the deliveries.”

“I—yeah, of course,” she stumbles out. Why was she about to ask you to stay?

“See you, Natasha,” you say softly, a smile gracing your lips.

“See you,” she responds just as softly. She gazes at your retreating figure until you’re fully out of sight.

She looks down at the package, releasing one of her hands so only one is supporting it. She can still feel the sensation of you swinging her hand side to side and the calm it brought her. She replays your words, each one felt like they were starting the healing process of the wounds buried deep in her heart.

She brings her palm to her lips, pressing them to where your fingertips had touched. She wants to learn the version of herself that you see.

I want to see you again, she thinks while closing her eyes. — Why did I say all that? you think to yourself in horror, hands covering your face. You had just come back to your apartment after finishing all the deliveries. The secondhand embarrassment finally set in from your actions earlier today.

You can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks. 

There was something about her expression that drew the words out of you. You couldn’t stand how she looked like she had already given up on herself. That she was irredeemable. That she was still a ruthless killer. When you looked at her, all you could see was the gentleness in her eyes when she met your gaze. Not the cold stare of someone who didn’t care about others.

You meant every word you said, but even though she claimed that it was needed, you couldn’t help but feel like you had intruded.

You release a heavy sigh, dragging your hands down your face. You peer down at your fingertips, the same ones that had traced the cuts and hardened skin of her hand. You still found them beautiful. When you held her hand, you could feel the steady warmth that radiated from it. The hands of someone that fought tooth and nail to survive. How could you not find that beautiful? 

You bring your fingertips to your lips, the warmth of them mimicking the warmth you felt from her hand, but not quite as comforting. You don’t know why, but you feel connected to her.

I hope it’s not awkward when we see each other next you think to yourself before turning to make dinner. — Natasha expected to be able to see you in a week or maybe even a few days with how frequently the guys ordered things. It had been two weeks.

She had even resorted to waiting in the lobby for when you would drop off mail, only to have been told by the receptionist that you either just left or had come when she was in training. It was driving her crazy.

She didn’t even know what she wanted to say to you—just that she wanted to see you with that look that made her feel like she was worth something.

Which is what led her to stomping into the common room where Steve, Tony, and Clint are watching a movie together.

Tony looks behind to where she’s standing, arms crossed. “You gonna pay for the floor you’re stomping all over?”

“Why haven’t you guys ordered anything?” she asks, ignoring his question altogether.

Tony and Clint exchange glances of confusion. 

“What’s it matter to you?” Clint asks.

“Answer the question.” She stares them both down. Steve stays facing the TV, trying to hide his laughter so he doesn’t face the brunt of her irritation. 

“I mean, I don’t know. Just haven’t needed anything recently,” Tony says with a shrug.

“Same here. Usually just get stuff delivered to home,” Clint responds after, squinting at her. He observes her, noticing the pout she’s trying to hide behind the annoyance. 

“So, we answered your question. Now answer mine. Why do you care?” Tony raises a brow, waiting for her answer.

“I don’t care,” she tries to say confidently, failing as her voice trails off towards the end.

“Clearly you do,” Tony quips back.

“I said I—”

“Nat,” Steve cuts in, deciding to help her out. “If there's something you need, why don’t you order it?”

Her eyes widen. She had been so sure that one of the guys would order something that it didn't occur to her that she could speed up the process herself.

When it comes to you it feels like her brain turns to mush. Unable to think at the capacity that she normally can.

She looks up to give Steve an appreciative smile. He’s already looking at her with a knowing one. She turns around and heads back to her room.

“Wait, that’s it? You just needed to order something? Even grandpa here can do that!” Tony yells down the hallway.

“Let her be, Tony,” Steve says while patting his shoulder.

Tony grumbles under his breath, turning back to continue the movie.

Clint continues to stare down the hallway to where she had retreated. He had never seen her act so irrationally before.

Something’s up, he thinks before turning to the TV while grabbing a handful of popcorn. — You step into the lobby of the Avengers Tower looking down at the package in your hands. 

“Natasha Romanoff”. You’d be seeing her again for the first time since your last conversation two and a half weeks ago. 

You cross the distance of the lobby to the front desk, letting the receptionist know to call her down.

The receptionist confirms that she’s on her way and you feel your heart rate pick up. You’re not sure if it’s from nerves or excitement. Maybe something in between.

The elevator arrives at the lobby floor, the doors opening—and there she is. She's wearing black jeans, a white shirt, and a brown leather jacket. And she’s entirely out of breath.

She walks over to you while trying to steady her breathing.

“Did you run a mile to get here?” you joke, noticing your heart rate hasn’t slowed, rather the opposite. 

“Something like that,” she says between breaths.

“Are you in a rush? I can see you’re all dressed up. Let me just get the tablet ready so you can—”

“No,” she says, her answer a little too fast and loud. “I’m not in a rush at all. This is my only plan for today.”

You tilt your head, glancing at her outfit. “Are you sure? You look dressed to go somewhere.”

“I ran to change when I heard—” she pauses, eyes widening for a split second. “When I heard that my plans got moved up,” she corrects quickly.

“I thought you said this was your only plan,” you ask, confused by the contradiction.

“I misspoke,” she says, her lips curling into an easy smile that makes it hard to focus.

“Oh, I see. For a moment I thought maybe you dressed up for me,” you say with a grin, tilting your head.

She mutters something, looking momentarily annoyed with herself. Her expression shifts when she meets your eyes. The soft gaze from your last encounter finds its way back onto her face.

“You look cute today,” she says, her voice sounding confident. Though, for a moment, you swear you hear a shake in her voice.

You look down at your outfit. “My work uniform?” 

“Yes.”

“Do you say that to all the postal workers?” 

“No. Just you,” she says softly. A light dusting of pink on her cheeks. 

Maybe you had missed the blush on her cheeks from her rushing earlier.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that,” you say with a genuine smile. “Thank you, I really needed that.”

You really did. It had been a long day of ignored greetings or curt replies. Talking to Natasha felt like a breath of fresh air.

You take out your tablet and pen, unlocking it before handing them to her. She begins the task of signing and initialing, taking her time, reading over each page twice. You can feel her eyes on you every so often but every time you look to meet them, she’s studying the pages carefully.

Am I imagining things? you wonder to yourself as she finally signs the last page.

She hands you the tablet with the pen on top, you reach to grab it, your fingertips touching hers. You tug gently but she doesn’t let go, looking up in confusion only to find her watching you with soft focus. Captivated. 

Your eyes drift to the glimpse of emerald in her eyes as if magnetized, her pupils dilated. The gentle curve of her nose. The fullness of her lips that are curled into a faint smile.

The heavy thud of footsteps in the lobby cuts through the stillness of the moment. She lets go abruptly, startled, as if she were in a trance. You quickly claim the tablet, tucking it into your bag as your heart begins to beat wildly.

“I have to go finish the rest of the deliveries," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

Her hand twitches. “I understand,” she says quietly, her voice barely a whisper, before meeting your eyes with a bright smile. “See you, Y/N.”

“See you, Natasha.” You give her a small, lingering smile before turning away, heading to the lobby doors.

Once outside, your hand settles over your heart, its rhythm wild but recognizable. When you move your hand to your face, your knuckles graze your cheek—the heat radiating there is unmistakable. 

You bite your lower lip trying to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across your face. You realize now that the rush you felt when she stepped out of the elevator wasn’t just a passing feeling. It’s a crush. — Natasha smiles down at the package in her hands as the elevator quietly makes its way up to the common room.

She doesn’t even remember what she ordered, randomly picking items in the decoration section and setting them to expedited shipping. Having Tony’s card definitely had some perks.

The doors slide open to Clint’s scrutinizing face. 

“What’d you order that’s got you so happy?”

“Nothing,” she says, expression turning neutral.

“Nothing? Could’ve sworn I just saw you smiling at that,” he says, while pointing to the package.

“Must’ve been mistaken. Might need to get your eyes checked.”

He gives her a deadpan stare. “Yeah, I of all people need to get my eyes checked.”

She ignores him and starts heading towards her room.

“Something’s got you acting weird and I have a feeling it has to do with that,” Clint calls after her, nodding his head at the package. “You know I’m going to figure it out eventually. May as well just tell me now.”

“Nothing to tell,” she responds nonchalantly, pulling the package closer to her chest.

“Whatever you say,” Clint says with a mischievous smirk on his face. He turns, walking the opposite way.

Am I acting differently? she wonders to herself, the door to her room shutting behind her.

She carefully places the package on the floor, tearing through the duct tape with her pocketknife and removing the packing. 

She stares down at the object. A neon-blue lamp in the shape of a jellyfish. She looks around the rest of the room which is a paradise of neutral tones.

She reaches for the lamp, ready to discard it but her hand stops. While you didn’t buy it for her, you brought it to her. She continues staring at the lamp that she doesn’t find particularly flattering before making a decision.

She places it on her coffee table, fully in view. Its neon blue stands out in contrast to the grey and beige decor around her room. It’s ridiculous looking, but she finds herself smiling at it. It makes her think of you.  — A month passes with her seeing you three to four times a week. Ten to fifteen minute encounters that Natasha treasures every second of. She hasn’t found the courage to ask to see you outside of these package pickups, finding every time she opens her mouth ready to ask, something else entirely comes out.

She recalls her most recent encounter with you when she was about to ask you to grab coffee with her.

“So, what do you do outside of work?” Natasha had asked.

You looked up in thought. “I usually just relax at home, maybe meet friends. How about you?”

“I work out,” she blurted. The words out before she could filter them, trying to sound impressive. She felt her face heat up, realizing how it sounded like she was showing off.

You looked at her with a smirk, eyes glimmering with mischief. “I could tell.”

Her thoughts were stolen away by your smile and she ended up forgetting to ask you.

Now, she looks around her room. Five neon-blue jellyfish lamps sit on her coffee table in a circle, like a neon cult. A lobster corkscrew rests on her kitchen island, its googly eyes looking at her unblinking. Next to it is a white and black shark-shaped bottle opener. An array of marine life magnets with silly puns that she doesn’t even find funny cover the front of her refrigerator, 

Her gaze drops to her feet, where a pair of bright orange fish-shaped slippers await her. She doesn’t even like the color orange. She doesn’t even particularly like fish. 

She doesn’t dare look past the bedroom door where she knew more useless marine themed decor was. 

At this rate her room would look like an aquarium gift shop—all because she couldn’t gather the courage to ask you out for coffee.

It felt like every time you smiled at her, or laughed, or honestly just spoke, she couldn’t think straight. Instead of forming a plan to ask you out, she just kept ordering more things. Clearly in the marine themed decor section that she must’ve selected when she was ordering with one thought in mind—to see you.

She looks around the room once more, the neon-blue glow of the jellyfish lamps reflecting in her eyes, and softly smiles to herself.  

She was a fool for you. — You feel a flutter in your chest the moment you enter the lobby. A month ago you couldn’t have imagined having a full conversation with Natasha. In the beginning it was only polite greetings and silent, loaded glances. Now, the two of you talked about everything and nothing at the same time—whatever you could fit into fifteen minutes. Sometimes twenty when she “needed extra time to read the documents” she’d seen at least a dozen times.

You want more time with her. Definitely more than fifteen minutes—but even then you don’t think that would be enough. 

Which is what has led you to today where you’ve promised yourself that you’ll ask her to meet outside of these deliveries. 

You and the receptionist had become well acquainted, having the smooth routine of greeting one another before she called upstairs. No matter whose name was on the box, Natasha would be the one to show up, having somehow become the authorized agent for all the Avengers.

Today, however, was different.

“Agent Barton will be down in a moment to sign for Agent Romanoff’s package.”

You turn to her, eyes wide. She’s already shifted her attention to sorting through the stack of mail you brought. 

You’ve heard about Clint a few times from Natasha. Mostly about him teasing her or playing pranks on her. She always sounded irritated when mentioning him, but you’d caught the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She never said the words “best friend,” but you knew that’s exactly what he was.

You hear the chime of the elevator signaling his arrival.

You’d seen Clint on TV before, but in person he was magnitudes more intimidating. He was already observing you with a sharp gaze. 

He walks towards you with confident steps before stopping in front of you. He looks you up and down, as if sizing you up. You’re mind blanks on what to say.

“So,” Clint says, his voice carrying amusement. “You’re the one who’s been keeping Natasha busy.”

You snap out of it quickly. “I think it’s actually the other way around,” you say with a smile.

He tilts his head, a small, knowing smile gracing his features. You remember Natasha mentioning this smile before, the one that always ticks her off because it's like he knows a secret you’re not aware of.

“Is that so?” he says, eyes glinting. “Funny, because she’s halfway across the world on a mission, and the first message I get from her isn’t ‘I’m okay’ or ‘Target acquired.’ It’s a two-paragraph text stressing the importance of me receiving this package.”

He takes a step closer, his smile widening. “She was very specific, even saying it twice, that I’m supposed to let you know that she really wanted to see you today but the mission came unexpectedly. She’s usually pretty focused on her missions, even cracking a joke gets me a glare. For you, though? She’s distracted.”

You feel the heat creeping up your neck. You understand what Natasha meant by teasing. But then his words sink in. Distracted. On a mission.

You meet his eyes, the embarrassment replaced by worry. “Can you tell her that it’s okay? And that I wanted to see her too? She needs to focus or she might get hurt.”

Clint looks surprised for a moment. He observes you, seeing the genuine concern for Natasha. His smile returns. This time it's soft. Real. “I’ll let her know,” he promises.

You pull out your tablet and pen, pulling up the documents before handing them to him.

He begins the task of signing and initialing, occasionally peering at you with a thoughtful gaze. His expression slowly shifts as he gets closer to completing the pages. He looks as though he’s figured something out.

He hands you back the tablet with the pen on top, exchanging it with the package in your hands.

“It was a pleasure meeting you. Mind if I ask for your name?” Clint asks with a mischievous smile.

“My name is Y/N,“ you answer with a genuine smile. “I already know you’re Clint. Natasha’s best friend.”

Clint looks down, affection flickers across his features before he expertly brushes them away.

“I’ll make sure to tell Natasha what you said—especially the part about you wanting to see her,” Clint says with a playful grin. “Have a good rest of your day, Y/N.”

“You too, Clint. It was really nice to meet you as well,” you say, offering a small wave before he turns and heads towards the elevator with the package under his arm.

You take a deep breath. You hadn’t been expecting to meet someone so important to Natasha, and it surprised you how much his approval mattered to you.

The disappointment of not getting to ask her out today still lingered but was muted by the fact that even though she was halfway across the world, on a mission, she was still thinking of you.

Be safe, you pray silently, stepping outside into the sun.  — Clint walks down the hallway to Natasha’s room, grabbing his phone from his back pocket with his free hand. He leans against the wall near her room to type out a quick message to her.

Package secured, he sends.

The reply came in almost an instant. And?

And what? It’s a box, Clint types back. Y/N seems nice, though.

Shut up. Did you tell her what I said? What did she say?

Yes, yes. I told her. She said she wanted to see you too but that you should focus on your mission. She was worried that you being distracted would get you hurt, Clint watches the typing bubbles appear the second he sends the last text.

She said she wanted to see me?

Clint rolls his eyes at the screen. Yes. I’ll leave the package in your room.

He powers off the phone before he can see her reply—a frantic Wait!

He opens the door to her room, him being the only other person authorized to enter. He almost drops the package when he sees her living space. The neon-blue circle of jellyfish lamps serves as a welcome sign, sitting proudly on the coffee table.

“Oh my God, Natasha,” Clint mutters, his exasperation giving way to unbridled laughter at the realization. “You’re a total idiot.” — Natasha sneezes quietly, trying not to blow her position. Either the Siberian chill was finally getting to her or someone was talking about her.

She scopes the outside of the base, noting that there’s only two guards standing at the front. 

Simple in and out, she thinks to herself confidently. Should be home by the end of the day.

Her thoughts drift to Clint’s text. You wanted to see her, too. She feels warmth bloom in her chest, a welcome feeling from the snow around her.

She shakes her head, trying to get back into focus. The fastest way to see you again would be completing the mission. She turns the safety off her handgun and begins stealthily making her way towards the base.— So much for a simple in and out, Natasha thinks, her breath ragged.

She’s covered in dust and gun powder, the sleek black of her suit looking grey from debris. Stinging cuts cover her arms and legs—blood trickles down a cut on her cheek that she couldn’t even remember getting.

The mission had gone on for an additional two days, every possible variable coming out of the woodworks. Double the amount of soldiers than reported, the signal jammer breaking, her Widow’s Bites malfunctioning. 

She sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. She puts the Quinjet into autopilot, seeing that she’d be arriving in New York by noon.

She moves with practiced efficiency to the medkit, rummaging through it to find antiseptic and bandaging before working on her wounds. The time passes by slowly. Only the sound of rushing wind from how fast the Quinjet slices through the sky.

You wanted to see her, too.

She leans her head against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut. She falls asleep—her dreams filled with you smiling, welcoming her back home. — Natasha wakes to the sound of the Quinjet landing. She stretches her limbs, feeling every muscle ache from overexertion. 

She gathers her gear before releasing the cargo door, squinting her eyes as the sunlight floods the hangar. It’s a sharp contrast to the dimness of the base in Siberia.

She was finally home.

The hallways are quiet as she enters, finding that the common room is empty as well. The silence feels welcome after how chaotic her past few days had been. She’s just beginning to savor the stillness before she’s startled by a voice.

“Agent Romanoff, you’re needed in the lobby to sign for a package,” J.A.R.V.I.S politely informs her.

She runs. Not caring about how exhausted she feels, the grime on her skin, the cuts stinging with every movement—her thoughts only on you.

She presses the button for the lobby repeatedly, impatient. Her heart starts racing as she watches the floor numbers tick down on the screen at an agonizingly slow pace. Finally, the doors slide open.

You’re already looking at the door as if you were counting the seconds yourself.

Natasha takes several hurried strides towards you, stopping when she sees your expression.

Your face is filled with concern, eyes darting to the different injuries she has while taking in her appearance. You reach forward, hand gently touching her hair that looks muted compared to its normal vibrant red.

Your hand moves to her cheek, fingertips tracing over the edges of the bandage she had placed haphazardly. 

She feels her heart skip a beat. This was the first time you had reached for her since your first real conversation—the first time you’ve touched since your fingertips overlapped on the tablet. Your hand cups her face, your eyes scanning, searching for any hidden injuries.

She reaches up, her fingers curling over yours to anchor you to her. She leans her head into your palm, letting out a deep breath that she had been holding since the mission started. 

That finally draws your gaze to hers.

“I wanted to see you,” she whispers, her voice raspy from exhaustion.

“I heard,” you whisper back, thumb stroking her cheek. “I didn’t realize how much brighter my days are with you until you weren’t here.”

She feels her breath stutter. Her heart aches with overwhelming adoration, more intense than any injury she had sustained on the mission.

“I heard you wanted to see me, too,” she says quietly, eyes searching yours.

“Clint told you?” you ask. When she confirms with a small nod, you offer a soft smile. “I did. I still do.”

“Even though I’m right here?” she asks, tilting her head in confusion.

“Mhm,” you murmur, stepping closer. “It’s not enough.”

She gazes down at you, eyes softening as she realizes exactly what you mean. The fifteen minutes weren’t enough. She wants hours with you. Days. But even then, she doesn’t think it’d be enough.

Suddenly, her eyes widen. She remembers the letter—the one she’d stayed up all night writing before the mission. She pulls her hand back from over yours, unzipping her pocket to pull out the envelope that was now crumpled and stained from her mission. 

She hesitates, looking at the battered envelope. She’s about to put it back, deciding to rewrite the letter, but you reach out, hand covering hers before she has a chance.

“Is that for me?” you ask, eyes dropping to where your name is neatly written at the front of the envelope.

Natasha looks down, embarrassed but not able to turn back now. “Yes,” she murmurs, her voice uncharacteristically shy as she hands it to you.

The envelope is sealed with an octopus sticker, which you carefully unpeel, keeping it intact. You open the crumpled letter, the corners of the paper adorned by starfish. 

She watches you nervously as you read the letter, shifting her weight side to side. She had chickened out while writing it, deciding to take you on a tour of the tower next time you came. She wasn’t sure yet if she could keep her composure for over fifteen minutes with you.

She sees your eyes twinkle as you reach the end, gazing up at her. “It’s going to have to be a pretty quick tour you know?”

“Consider it a practice date,” she says smoothly. She gives herself a mental pat on the back.

“Oh?” you say playfully, brow raised. “So, when’s the real one?” 

She feels heat creep its way to the tips of her ears. “One thing at a time,” she responds, feigning confidence.

“Oh, of course,” you say with a teasing smile that gives her butterflies.

She watches as you carefully refold the letter, sliding it gingerly back into the envelope before sealing it with the sticker. You tuck it in your bag before grabbing the tablet and pen, unlocking it and handing them to her.

Natasha keeps her head down, trying to calm her racing heart as she goes through the pages.

How was she going to make this tour interesting? she wonders to herself. — As promised, you’re being led by Natasha through the hallways as she speeds through the paperwork on the tablet, the new package secured under her arm.

She’s dressed casually today, jeans and an oversized hoodie— a reminder that you’re in her home. She points out little details here and there but she always looks back at you with a small incredulous smile, like she can’t believe you’re here.

“And this is the floor my room is on,” she says, leading you into the common room. “I told everyone to go away for half an hour. You don’t have to worry about anyone showing up.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” you say softly while looking around the luxurious room.

“I know,” she says quietly, looking down shyly. “But I would. I just want it to be us.” She hands you the tablet, before contemplating something.

“There isn’t really anything else to see, at least that you’re authorized to. Do you want to see my room?” Her eyes widen when she realizes how that sounds, cheeks flushing. “I mean—nevermind. We can just go back down to the lobby. I know you don’t have much time left.”

You watch her with amusement as she rambles. She finally meets your eyes when she hears you trying and failing not to laugh.

“I’d love to see your room,” you say between breathless laughs.

She gives you a little glare before leading you to her door. Her hand pauses over the handle. 

“You know, maybe we should just go back to the lobby.”

“Even though we’re already right here?” you ask with innocent eyes. “Can I please see?”

You’re curious about how she decorates her room and how it matches her personality.

She looks at you wanting to say no, before relenting. Her hand hovers over the doorhandle, before sighing and opening it, she holds the door open for you. You step inside expecting something sleek and minimalist.

Instead, your eyes are drawn to a summoning circle of neon-blue jellyfish lamps. Your gaze naturally drifts to the massive red beanbag in the corner—clearly shaped like a crab. On the kitchen island, a lobster corkscrew lays as if it belongs there, its googly eyes somehow found its way to the door, staring at you. 

You take a hesitant step further into the room. Your foot bumps something soft. You look down to see a pair of bright orange fish-shaped slippers.

You look around the room again, finding new marine themed decor on every pass. You turn to Natasha who has been silent, hand still on the door handle, looking like she’s frozen in place.

You can’t help the bright smile that blooms across your face. 

It’s adorable—so out of character from the “deadly assassin” that everyone else sees. You can’t help but giggle to yourself when you picture the image of her sitting on the beanbag, wearing her fish slippers.

“It’s very… unique,” you say through your laughter.

“You don’t have to force yourself to compliment it,” she mutters, her face red with embarrassment.

“I’m not!” you exclaim, genuinely charmed. “What did the others think of it?”

“You’re the only other person besides Clint who’s seen it,” she says, finally releasing her hand from the handle and closing the door. “I don’t let people into my space easily.”

The weight of the admission settles between you, but before you can respond, the sound of a ringtone comes from her bedroom.

“I’m sorry, let me answer that real quick. It’s my work phone,” she says regretfully.

“No problem,” you respond with an easy smile.

She walks away to take the call as you continue taking in her living space. You notice the same paper she’d written her letter resting on the kitchen island next to a shark-shaped bottle opener.

You pull out a pen from your bag, scribbling a note for her to find later. You finish just as she returns.

She looks down at her watch, disappointment crossing her features. “Is it time to go?” she asks, her voice small.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” you murmur, feeling the weight of the goodbye looming. 

She leads you out of her room, back to the elevators. The doors slide open, and she follows you to the lobby doors as if she’s trying to steal every last second. You turn to give her one last smile before heading out but you feel her fingers curl around your hand before you can take a step.

“See you next time?” she asks, her eyes searching yours.

“Of course,” you respond, feeling your heart swell with affection. You give her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before she lets go.

 You walk out the door, a wide, unstoppable smile stretching across your face. You’re already counting the hours until the next delivery— and for her to read your note. — Natasha walks back into her room with light steps, matching the lightness she feels in her heart. She’s replaying her interactions with you when the letter paper on the kitchen island catches her trained eyes.

That’s not how they were positioned before, she notes. Her tactical instincts come to the surface as she scans the room but sees nothing else out of place.

She takes careful steps forward, seeing the top paper has been written on. She leans over the counter to read it:

Natasha,

I’m shore glad we ended up meeting and that I got to have a glimpse of you outside of these deliveries. You octopi my thoughts all day and I want to spend more time with you. Let minnow when you’d be free for a date next time we see each other.

-Y/N

Natasha lets out a breathless laugh as she lets her forehead drop to the cool marble of the island. She reads the note over and over. 

A wave of embarrassment washes over at the realization that you truly think she has a deep passion for marine life—enough to curate her entire room around it. She looks around, taking in the proof of how much she’s become a fool for you, finding the embarrassment dissipates. 

Because at least now she knows you feel the same way. She reaches for her pen to write you a response. — The ambiance of the lobby felt familiar to you now. The city that had once felt intimidating and overwhelming was now a place that you felt grateful for. 

Because this is where you met her.

It’s been a few days since your “practice date”. The arrival of a package for her finally in your arms. The receptionist catches your eye, nodding at you with a small, knowing smile when you tilt the label towards her.

It’s only a few minutes before you hear the chime of the elevator. Natasha steps out hurriedly, wearing a simple white blouse and loose fitting black pants. It’s simple, elegant, but to you, she’s shining.

She reaches you in a few long strides, and before you can say anything, she places an envelope on top of the box. You tilt your head, freeing one of your hands to take it as she moves the box and places it onto a nearby table to give you her full attention.

She nods at you to read it. You open the envelope, a seahorse sticker guarding it this time, and pull out the letter. You unfold it, taking in her messy handwriting:

Y/N,

Everytime I see you, you make my heart swim a little faster. My life is better with you by my tide and I can’t imagine being without you in the future. I feel like we mermaid for each other. Water you doing next Friday?

-Natasha

P.S. Look up.

You raise your eyes to see her gazing at you with undeniable affection.

“I know I kind of said it in the letter, but I want you to hear it from me personally,” she says, her voice steady and full of determination. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you from the very first moment we met, and I don’t want to waste another second not being with you.”

You bite your lip trying to hide the wide smile threatening to spread across your face. Your eyes filled with joy. “You misspelled something here,” you murmur, voice full of adoration as you point to a spot on the starfish-adorned paper.

Natasha’s confident expression vanishes, transforming into a horrified one. She leans in close, her shoulder brushing yours as her eyes track where your finger is pointing.

“Where?” she asks, her voice frantic. “I checked it so many—”

You turn your head, catching her lips. You feel her stiffen for a split-second before returning the kiss with desperation, melting into you. You pull back an inch, giving her one last peck when her lips chase after you.

“I like you too,” you say breathlessly, forehead resting against hers. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a long time.”

“Me too,” she murmurs. “So… about next Friday?”

“I’m free,” you respond. You pull a sticky note from your bag, scribbling your phone number on it and pressing it into her hand. “I’ll see you next Friday.” 

You pull her into a deep kiss before finally stepping away and turning towards the glass doors.

You walk out into the New York sun, feeling giddy. Behind you, the best spy in the world stares after you with a dazed, hopeless smile on her face. — The Friday of the date

You and Natasha turn a corner in the aquarium, a massive, glowing jellyfish display coming into view.

“Natasha, look!” you exclaim, expecting her to be excited. Instead, she’s looking at you, completely captivated.

“Natasha,” you say, bumping her with your shoulder. “The jellyfish. They’re right there.” 

“Mhm,” she murmurs, barely sparing a glance at them.

You stop, looking at her in confusion. “Aren’t they your favorite? You have like five lamps in the shape of them.”

She stiffens, her eyes widening as if she’s just been caught. “Oh,” she pauses, her voice going up an octave. “Yes. Of course they’re my favorite. Very… jelly-like.”

You squint at her before realization dawns on you, a breathless laugh escaping. “Oh my God. You don’t even like marine life that much, do you? I should’ve known when you barely looked at a single exhibit we passed by.”

Natasha glances at the wall of jellyfish, trying to hide her face that is reddening by the second.

“So… you wanted to see me that bad, huh?” you tease, your voice carrying a playful lilt that is betrayed by the pure, unfiltered adoration in your eyes.

“Please, don't," she groans while covering face with her hands, her red cheeks still peeking between the cracks of her fingers.

“I won’t, I won’t,” you agree with a bright smile.

She sighs, knowing that she’ll be hearing about this for the rest of your lives together but she can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face at the thought. Together.

Because now, you and her were a “shore” thing. ---

Well number 3 down. Was practicing dialogue a bit in this one so, feedback is always appreciated! I learned that you have to use 3 of these "-" suckers in Docs to be an em dash. The more you know 😌

Secret A/N: Y'know when you're in a meeting with all department leaders including C-suites and you decide to take a big sip of water and the initial bit of water goes down the wrong way so you start coughing. But you can't take a big cough that would help clear it from your throat because the remaining water is still in your mouth and you'd spit take it. You also can't swallow it because well, you're coughing. So then you have to just wait for it to pass as your colleagues/friends try to hide their laughs. Just me? aight.

[westwriteswhatever]

✧Hiii, I'm West. I started writing fanfics this year and it's been a blast so far 😊 ✧I only write for fem reader (because that's what I resonate with). Right now I only write for Natasha and Wanda but maybe that'll expand in the future? ✧At the bottom you'll find my masterlist. One-shots will stay only on Tumblr because I'm loyal to where I first started👍 Chapters for my ongoing story will sometimes be posted here, but definitely always on AO3

✧This is an 18+ blog, so please, MDNI. ✧Feel free to send asks or DMs 😊 I'm not taking requests at the moment since I'm focusing on CYou (Choosing You). If you have any ideas for that story though, let me know!

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Masterlist *= includes smut All fem reader

One-Shots: By Chance* G!P Natasha Romanoff x Florist/Streamer Reader

Dealbreaker* Undercover Investor Natasha Romanoff x Project Manager Reader

Letter Know Natasha Romanoff x Postal Worker Reader

Short Enough? Natasha Romanoff x Agent Reader

Player Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Sweet Girl* WandaNat x Reader

Take a Breath* Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Multi-Chapter Fics: Choosing You (Ongoing) WandaNat x Reader

Halfway Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt.4 (Completed) Natasha Romanoff x Deaf Barista Reader

Twisted Lines (Ongoing) WandaNat x Reader

[westwriteswhatever]

Short Enough?

Natasha Romanoff x Agent Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re tracing the nails of Natasha’s middle and ring fingers, trying to figure out why she keeps them so short. You think it's a mistake. She looks like she's about to lose her mind.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings/Tags: fluff, mutual yearning, very suggestive, handholding

Minors DNI (just in case) — You round the corner of the training wing, the squeak of your sneakers echoing through the quiet hallway. Like clockwork, Natasha is there, leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s dressed down in a soft, navy hoodie, looking more like a civilian than the deadly Black Widow. 

At the sound of your approach, she looks up, her lips curving into her signature smirk. There’s a glint in her eyes that feels heavy, almost expectant, as she pushes off the wall. Before you even reach her side, she silently extends her hand toward you—an open invitation she’s been offering more and more lately. 

It’s a quiet, domestic gesture that still catches you off guard. As you slip your hand into hers, feeling the familiar warmth of her palm, you can’t help but marvel at how much your relationship has changed. She always insists on walking you back to your quarters, joking that you’d get lost without her, but the way she holds onto you feels like more than just a guide. 

It’s a dizzying contrast to the woman you met months ago. Sometimes, when she squeezes your hand or offers you a warm smile, you still see the ghost of the cold mask she wore the day you first met. 

The memory of that mission is still sharp. Your team had been chosen as backup for the Avengers—a standard data retrieval with too many variables. You were assigned to follow the infamous Black Widow. Back then, "Natasha" didn't exist. She was just a shadow in tactical gear, one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s greatest assets. 

You had tried to bridge the gap during the transport, offering a polite, "Hi—" 

"Just follow orders and stay out of my way," she’d snapped. She hadn't even looked at you, her eyes fixed on her gear, dismissing your entire existence with a single breath. 

Yikes, you had thought, adjusting the holsters on your leg. So much for getting along.

The jet had touched down shortly after, and the mission began before you could even blink. Natasha was the leader and you quietly followed her as the team cleared the area. That is, until the variables S.H.I.E.L.D ignored came screaming into play. A hidden pressure plate triggered an explosion that buckled the hallway you were scouting, the ceiling groaned as it began to rain concrete. 

Without a second though, you grabbed the back of Natasha’s tactical suit and lunged forward, clearing the collapse just as the hallway crumbled into a wall of stone behind you. You stood there for a heartbeat in the settling dust, breathing heavily, only for the silence to be shattered by the thud of combat boots. 

Enemy agents swarmed the room from the far end. In the chaos of the crossfire, a stray bullet tore through Natasha’s thigh. You saw her try to take a step only for her to stumble and was forced to one knee. 

You didn't think twice. You stepped in front of her, planting your feet and returning fire with focused precision. You didn't stop until the last enemy fell, leaving the room in a ringing, heavy silence.

Dropping your weapon to the side, you immediately knelt in the dust, ripping a pack of gauze from your med-kit. You pressed it firmly against her wound, but you felt her rough, tactical glove catch your wrists, trying to shove your hands away. 

You met her piercing green eyes with a glare of your own. “Stop,” you commanded, your voice labored but steady. “I’m already holding pressure.” 

She was dangerously pale, her breath coming out ragged. Even wounded, she tried to sharpen her gaze into something lethal. “I didn’t need you to protect me,” she hissed, her fingers digging into your skin. “Don’t try to act like a hero.” 

“Isn’t that how you try to act every day?” you bit back. Then, you let your voice soften, your thumb brushing unintentionally against the edge of her glove. “I don’t need to be a hero, and I wasn't trying to be. But if me playing hero is what kept you alive today, then that’s fine. You can be mad at me later—right now, you’re going to let me treat your injury.” 

Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but the fight seemed to drain out of her. A heavy sigh escaped her instead. She scanned your face, her green eyes searching for something, before finally dropping her gaze. 

She reached for her own med-kit just as you reached out to stop her. She brushed your hand away with a roll of her eyes, but the movement lacked its previous bite. “Fine, 'Hero.' Keep pressure on my leg since you’re so insistent.” 

Before you could respond, she reached her hand toward your neck. You jolted as a sharp rush of pain flared from your throat. You hadn't even realized a bullet had grazed you, missing your carotid artery by a terrifyingly small margin. 

“Let me take care of your wounds at least,” she murmured. You tried to flinch away from the sting, but she caught your chin, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she held you in place. “Stay still, will you?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritability, though her eyes were uncharacteristically soft as she watched the blood seeping through the gauze. 

She was looking at the wound as if she were seeing a ghost.

“Thank you,” she whispered, so low you almost missed it. “For protecting me.”

Your eyes widened. You could tell by the slight tremor in her touch that she wasn’t used to being the one who needed shielding. Her expression was becoming unsure, so you didn’t let her sit in the feeling for long.

“No problem at all, Miss Widow,” you teased, a playful lilt returning to your voice. “Happy to be your hero today.” 

You let out a breathless laugh, the movement caused her hand to shift against your skin. Natasha met your eyes with a perfectly deadpan stare, though the warmth in her gaze was unmistakable. 

“I so want to take that back,” she said flatly, her eyes lingering on your neck for a second too long. 

The moment of quiet was shattered as Captain America burst through the rubble, his shield clearing the path for the rest of the team. In the chaos of extraction, you were pulled in separate directions. You were shuffled onto a transport jet where medics worked on your neck, while Natasha was rushed ahead—her blood loss had been significant, her face a ghostly shade of pale as they lifted her onto a gurney. 

By the time you landed at the Tower, she was already gone. You spent the next few hours in the medbay getting stitched up, feeling a strange hollowness now that the adrenaline had faded. Thankfully, your team had emerged with nothing more than a few bumps and bruises, but your mind kept drifting back to the slight rasp of Natasha’s voice when she thanked you

You figured that was it. You were on different levels. She was an Avenger and you were merely a team leader for the backup team. You’d go back to your separate lives and meet the next time the Avengers required assistance. 

You didn't expect to see her again so soon. 

A few days later, as you exited the training room after a light workout, you froze. Leaning against the wall beside the door was Natasha. She looked better—her color had returned—but she was propped up by a crutch under her arm, the wrapping surrounding her leg visible under the fabric of her sweatpants. 

A relieved smile touched your lips before you could stop it. “I don’t think you should be training, Miss Widow,” you said, your voice warm. 

“Just Natasha is fine,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual bite, sounding more like she was trying—and failing—to be exasperated with you. She shifted her weight on the crutch, her green eyes scanning the fresh stitches on your neck. Her gaze softened, just for a fraction of a second, before she looked away. 

“I’m not here to train. I was just... passing by the wing after getting cleared to leave. I’m off missions for a few weeks.” She cleared her throat, gesturing vaguely toward the residential hallway. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Since I’m already here.” 

You knew the residential floor was in the opposite direction of the medbay, and there was absolutely no way she just happened to have passed by this area. You felt like there was more to it but you didn't want to press her.

“I would’ve been so lonely on that five-minute walk by myself,” you teased, your eyes filled with a playful mirth. “Though I will say, I’ll be walking. It’ll be more of a hobble for you.” 

She let out a dry, short laugh. “Shut up and keep your pace down, Hero.” 

That was months ago. Now, there are no crutches or excuses—just Natasha. She’s become someone you look forward to seeing every day. Even though you were just friends, you couldn't help but feel like there was something more bubbling under the surface. 

As you walk, your thumb finds its way across the back of her hand. Her skin always feels a little cool, a sharp contrast to yours, which always seems to run warm. She responds by squeezing your hand more firmly, and when you steal a glance at her, she’s wearing a tiny, private smile. She keeps her gaze on the hallway, guiding the two of you until you finally reach your door. 

Your heart sinks a little when you see the metal nameplate. The walk is always too short, and the thought of letting go already feels like a loss. 

The first time she reached for your hand, it had caught you completely off guard. Now, it’s just a part of the day—a quiet ritual that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she mumbles. She sounds a little bummed, like she’s just as unready for the walk to end as you are. “Same time?” 

“Tomorrow,” you promise softly. 

You honestly wonder how she manages to find the time for this every day. You wonder if she’d ever do this for anyone else, but the way she looks at you—as if you’re the only person in the entire building worth her attention—makes you believe this is just for you. 

She slowly starts to pull away, her fingertips sliding across your palm and down the length of your fingers, dragging out the contact until the very last second. She waits until you’ve stepped inside and turned back toward her to give her one last smile before she finally heads off, her steps light with a subtle, happy bounce that says more than she ever could. — It starts gradually—the need to feel her more. She invites you to watch a movie with the Avengers, whom you thankfully have a good relationship with. She leads you to the couch, letting you sit first before sinking down so close that you can feel the heat of her thigh against yours. She turns to you, her gentle gaze meeting yours for a second, before she turns back toward the screen as the movie begins. 

You find yourself tuned into her every move. You feel her tense during the suspenseful scenes and relax during the quiet ones. Those little tells her body gives—the glimpses she gives you—send a rush of warmth through you. Eventually, you can’t help but watch her instead of the screen. 

Without really thinking about it, you reach for her hand where it rests on her thigh. You intertwine your fingers in that familiar way, the ritual you usually save for after your workouts. Your hands are both a little rough from training, but in this moment, all you can feel is the overwhelming softness she brings to your life. 

You look down at your joined hands, your fingertips dragging across her palm. You find a small scab that has formed there and rub it gently before your fingers drift down to the underside of her wrist. The skin there is pale, and you can faintly see the blue-green veins underneath. 

An injury brought you together, but you won't let it happen again. You promise that to yourself as you trace the veins that travel from her wrist to her palm. 

Suddenly, Natasha’s hand envelopes yours, stopping your movements. You look up to find her already staring at you, her eyes unbearably tender. 

“You know…” she whispers, her voice low over the sound of the movie, “that’s the first time you’ve held my hand first.” 

Your lips curve into a playful, soft smile—the kind you save just for her. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.” 

Your voice matches her quiet whisper, but the happiness in your tone is obvious. 

“I wasn’t,” she whispers back, stubbornly turning her head to face the screen again. 

“Mhmm,” you murmur. You intertwine your fingers with hers again, your thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the back of her hand. 

As you watch her, you notice the tips of her ears turning a faint, tell-tale pink. You smile to yourself, leaning back into the cushions. She’s acting tough, but you catch her glancing your way throughout the rest of the movie, her hand squeezing yours just a little tighter every time.  — A member of your team went against orders during a base raid today, and the fallout was messy. Thankfully, the injuries were minimal, though you’re currently sporting a jagged cut above your eyebrow. You haven't even had time to reach the medbay before the other team leader, John, corners you in the hall. 

He’s relentless, getting right in your face and shouting. You try to resolve it calmly, but he doesn't seem to care. Your apology is just noise to him. His hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, his fingers digging in so hard you know they'll leave bruises. You try to wrench your arm free, but the exhaustion from the mission has sapped all your strength. 

When he finally lets go, it’s not because he’s finished. You look up to find Natasha standing there, her eyes filled with a terrifying, steady fire. She steps directly in front of you, her hand immediately finding your wrist. She caresses the skin where the bruises are already starting to bloom, her touch a stark contrast to the cold stare she’s leveling at John. 

She points a finger at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

The temperature in the hallway seems to drop twenty degrees. She sounds like ice, yet she continues to stroke your wrist with her thumb, a secret pocket of warmth meant only for you. John starts stuttering out excuses that don't make sense, and you feel Natasha’s hand tense against yours. She’s ready to tear him apart. 

You wrap your hand around her index finger, squeezing lightly—a quiet warning to dial it back. Her shoulders drop a fraction, but she isn't done. 

“There’s a proper procedure for everything,” she snaps, her voice like a whip. “You think you can just—” 

She falters when you lean forward, resting your forehead right between her shoulder blades. It’s a bold move, and you feel the way her breath hitches. Her voice loses its edge, sounding much weaker than it did a second ago. “You can... explain yourself later. Go.” 

John doesn't need to be told twice. He scampers off, looking genuinely terrified. 

Natasha turns to face you, a slight pout on her lips and an annoyed look in her eyes. “I was defending you, you know,” she says, sounding disappointed. “Until you distracted me.”

“I distracted you?” you ask innocently. “I just wanted to be closer to you.” You smile sweetly at her.

She tries to glare at you, but she can’t quite hold it against your smile. She sighs, looking like she knows she’s already lost. She reaches up, her thumb brushing gently over the cut above your eyebrow.

“Let’s get this checked out,” she says softly. She interlocks her fingers with yours, leading you toward the medbay. She doesn't let go once—not even while the doctor is putting in the stitches. — You sit directly behind Natasha in the conference room as Steve goes over the mission details. The stakes are high and the intel is thin—exactly the kind of unknown that makes your skin crawl. You’ll be on Natasha’s team again, which usually brings you relief, but the variables are stacking up. HYDRA is suspected of developing a massive explosive, and S.H.I.E.L.D needs the data destroyed yesterday. 

The anxiety starts to settle in your chest. Without realizing it, you dig your nail into your palm, only stopping when a sharp sting of pain tells you you’ve drawn blood. Your hands won't stay still. 

You’re trapped in your own head when you feel something warm tap against the top of your thigh. You recognize the weight immediately. Natasha’s hand rests there, palm up, even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the formations Steve is displaying. 

You place your hand in hers. The moment your palms press together, your heart rate starts to slow. You catch a glimpse of those blue-green veins on her wrist, and the promise you made to yourself echoes in your mind. Never again.

You relax into your chair, your fingertips tapping against hers in a rhythm only the two of you know. You catch the slight curve of her lips—a move so imperceptible no one else in the room would notice. But you always have your eyes on her. 

Her fingertips wiggle against yours, as if she’s playing a game, and you respond by squeezing her hand lightly. It still surprises you how much strength is hidden in her thin fingers. You let go just enough to trap her middle finger between your thumb and index finger. You begin to drag them up and down, feeling the ridges of her skin and rubbing your thumb against the smooth surface of her nail. 

You get lost in the motion, alternating between her middle and ring fingers. You trace the calluses in a repetitive, slow, up-and-down stroke. 

A minute passes before you feel Natasha’s hand suddenly tense. Her fingers curl, trapping yours tightly against her palm. She turns around in her chair, and your breath catches. Her cheeks are flushed, and her usual composure is gone. 

“Are you messing with me?” she whispers. Even in a whisper, you can hear the breathlessness in her voice.

“What do you mean?” you whisper back, tilting your head. You were just playing with her hand like you always do to stay calm.

She gives you a hard, searching stare. Like she’s looking for some kind of hidden agenda, but after seeing the genuine cluelessness in your eyes, she lets out a heavy sigh.

“Do you not like it?” you murmur, your voice dipping into something sad.

The tips of her ears turn a deep, vivid red. She looks like she’s fighting an internal battle, finally covering her face with her free hand.

“No…” she mumbles through her fingers. “You can continue.”

You smile happily at her as she turns back to the front with a low, frustrated groan. — You kept your promise, though you can sense Natasha still feels a flicker of guilt. She keeps glancing at the white bandage wrapped around your bicep while she speaks to one of Tony’s business partners. The mission was successful against all odds, so Tony is hosting a victory party—though you suspect he would’ve found any excuse to throw one. 

You and Natasha are seated at the bar, finally taking a breather after greeting team members and guests. She looks beautiful in her grey dress. The fabric hugs her curves perfectly, and in the dim lounge lighting, she looks almost ethereal. 

You reach out, resting your hand against her waist. You feel the subtle flex of her abdomen under your fingertips as she turns toward you. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she reaches up and hooks a finger under the strap of your navy dress, sliding it back onto your shoulder where it had slipped. 

Then, instead of pulling away, she drops her hand back down and covers yours, pinning your palm firmly against her waist. 

It’s a possessive, quiet gesture. She continues talking to the guest, but her thumb starts to stroke the back of your hand, holding you there as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. Being this close to her—feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress—makes that familiar flutter in your chest turn into heavy, quick beats. 

You watch her profile as she continues to speak. The polite smiles and practiced pleasantries she gives the room are a stark contrast to the deep, late-night conversations you share, or the private smiles she saves just for you. Between the adrenaline of the mission and the noise of the crowd, you can feel your social battery starting to wane. You’re just grateful that Natasha always seems to notice. She effortlessly shifts the focus of the conversation to herself whenever you start to go quiet. 

Needing to feel her groundedness, you gently pull her hand from her waist and rest it on the wooden bartop. You cover it with both of yours, pressing your palms against the front and back of her hand. It always makes you feel better, as if simply touching her can transfer her calm strength directly to you. 

You glance down at her hand, noticing the neat nail polish she’s applied. The dark red color shines softly in the low, amber light of the lounge. They look perfect—sleek and sharp, just like her. Yet, the ends are rounded out, giving them a subtle softness that also feels just like the woman she is when the world isn't watching. 

You find yourself tracing the shape of her nails, your thumb brushing over her knuckles as you get lost in the repetitive, soothing motion. To anyone else, you’re just a pair of friends sitting at the bar. But to you, this is the only place in the room that feels like home. 

You pause, your fingertip hovering. Something feels different.

You trace the tip of your index finger across the tops of her nails again, more carefully this time. There is no question about it. The nails on her ring and middle fingers are shorter—filed down significantly more than the others.

Did she accidentally trim them too short? you wonder. You continue to drag your fingertip across the top ridge of those two specific nails, the texture smooth and consistent. Something tells you it isn’t a mistake, though. Natasha does everything with intention. She doesn't just slip up with a nail file. 

You drag your fingertip across even slower, feeling how perfectly rounded they are. It’s as if she took extra care to make sure there wasn't a single jagged edge left. Maybe they broke during the mission and she had no choice but to even them out, you tell yourself, nodding slightly as if that answer finally makes sense. 

Satisfied with your theory, you bring her middle and ring fingers together, trapping them against your palm. You run your fingertip over both nails at once, over and over, lost in the repetitive sensation. 

You’re so focused on the task that you don’t notice the way Natasha has gone completely still. The guest she was talking to is still halfway through a sentence, but Natasha isn't even pretending to listen anymore. Her hand is trembling in yours, and her breath is coming out in shallow, shaky hitches that make the fabric of her dress flutter. 

She turns sharply to you, her pupils dilating the second they meet your eyes, the green barely visible. They hold a heat you thought you’d imagined before, but seeing them now—raw and unhidden—you realize this isn’t the first time she's looked at you this way. She looks completely wrecked. 

She leans in, her face so close that her breath fans against your ear. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?” 

Her voice is low, breathless, and heavy. The heat of her words makes a shiver race down your spine, pinning you to the barstool. You don't pull away. Instead, you rest your head lightly against hers. 

“Testing?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine confusion. 

She tilts her head, her lips so close that a slight upward tilt of your chin would bring them together. “Yes, testing. I let you get away with it during the mission briefing, but there’s no way you don't know what you’re doing.” 

She presses the tips of those two specific fingers against your palm, stroking them downward. She repeats the motion, her gaze unwavering and intense. 

“I just noticed they were shorter,” you murmur back, your heart hammering. “I was just wondering why. Is that... not okay?” 

She lets out a ragged sigh against your lips. “You’re driving me crazy.” 

Before you can get another word out, she presses her fingers harder into your palm, curling them slightly. “You really want to know why they’re shorter?” she asks, the hunger in her eyes finally spilling over. 

You feel the heat radiating between you, the specific points where her fingertips are pressed into your skin beginning to sweat. You know there’s a deeper meaning to her words—something you’re right on the edge of understanding—but all you can focus on is the sheer weight of her desire. It’s intoxicating. 

“Tell me why,” you breathe against her lips.  

You hear her sharp intake of breath before she finally lets it go. Her lips meet yours as if she couldn't wait a single second longer. They move with an unrestrained, desperate hunger, her free hand coming up to cup your jaw and hold you in place. She’s all heat and when she lightly bites your bottom lip, a jolt of pure electricity leaves you breathless. 

She pulls back just enough to look at you, both of your ragged breaths the only sound in the small space between you. Her eyes are dark, focused, and entirely yours. She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“I’ll show you why,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy promise. 

She interlocks her fingers with yours, tugging you toward the elevator with a purposeful stride. And she shows you why—over and over—all night long. — You wake to the soft, ticklish sensation of Natasha running her fingertips over your spine. Opening your eyes takes a bit of effort, and the first thing you see is the scattered evidence of last night. A collection of deep hickeys you left blooming just above her collarbone. 

You reach out, pressing your thumb gently against the one with the darkest hue. Natasha flinches slightly, a small intake of breath catching in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. You look up to meet her eyes, finding them filled with a soft surprise that quickly melts into pure affection. 

“This means you’re mine, you know,” you murmur, your voice still scratchy and deep from last night’s activities. 

She smiles down at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they only do for you. She doesn't say a word. Instead, she reaches under the tangled sheets, her hand finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. She presses firmly against a mark she left there, making you jolt. 

“And this means you’re mine,” she teases, her voice a low hum. 

Her expression softens as she leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels a lot like love. She pulls back just a fraction, a playful glint returning to her gaze as she looks at your hand resting near her heart. 

“So…” she drawls out, her nails stroking your palm. “Were they short enough for you?” —

What was supposed to be a 1-2k word short fic about something that happened at the bar last week turned into double the length because I started to think, "but how did they meet tho?" Then I figured I should make it a bit cutesy for all the cutie patootie readers. So yeah, this is how it ended up 😂 Hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always appreciated :)

SA/N: My work schedule finally stabilized post earnings season and instead of resting up, I decided to watch an animated video on the entire history of Rome at 2 a.m then went down the rabbit hole and watched the history of Greece. Hope your guys' weekend has been well spent as well.

[giannamrvl]

faint of heart

natasha romanoff x fem!reader (Highschool AU)

FLUFF

summary: For three months, Natasha Romanoff has been your cold chemistry partner who clearly detests you. But when a stormy Friday detention forces a confrontation, her "mean girl" facade completely shatters revealing that she isn't actually trying to murder you. She’s just hopelessly bad at dealing with a massive crush.

authors note: first story ^^

masterlist

_____

The rain is drumming a steady, relentless beat against the school laboratory windows, matching the exact rhythm of the headache forming behind your eyes. It’s 4:00 PM on a Friday. The final bell rang an hour ago, the hallways are entirely empty, your friends are already gone to spend their friday night somewhere, and you are trapped in AP Chemistry with Natasha Romanoff.

Which is basically a psychological death sentence.

Natasha sits on the stool next to yours, her black leather jacket slung over the back of the chair. She’s gorgeous, she’s intimidating, and for the last three months, she has made it painfully clear that she detests you.

Every time you try to make small talk, she gives you a flat, one-word answer. If your hands brush while reaching for a box of filter paper, she flinches away like you’re radioactive. Right now, she’s supposed to be helping you rewrite the failed titration report from Tuesday a failure that was mostly your fault because you had been too busy staring at her side profile to notice the acid overflowing but instead, she’s just staring out the rain streaked window, tapping a green pen against the black countertop.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It’s driving you insane. You pull your sweater sleeves down over your knuckles, staring at the messy data columns in your notebook.

"You know, if you're just going to sit there and breathe aggressively, you could at least pass me the rubric," you mutter, not looking up.

The tapping stops instantly. The sudden silence in the room feels heavier than the storm outside. You feel her intense, unblinking gaze land on the side of your face.

"I don't breathe aggressively," Natasha says. Her voice is smooth, low, and completely devoid of warmth. It’s the tone she uses when she’s dismissing a teacher or shutting down a guy or girl trying to flirt with her in the hallway.

"Could’ve fooled me," you snap, finally tossing your pen down. The frustration that’s been simmering all semester suddenly boils over. You're tired, you're missing your weekend, and you're exhausted from being treated like an inconvenience by someone you secretly look at when you think she isn't noticing. "Look, Natasha, if you hate me this much, just go. Seriously. Pack your bag and leave. I'll lie to Mr.... (i dont know couldn’t think of a name) on Monday and tell him you did half the calculations. Just stop looking at me like I’m a piece of garbage you stepped on."

You finally turn your head to look her right in the eye, expecting a sharp retort, a biting insult, or at the very least, a smug, dismissive smirk.

Instead, Natasha is just staring at you. Her green eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted in a look of genuine, unadulterated shock. The terrifying, "mean girl" facade she wears like a shield every single day suddenly looks incredibly fragile, cracking right down the center.

"What?" she asks, her voice strangely quiet, losing all of its usual sharp edge.

"You heard me," you say, crossing your arms tightly across your chest and leaning back against the lab bench. "You hate me. It’s fine. The whole school knows you’re elite and detached, but you don't have to make it so obvious that my presence is a chore."

"I don't hate you," Natasha says immediately. She sounds almost offended that you’d even suggest it.

"Oh, please," you huff, letting out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. "You literally look like you want to murder me every time I open my mouth. You won't look me in the eye. Last Wednesday, I asked you if you had a spare paperclip and you stared at me like I asked for a kidney. You barely even speak to me! If we weren't forced to be partners, you wouldn't even exist in the same airspace as me."

Natasha blinks, and then, right before your eyes, something impossible happens. A dark, sudden flush creeps up her cheeks, staining her sharp cheekbones a brilliant, unmistakable crimson. THE Natasha Romanoff is blushing.

She looks away, staring down at the black countertop, her fingers suddenly twisting the cap off her pen, then putting it back on. Over and over.

"I don't look you in the eye because..." She clears her throat, completely losing her usual terrifying composure. She swallows hard, looking everywhere in the room except at you. "Because you're distracting. And I don't talk to you because every time I try, I feel like I'm going to say something completely stupid."

You freeze. The words bounce off the tiled walls of the empty classroom. You trace the line of her tense jaw, trying to process if you heard her correctly. "What?"

Natasha groans, a sound of pure frustration. Her shoulders lose their rigid, perfect posture, slumping slightly as she lets out a defeated sigh.

"You're very oblivious?" she mutters, a self deprecating edge to her voice. "I don't think you're garbage. I think you're... terrifying. You're smart, and you're funny, and you don't even have to try. Everyone likes you. Last Wednesday, I didn't glare at you because of a paperclip. I glared because you smiled at me when you asked for it, and my brain completely short circuited. I forgot how to use human words, so I just froze."

Your brain is scrambling to recontextualize the entire last three months. The short answers weren't anger they were panic. The flinching away wasn't disgust it was nerves.

"You... you have a crush on me?" you ask.

"Don't make it sound so weird" she mumbles, though the blush on her face is only worsening, reaching the tips of her ears. "I'm not good with feelings.' I didn't know how to act around you, so I just stayed quiet and tried to keep my distance. I didn't mean to make you think I hated you."

The heavy, suffocating tension that had filled the room for weeks suddenly evaporates, replaced by something warm, dizzying, and completely electric. You look at Natasha really look at her and notice the way her fingers are trembling slightly against the cover of her spiral notebook.

A slow, involuntary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. The sheer absurdity of it all hits you, and the fear you’ve carried all semester completely vanishes.

"So," you say softly, leaning your elbow on the counter and tilting your head to force her to look at you. "The great Natasha Romanoff isn't actually a mean girl. She's just a massive coward."

Natasha's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing, but the mean spark in them is entirely playful now. "I am not a coward."

"You spent three months letting me think you wanted to shove me into a locker just because you got nervous over a smile?" You let out a soft laugh, sliding your lab stool a few inches closer to hers. The metal legs screech against the floor, but neither of you cares. "Yeah. Definitely a coward."

"Shut up," she says, but there's a tiny, smile tugging at her own lips now the first genuine, unforced smile you’ve ever seen from her. It changes her whole face, making her look incredibly soft.

"Make me," you tease.

Your heart does a sudden, violent flip in your chest as Natasha doesn't pull away this time. Instead, she holds your gaze, her green eyes bright and entirely unguarded. She leans in just a fraction of an inch, her voice dropping back into that low, smooth cadence, but this time, it’s filled with a warmth that makes the freezing rain outside feel a million miles away.

"Maybe I will," Natasha murmurs, a stray lock of red hair falling into her face. "But only if you let me help you finish the titration report first. I don't want Mr......... giving my future girlfriend a C-minus."

[giannamrvl]

premium service: part two

natasha romanoff x paramedic!femreader

FLUFF / SLIGHT HURT/COMFORT

summary: "Next time the sky opens up, give me a call." When a routine emergency call goes horribly sideways and leaves you trapped beneath a collapsed structural wall, you finally press the button on the sleek black earpiece Natasha gave you. You expected S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical support you didn't expect the Black Widow herself to tear through concrete to get to you.

authors note: i dont like this one 🫩.

masterlist

Part 1 Part 3

————————

Three weeks had passed since the sky split open over Manhattan, and the city was still creaking under the weight of its own recovery. For you, it meant grueling double shifts, endless cups of lukewarm gas station coffee, and a permanent layer of white drywall dust on your heavy work boots.

It also meant keeping a sleek, black, unmarked earpiece tucked safely inside the breast pocket of your uniform shirt.

Every time you felt the cool, high-tech metal brush against your chest, you felt a little ridiculous. You hadn't used it, of course. You told yourself you wouldn't—you were a professional, and Natasha Romanoff was an international super-spy who saved the world. She had high-caliber, global threats to worry about. She didn't need to be bothered by a local paramedic who couldn't stop thinking about the sharp, intense green of her eyes or the dry, gravelly hum of her voice.

Until today.

It was supposed to be a standard search-and-rescue sweep. A dilapidated, five-story tenement building on the Lower East Side had been deemed highly unstable after the battle, and a city crew was preparing to demolish it. Your rig was stationed on standby in case any squatters or stray animals were found inside before the wrecking ball swung.

You had volunteered to do the quick walk-through of the second floor. The air inside was freezing, smelling of damp rot and old plaster. You moved carefully, shine-testing the beam of your flashlight into dark doorways and calling out into the empty rooms.

"NYFD! Anyone in here?"

Your voice echoed hollowly. You turned into a back bedroom, stepping over shattered glass, when a deep, sickening groan vibrated through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You froze. The air pressure in the room suddenly changed, a sharp crack like a gunshot echoing from the ceiling above.

Before you could even lung toward the doorway, the world violently caved in.

The collapse was deafening, a roaring avalanche of snapping support beams, crumbling brick, and heavy plaster. You were thrown backward onto the floor as the ceiling gave way. Darkness swallowed you whole, accompanied by a choking, blinding cloud of white dust that filled your throat and lungs.

When the roaring finally stopped, a heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room.

You coughed weakly, tasting copper and bitter ash. You tried to sit up, but a sharp, white-hot spike of agony shot up your left leg, making your vision swim with black spots. You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut as tears leaked down your dirty cheeks.

Shining your flashlight with trembling hands, you looked down. Your lower left leg was pinned entirely beneath a massive, splintered oak support beam, which was weighed down by a heavy slab of collapsed concrete wall.

"Medic 4, this is dispatch, what is your status? We heard a collapse," your radio buzzed on your shoulder.

With shaking fingers, you reached up and unclipped it. "Dispatch, this is Medic 4. I'm on the second floor, back room, east side. I'm trapped. I have a structural collapse on my lower extremity—"

A loud static hiss cut you off. You looked down at the radio in your hand. The antenna had been completely sheared off by a falling brick, and the battery casing was cracked.

You were completely cut off.

The air was thick, suffocatingly dusty, and above you, the remaining ceiling rafters groaned ominously under the shifted weight. The building was continuing to settle. Panic, cold and razor-sharp, began to claw at your throat. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. You were going to be crushed.

Next time the sky opens up, give me a call.

The memory of her voice, low and steady, flashed through your mind. Your hand flew to your breast pocket. Your fingers fumbled past the penlight and the trauma shears, finally wrapping around the cool, sleek metal of the earpiece.

You slipped it into your ear and pressed the single, flush button on the side.

For three agonizing seconds, there was nothing but dead air. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You felt stupid. It was a S.H.I.E.L.D. device; it probably didn't even work inside a collapsed building, or maybe she had deactivated it, or—

Click.

"Identify," a sharp, automated digital voice demanded.

"It's… it's the paramedic," you gasped out, coughing as more plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling. "From the overpass. Manhattan. I'm trapped. Lower East Side, crumbling building, second floor… I can't get out, and the ceiling is—"

A sharp beep cut you off, and the line went completely silent.

You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back against the dusty floorboards. You let out a shaky breath, clutching your injured leg. You had probably just dialed a secure database in Virginia. They wouldn't send help for a civilian medic. You had to prepare yourself to wait for the fire department to dig their way through.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Every creak of the building made your muscles tense with terror.

Suddenly, a massive thud vibrated through the floorboards, shaking the dust from the walls. It was followed by the loud, mechanical whine of a powerful hydraulic tool, and then the screech of metal being violently torn apart.

"In here! I've got a heat signature!" a voice shouted. It was muffled, but it was close. Incredibly close.

A heavy block of concrete directly above you was suddenly lifted and tossed aside like a piece of styrofoam. A blinding shaft of grey afternoon light broke through the gloom, cutting through the haze of dust.

Squinting, you shielded your eyes. Through the clearing air, a silhouette dropped down into the rubble.

Sleek, dark tactical gear. Bright, fiery red hair dusted with grey plaster.

Natasha Romanoff scrambled over the pile of broken brick on her hands and knees. For someone who usually looked like she could stare down an army of aliens without a single hair out of place, she looked completely, utterly terrified. Her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps, and her eyes searched the darkness until they locked onto yours.

"Hey, hey," she breathed, dropping to her knees beside you.

Her hands immediately went to your face, her touch warm and incredibly grounding. Her thumbs gently wiped the thick dust from your cheeks, her eyes scanning your face for injuries. Her hands were trembling.

"Natasha?" you croaked, your voice dry and cracked. "You… you actually came."

"Of course I came," she said, her voice tight with a raw emotion you hadn't heard in it before. She slid her hands down to your shoulders, squeezing them gently to keep you anchored. "The second your earpiece activated, S.H.I.E.L.D. dispatch flagged it. The quinjet was already over the river. I'm here. I've got you."

She looked down, her expression instantly hardening as she assessed the massive oak beam pinning your leg.

"Alright," Natasha said, her voice shifting into its calm, tactical tone, though she didn't let go of your hand. "I'm going to lift this. When I do, I need you to slide your leg out. Can you do that for me?"

"I think so," you nodded, bracing your hands against the floorboards.

Natasha wedged her hands beneath the massive oak beam. With a sharp, low grunt of pure physical effort, she lifted the crushing weight. The muscles in her arms strained against her tactical suit as she hoisted the beam just high enough.

You let out a ragged cry of pain, dragging your injured leg free from the trap.

The moment your leg was clear, Natasha dropped the beam with a heavy crash. She was immediately back over you, her hands gently running down the length of your leg to check for a compound fracture. Her touch was incredibly light, careful not to hurt you any further.

"It's not broken," she murmured, her green eyes finding yours, filled with immense relief. "Just a nasty sprain and some deep contusions. But you need to get off this floor. The rest of this ceiling is coming down."

"I don't think I can walk, Natasha," you whispered, a tremor in your voice.

"Good thing you don't have to," she replied softly.

Before you could protest, Natasha slid one arm beneath your back and the other beneath your knees. With an effortless, fluid motion, she scooped you up into her arms, cradling you securely against her chest.

Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around her neck, burying your face in the crook of her shoulder. She smelled like leather, fresh rain, and gunsmoke and it was the most comforting, safe thing you had ever experienced. As she carried you over the jagged piles of brick and out through the shattered entryway, you squeezed her a little tighter.

"You're quite the lifesaver, Agent Romanoff," you mumbled against her collarbone.

"Just returning the favor," she murmured, her grip on you tightening reassuringly.

When she stepped out of the dust-choked building and into the cool, fresh air of the street, you realized the entire block had been cordoned off. A S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical team stood guard, along with your bewildered EMS partners. Your supervisor's jaw was practically on the pavement as he watched the Black Widow personally carry you out of a collapsed building.

Natasha ignored all of them. She carried you straight to the back of your empty ambulance, gently setting you down on the rear bumper—exactly where you had sat her three weeks ago.

She didn't step back. Instead, she stood close, blocking the rest of the chaotic street from your view, keeping you in her own private space. Her hands rested on either side of your thighs on the bumper, her green eyes scanning your face with lingering concern.

"You look awful," she murmured, though there was a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on her lips.

"You should see the other guy," you laughed weakly, leaning back against the open ambulance door. "Or, well, the ceiling. Thank you, Natasha. Truly."

"Don't thank me yet," she said, her voice dropping to a low, quiet register that made your heart skip a beat. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, her hand lingering on the side of your neck. "I told you I'd be your personal security. I don't break my promises."

She reached into her utility vest, pulled out a fresh bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and handed it to you.

"Drink," she commanded gently. "And once the doctors clear that ankle and get you cleaned up…" Natasha leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, her eyes dropping to your lips for a brief, heavy second before rising back to yours. "…you're going to let me buy you a proper dinner. No cafeteria food, no emergency calls, and no falling ceilings."

You took a sip of the water, a warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the adrenaline. "Is that an official S.H.I.E.L.D. directive?"

"No," Natasha smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners . "That's a date."

[giannamrvl]

premium service

natasha romanoff x paramedic!femreader

FLUFF / SLIGHT HURT/COMFORT

summary: Working as a paramedic in Manhattan means you're used to chaos, but you didn't expect to pull the Black Widow into a quiet alleyway mid-invasion. Natasha is bleeding out and defensive, but when you're the only one steady enough to anchor her through the pain, a localized alien attack turns into an incredibly unexpected connection.

authors note: this is a draft so ntm

masterlist

Part 2 Part 3

________________

The flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance cast long, frantic shadows against the shattered concrete of the overpass. The Chitauri leviathan had been brought down blocks away, but the collateral damage was everywhere.

You snapped your purple nitrile gloves into place, pulling a roll of gauze from your jump bag as you knelt beside a civilian with a nasty laceration. Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant, droning backdrop to the chaos of Manhattan.

"Keep pressure right here, okay?" you told the man, guiding his trembling hand to the wound. "You're doing great. Deep breaths."

"Hey! Medic!"

You looked up at the shout. A fellow paramedic was gesturing wildly toward an alleyway fifty feet away. Through the settling dust, you caught the unmistakable gleam of dark tactical gear.

An Avenger.

Leaving your patient in the capable hands of a triage rookie, you grabbed your trauma kit and ran toward the alley. As you got closer, the figure materialized. Black suit, red hourglass belt buckle, crimson hair dusted with grey ash.

Natasha Romanoff.

She was slumped against a brick wall, one leg bent awkwardly out in front of her. Her breath came in shallow, ragged hitches, and her hands were pressed firmly against her left side, dark blood seeping through her fingers. Despite the injury, her green eyes were sharp, scanning the alley like she was still waiting for a threat.

"Don't move," you said, dropping to your knees beside her. Your voice was calm, a stark contrast to the adrenaline hammering in your chest. You didn't care if she was a world-class spy; right now, she was just a patient bleeding out on your pavement.

Natasha’s head snapped toward you. A low, defensive growl started in her throat, her hand instinctively twitching toward the empty holster at her thigh.

"Easy, Black Widow," you murmured, gently but firmly catching her wrist. "I'm just a paramedic. Let me look."

She stared at you for a tense, agonizing second, testing your grip. Something in your steady demeanor must have convinced her, because the tension bled out of her shoulders and she let her head fall back against the brick with a sharp hiss. "It's... just a graze. I'm fine."

"Right. You look incredibly fine," you replied dryly, already slicing through the side of her tactical suit with trauma shears to expose the wound.

The "graze" was a deep, jagged puncture from a piece of flying shrapnel, bleeding heavily.

"I need to pack this, and it's going to hurt," you warned, pulling out a package of hemostatic gauze. "Ready?"

Natasha offered a grim, bloody smirk. "Do your worst, doc."

You didn't hesitate. As you pressed the gauze into the wound to stop the hemorrhaging, Natasha’s entire body went rigid. Her fingers dug into the fabric of your uniform shirt, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed her eyes shut, a muffled gasp escaping her lips.

"I know, I know. Stay with me," you coaxed, using one hand to keep pressure on the wound while using your free hand to gently squeeze her shoulder. "Look at me, Romanoff. Keep your eyes on me."

She forced her eyes open, blinking through the pain, locking her intense green gaze onto yours. There was a raw, striking vulnerability in them that you were definitely not prepared for. For a moment, the sounds of the burning city seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the cramped alley.

"You have... terrible bedside manner," she breathless, a weak attempt at a distraction.

"Hey, I'm saving your life. You get the premium service for free," you shot back, a small smile tugging at your lips as the bleeding finally began to slow. You quickly wrapped a pressure bandage around her torso, securing it tightly. "There. That'll hold until we get you to a trauma bay."

Natasha let out a long, shaky breath, her grip on your shirt loosening, though she didn't entirely let go. She looked down at your neat handiwork, then back up at your face, a look of genuine curiosity replacing her usual guarded mask.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice low and raspy.

You told her, checking her pulse one last time. It was fast, but stabilizing. "We need to get you on a gurney. Can you stand if I anchor you?"

"Yeah." With your support, she managed to hoist herself up, leaning heavily against your side. She was shorter than you expected without her boots, but she felt like solid marble.

As you guided her out of the alley toward the waiting ambulance, Tony Stark’s Iron Man armor streaked overhead, but Natasha didn't look up. Her eyes remained fixed on you.

"You're pretty good under pressure," she noted as you helped her sit on the bumper of the rig.

"Occupational hazard," you replied, handing her a clean bottle of water. "Stick around Manhattan long enough, you get used to the alien invasions."

Natasha took a sip, a genuine, amused smile breaking through the ash on her face. She reached into a small, intact pocket on her vest and pulled out a sleek, black earpiece, dropping it into your palm.

"Keep that," she murmured, her fingers lingering against yours for a second too long. "Next time the sky opens up, give me a call. I'll make sure I'm your personal security."

Before you could respond, a S.H.I.E.L.D. transport vehicle screeched to a halt nearby, and a couple of agents rushed over to escort her. Natasha let them lead her away, but she threw one last, lingering look over her shoulder, leaving you standing by your ambulance with a pounding heart and a direct line to the Black Widow.

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 ❛❛ — part 1

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: being a single parent isn't easy, especially finding a partner that would love you AND your child. will natasha romanoff be different than the ones you sought out before? (i hate this summary pls someone help me change it 😞)

꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: natasha romanoff x female reader.

꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS/TAGS :: fluff. no use of yn. reader playing hard to get. natasha being kind of pushy in the beginning. reader has a child from a previous relationship. mention of rejection. this is a slow-burn. (or kind of).

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 9k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ; this was supposed to be out on february 14th, but anyways, procrastinating is my middle name :)

and yes, no smut 🫶🏽 as much as it's our guilty pleasure, i think i wanted to portray this dynamic (and nat) differently here —considering they're weeks only into this relationship and a shy of one/two months of knowing each other!

and i haven't mentioned it into the fic but i think it's obvious that constant rejection leads to (self) doubt and trust issues so natasha will wait until reader initiates.

The bar was alive with its usual symphony of clinking glasses, low laughter, and soft music humming in the background.

It wasn't the busiest night you'd seen since the place opened, but there was enough movement to keep your hands busy and your focus sharp.

You'd been behind the counter for hours now, sleeves rolled up and hair tied half up out of your face, the glow of the neon lights overhead reflecting off rows of polished bottles.

You were covering for a co-worker—Charlie, who was practically a friend now—tonight, which meant an unusual extension of your shift. Normally, you'd be home by now, tired but satisfied, while the night crowd swelled in and another bartender took over.

You'd been here long enough to know the routine, to recognize most of the regulars, and to brush off the flirtations that came with the territory.

Pretty faces, charming lines, casual compliments — you'd heard them all.

You'd grown used to the attention; it came with the territory. A new, trendy club with a sleek design, good drinks, and—if the reviews online were to be believed—"a ridiculously attractive staff."

Most meant you.

People came for the cocktails and stayed to flirt, hoping for something more than a smile. You never gave it.

Not because you weren't tempted — some of your regulars were downright gorgeous, even nice — but because you simply didn't have the time or the energy to let your mind wander from work. You'd built your reputation here, and the bar's reputation too, on professionalism.

And so, you didn't notice her at first.

Natasha Romanoff slipped into the bar the way shadows slip through an alley : quiet, smooth, and with a presence that pulled attention whether she wanted it or not.

She didn't come often, and when she did, it was always late, long after your shift was over. She liked it that way — fewer people, fewer eyes. She'd sit in the corner, order a drink or two, and leave without fanfare.

But tonight, fate had nudged the two of you into the same space.

She watched you for a long moment from the end of the bar, her sharp green eyes tracing the easy way you moved, the relaxed confidence in every gesture. You were laughing with a customer as you poured a drink, shoulders loose, dimly lit by the warm glow above.

Natasha wasn't used to seeing you, and she found herself... intrigued.

“Evening,” she said when you finally came over, her voice smooth and low.

You glanced up, not giving much away. “Evening,” you echoed, polite but neutral.

“What do you recommend?”

“Depends.” Your lips curved into a practiced smile. “Do you want something strong enough to forget your troubles, or light enough to keep you company while you think about them?”

That earned a quiet chuckle from her, and for a second, Natasha thought she had your attention. But you were already reaching for a glass, unfazed by the striking redhead in front of you, treating her like just any other customer.

And that? That was new.

Natasha Romanoff was used to attention —commanding it, deflecting it, using it. She wasn't used to being... ignored. She watched you pour her drink, her curiosity deepening. “You work here often?” she asked casually.

“Every night,” you said, sliding the glass across the bar without missing a beat. “But not usually this late. I'm covering for a friend tonight.”

“Lucky me, then.”

You gave her a polite smile again, the kind you'd given a hundred customers before her, and went to take another order without lingering. Natasha raised a brow, watching you turn away. So that's how it was going to be.

The Russian swirled the drink in her glass, elbows resting casually on the polished wood of the bar. Her sharp green eyes tracked you as you moved, the way you navigated between customers with practiced ease, as if you owned the space. She was impressed—not that she'd say it outright yet.

When you came back to check on her, she smirked.

“Strong,” she quipped, nodding at the drink. “You got a heavy hand..” she trailed off, her forest green orbs lowering just a few seconds to check you name tag before quickly returning to your eyes as she ended her sentence by saying your name.

You gave her the faintest smile. “You asked for a surprise.”

“I do like surprises,” Natasha murmured, leaning forward slightly, her voice smooth. “Especially when they're as good as this one.”

Your brows raised, but you didn't bite, just moved to wipe down the counter near her. “Glad you like it.

“So,” Natasha tilted her head, amused by your calm. “Are you always this focused?”

“Usually.”

“I take it you don't get distracted easily, do you?”

“No.”

“Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully, swirling her drink again. “So if I told you that I'll be coming here for weeks, hoping to see you, that wouldn't distract you either?”

You paused briefly, glancing at her out of the corner of your eye. “Probably not.”

Natasha grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “You're either very good at this job or completely immune to flirting.”

“Maybe both,” you answered again, moving to refill a customer's water glass.

The redhead chuckled softly, clearly entertained. “You're not even going to ask my name?”

“I assume you're not here to make friends,” you replied coolly. “Just like I'm not here to socialize.”

That only made her grin wider. “I like that about you.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But for the record, it's Natasha.”

“Nice to meet you, Natasha,” you said in the same calm, polite tone you'd use for anyone else.

Her smirk deepened. “You're hard to impress, huh?”

You finally met her gaze, deadpan. “I'm working.”

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. Natasha wasn't used to this—being brushed off so easily—but it only fueled her interest.

“Alright,” she said, standing to leave after finishing her drink. “But I'm coming back tomorrow night. Maybe I'll finally get you to look at me the way everyone else does.”

You shrugged, already reaching for the empty glass. “Good luck with that.”

Natasha chuckled as she slipped a bill under the glass, far more than the cost of the drink, and slid her jacket over her shoulders. She paused at the door, glancing back at you one more time, smirk firmly in place.

“See you soon, hotshot.”

You barely spared her a glance as you cleaned the counter. “Have a good night.”

Natasha walked out into the cool night air, grinning to herself. She'd definitely be back.

. . . . . . . .

It had been nearly a week now, and Natasha had made herself a fixture at the club.

She didn't even wait until your shift was almost over anymore. She started coming in early, right when you clocked in, sliding into her usual seat with that same lazy smirk, effectively scaring off anyone else who even thought about trying their luck with you.

Not that you minded much. It was quiet when she was there. Even if her sharp gaze followed your every movement, even if she asked for your attention in ways no one else had the nerve to. Natasha Romanoff didn't beg. She didn't push. She just... showed up and asked.

Every. Single. Night.

“A date,” she'd say, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Just one.”

Tonight was no different.

You were wiping down the counter after a rush, finally catching a breath. Natasha, of course, was right where she always was, chin resting in her hand, looking at you like she was cataloging every detail.

“You're very persistent, aren't you?” you stated, exhaling a soft sigh, your hand pausing mid-motion.

The Russian's lips curled into that dangerous little smirk. “So I've been told.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Can I at least get your number, pretty girl?”

You blinked, the corner of your mouth oh so slightly twitching at the nickname. “You really don't give up easily.”

“Not when I see someone I want.” She propped her chin on her hand, completely at ease, but her gaze was sharp, unwavering. “And right now, that's you.”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “You don't even know me.”

Natasha's smirk softened into something warmer. “Then let me fix that.”

You turned to grab a glass to polish, pretending to busy yourself. “Don't you get tired of hearing 'no'?”

“Nope,” she said simply. “Every 'no' just means I get to come back and ask again.”

You gave her a look over your shoulder, deadpan. “That's... not exactly how that works.”

“It is tonight.”

You huffed out a laugh despite yourself, quickly masking it. Natasha caught it though—of course she did—and her smile deepened.

“I'm good company, you know,” she spoke again, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “You'd have fun.”

You glanced at her, meeting those sharp green eyes for just a moment too long. “You sound confident.”

“I am confident,” The redhead murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "But I'm also patient." She pushed her empty glass toward you. “Another one of those, hotshot.”

You rolled your eyes but reached for the shaker, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. Natasha wasn't like the others — she didn't try cheesy lines or offer tips that doubled as propositions. She just showed up, looked at you like she meant it, and asked.

And for the first time, you weren't sure how much longer you'd be able to keep saying no.

Natasha watched you with that usual, infuriatingly calm confidence, swirling the drink you'd just set in front of her. The bar had quieted down, most of the late crowd trickling out, and it was nearing the end of your shift. She'd been here for hours again, her presence steady and unwavering, always asking for the same thing: a date.

She hadn't expected tonight to be any different.

You leaned on the counter slightly, wiping it down one last time as Natasha nursed her drink. She'd asked for your number earlier, throwing in a casual “pretty girl” with that smirk that had made a few other patrons flush over the week. You'd brushed it off like you always did, and Natasha had resigned herself to yet another night of polite rejection.

But then you slid something across the polished wood toward her. A small folded piece of paper.

Natasha blinked, her brows arching as she picked it up, unfolding it slowly.

A phone number—your phone number.

Her lips parted slightly, surprised for the first time in days of this back-and-forth. "You're serious?"

You smirked faintly, drying your hands on a towel. “Not many people get that so easily.” You tilted your head, locking eyes with her. “Make good use of it, Red.”

It was the first time you'd ever given her a nickname and it hit her like a shot of whiskey, making Natasha's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh, I will.” She slipped the paper carefully into her jacket pocket like it was something precious. “You have no idea.”

You shrugged like it was nothing, though the smallest smile tugged at your lips as you turned to grab an empty glass. “Goodnight, Natasha.”

She stood, sliding on her jacket, her eyes never leaving you. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”

As she walked toward the door, the redhead felt a rare thrill settle in her chest. She'd been persistent, sure, but she hadn't expected this today.

And if you thought Natasha Romanoff was persistent before, well... you had no idea what you'd just invited into your life.

. . . . . . . .

Half an hour later, the door to your apartment clicked shut behind you.

The quiet of your space was a relief after the buzz of the bar, and you kicked off your shoes, shaking out the day from your shoulders.

Usually, not long after you'd pull the door open, the familiar ound of feet thunding on the floor would be a heard and a tiny set of arms would be wrapped around your waist in greetings from your daughter but it was winter break, and she was over at her other parent's place.

You were the primary caretaker. You had her during school days while your ex would get her on weekends and during the holidays—of course there could be exceptions.

You were thankful that your ex was not an asshole and that whatever had happened between you wasn't going to be projected on your child. They were mature enough not to make you stress or fight with them just to see your own child.

(now, let's pretend it's cold out and that we don't need a cold shower to wash out the sweat from us — because for my defense, this had been written around dec/jan)

The shower ran hot, steaming up the small bathroom as you let the water wash off the residue of the night. By the time you stepped out, towel wrapped around you, your hair damp, you felt the tension in your shoulders start to ease.

You were halfway through applying lotion—arms, legs, and the soft curve of your neck—when your phone buzzed on the dresser.

<Unknown number>

You froze for a moment, then a small smirk tugged at your lips. Of course you picked up.

“Hello?” Your voice was casual, but you couldn't keep the smile from your tone and—from some yet-to-be-known reasons—off your face.

“Hi, pretty girl,” Natasha's voice purred on the other end : deep, smooth, and deliberately teasing. “I hope you're not too tired after your shift.”

You lowered the device from your ear, placing it on your vanity before putting her on speaker so you wouldn't have any trouble applying lotion while talking to her at the same time.

“No, not too tired,” you replied, letting your voice stay light though your pulse had picked up. “Just... winding down.”

“Good,” she said, a chuckle in her tone. “Because I was hoping to hear from you. I wanted to make sure that number I got tonight actually belonged to you, and not some random bartender with a pretty smile.”

You rolled your eyes, though it was playful, with a grin on your lips—Your left hand going to grab the bottle to add some more of the oil onto your right palm then rubbing both palms together. You propped your leg up on the chair, your hands automatically applying the lotion on it as you answered. “Aren't you a persistant one.”

“I prefer the term 'determined',” she replied. “Besides, it's hard to resist someone who works the bar the way you do. You've got a rhythm, a... presence.”

You paused momentarily, careful to keep your composure. “You really won't quit, will you?”

Natasha's laugh was low, teasing. “With someone like you? Absolutely not.” She let the words hang, deliberate, making sure they reached you in all the right ways. “So, tell me, pretty girl... when can I take you out? Or are you planning on keeping me on the hook forever?”

Bitting back a smile, you also finish moisturizing your skin. You close the lotion and deactivate the speaker mode and put your phone back to your ear. “Don't flatter yourself too much, Red. But... maybe I could pencil you in.”

“Hmm,” The Russian purred, clearly amused. “I like the sound of that. You don't say yes easily, and that just makes me want it more.”

You rolled your eyes again at her antics, but the corners of your lips twitched. “You make it very difficult to act professional.”

“That's my specialty,” she said, voice dipping low, teasing, almost intimate. “I've been practicing for weeks.”

That made you utter a soft laugh. Unconsciously, you shook your head, but there was a flutter of excitement in your chest. “Alright, Red. Just... don't get used to this.”

Natasha's voice on the other end was smooth, low, and deliberately teasing.

“I'm already planning my victory speech,” she had said, and you chuckled softly.

“Victory speech for what?” you questioned, playing along, though your pulse betrayed the flutter her words caused.

“For convincing you to finally go on a date with me,” she responded, her tone sly, deliberate. “I mean, how many people get a chance like that and actually resist me?”

You rolled your eyes, even though she couldn't see you. “You really think you're that special, Red?”

“I know I am,” she replied with a laugh. “But I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. I want to hear you say yes, not just hand it to me.”

You smirked, brushing a hand through your damp hair. “Persistent. Determined. Arrogant. Pick one.”

“I'm all three,” The redhead stated—unbothered, confident, arrogant—maybe all three, but honestly, at this point you didn't know anymore. “But there's one more you should know—charming.“

That made you snort softly. “Oh, I'm glad you're self-aware.”

“And you,” she leaned into the words, though you couldn't see her, “you're still refusing to give me a proper chance. So I'll ask again—just to make sure it's not because you can't say yes.”

You froze for the briefest second, just long enough for her to notice. "A date," she added simply, her voice lowering, sultry and deliberate. “One night. Dinner, drinks, whatever else you want. Just me and you. I promise to make it... memorable.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head again, but the edge of amusement in your voice was unmistakable. “You're not gonna give this up.. "

"I already told you," she answered. Then, softer, teasing: "So... dinner? Saturday night?"

You bit your lip, pretending to think.

“Fine. Saturday. But only because you finally asked nicely.”

Natasha's laugh was low, satisfied, and utterly triumphant. “Oh, pretty girl... you won't regret it.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “I better not.”

“Good,” Natsha stated, her voice softening just a touch. “I'll pick you up. Be ready to have your mind blown.”

“Sure... I'll try to be prepared.”

“Don't try. Just be you," she said, a subtle smirk in her voice. “That's enough to keep me coming back, night after night.”

You exhaled, already knowing she was right. Even over the phone, Natasha Romanoff had found a way to unsettle you, charm you, and get you smiling at the exact right moments.

“Alright, Red. Night,”

“Goodnight, pretty girl,” she whispered, the final words lingering in your ear like a promise.

. . . . . . . .

The next few days passed in a blur of shifts, orders, and polished counters, but no matter how much you tried to focus on work, your thoughts kept drifting to one person.

Natasha.

You caught yourself smiling at the sound of your phone, imagining her low, teasing voice again. Her persistence, her smirk, that subtle way she made even a simple question feel loaded with intent. You told yourself it was just harmless fun. She was flirtatious, yes, but so what? You were busy, independent, and focused. Right?

Still, you found your mind replaying the call.

"One night. Dinner, drinks... just me and you."

You rolled your eyes at yourself. Who even talks like that? Who makes you laugh and bite your lip at the same time just over the phone?

At the bar, she kept coming back — though not too often, careful not to overstep — but the thought of Saturday lingered like a secret thrill. You caught yourself checking the clock, imagining her sliding into her usual spot, that smirk in place, ready to tease you mercilessly.

You told yourself you were being careful, unbothered, professional. And yet...

You found excuses to linger near the phone. You caught yourself drafting what you'd wear, imagining the little smirk she'd give if you picked that dress over another. You even practiced your "I'm calm and collected" demeanor in the mirror, knowing full well she'd be able to see through it.

The more you thought about her, the more impossible it became to act like it was just another night. Your pulse quickened at the memory of her voice, her words, the way she'd laughed when she got what she wanted: your attention.

By Thursday, you were already anticipating Saturday like a secret thrill — half nervous, half excited, and entirely aware that Natasha Romanoff had somehow wormed her way into your careful, professional world without even showing up yet.

And as much as you swore you weren't letting yourself fall for it... a small, stubborn part of you couldn't wait.

Saturday night wasn't just a date. It was a test.

And you had a sneaking suspicion Natasha Romanoff would make sure you didn't walk away unscathed.

. . . . . . . .

Saturday night.

Your apartment smelled faintly of your favorite perfume, the soft scent mixing with the clean crispness of freshly washed sheets and candle wax. You'd been pacing for the last ten minutes, pretending you weren't nervous, pretending this was just... dinner. Just a casual outing with a customer who happened to be ridiculously attractive, ridiculously confident, and ridiculously good at making your heart skip.

You adjusted your outfit in the mirror one last time, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of your clothes. It wasn't overly fancy, but you'd put thought into it — just enough to look good without seeming like you'd spent an hour planning it. (You absolutely had.)

Then came the knock.

Three soft, deliberate raps at your door that made your stomach flip. You took a steadying breath, smoothing your hair back before opening the door and there she was.

Natasha Romanoff stood in your doorstep like she owned the place, dressed in black slacks and a perfectly tailored jacket over a black blouse that shimmered faintly under the hallway light. Her hair was loose, soft curls framing her face, and those sharp green eyes immediately flicked over you in one slow, approving sweep.

You'd have to admit, she looks ridiculously gorgeous in a silk blouse, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on her forearms.

“Well,” she murmured, her smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “I was expecting you to look good, but you really outdid yourself, pretty girl.”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the heat creeping up your neck. “You clean up alright yourself, Red.”

The Russian chuckled low in her throat, pushing off the doorframe. “Just alright?” She stepped closer, her voice dipping into that smooth, teasing tone. “You wound me.”

You amusingly rolled your eyes, stepping up to walk past her after locking your door. “Come on. We're gonna be late if you keep fishing for compliments.”

. . . . . . . .

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Natasha drove, one hand casually on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. She glanced at you every so often, that amused glint in her eye, like she was trying to read every detail about you without you noticing.

“So,” she said finally, her tone easy. “I've been asking for this date for a week. Was it worth the chase?”

You crossed your legs, looking out the window with a faint smirk. “We'll see.”

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head. “Playing hard to get. I like that.”

“I'm not playing anything,” You tell her, glancing at her side profile. “I just don't hand my number out to everyone and afterwards, allow them to take me out.”

“Mm, I noticed,” The Russian answered, her voice dipping lower. “Makes me feel special.”

A soft snort slipped past your lips. “You're impossible.”

“And you,” she shot back smoothly, “are stunning. So, I'd say we're even.”

You turned your head toward the window to hide the small smile tugging at your lips, but Natasha caught it anyway.

The car pulled up in front of an intimate, softly lit restaurant — small, classy, with warm light spilling from the windows. Natasha was out of the car before you could finish unbuckling, opening your door like a perfect gentlewoman.

You raised an eyebrow as she offered her hand. “Wow. Someone's really trying to impress me.”

Natasha smirked, her eyes glinting. “Oh, sweetheart... I haven't even started yet.”

You slipped your hand into hers, warmth sparking at the contact, and tried to ignore the way your pulse skipped when her fingers brushed yours just a little too deliberately.

Something told you tonight was going to be... dangerous.

In the best way.

Inside, the restaurant is dimly lit, all flickering candles and soft jazz humming in the background. The host leads you to a table tucked away in a corner, the kind of table meant for secrets and Natasha slides in across from you with the kind of casual confidence that makes your stomach flip.

She leans back, green eyes glinting. “I'm glad you said yes.”

You scoff lightly, settling your napkin on your lap. “I didn't really get much of a choice, did I? You were practically stalking my bar shifts.”

The redhead chuckles, low and warm. “What can I say? I like a challenge.“ She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “And you, sweetheart, are very worth chasing.”

Your breath hitches at the pet name, but you hide it by picking up the menu. “You know, I'm starting to think you're just this confident with everyone.”

“Not true.” Natasha's voice softens slightly, but her smirk remains. “You make me want to be confident. It's not every day I meet someone who makes me wait almost a week just to get their number.”

You glance up over the top of your menu, catching her staring at you like she's memorizing your every movement. Heat curls low in your stomach, and you shift in your seat.

The waiter shows up with appetizers, wine and water—courtesy of the restaurant, indicating that you are in no rush to order—and for a moment, the tension breaks as you focus on the amuse bouche. But even then, Natasha's gaze lingers on you like a caress, making it very clear that this date is only the beginning.

"So..." The Russian begins, swirling her glass of wine. "Do I get to learn more about the mysterious bartender who's had me wrapped around her finger all these weeks?"

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You make it sound like I've been playing hard to get on purpose.”

“Haven't you?” A hint of tease is heard in her tone, accompanied with a raised eyebrow.

You meet her gaze, steady this time. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd actually stop trying”

“You know,” Her smirk softens into something a little more sincere, voice dropping lower, “I didn't expect you to give me your number that night. I was ready to walk out of that bar empty-handed. Thought you'd send me home with nothing but a bruised ego.”

“Hmm. Maybe I like keeping you on your toes,” you say, smirking as you take a sip of your wine—your eyes not leaving her green ones.

Her eyes narrow playfully, and she leans in, her voice a soft purr. “Careful there, pretty girl. I'm already thinking about how I can return the favor.”

The waiter comes, but Natasha had barely glanced at the menu. She smoothly orders the simple dish, then waves you off. “Get whatever you want. I didn't bring you here to worry about the bill.”

You can't help the scoff that slips. “Is this your usual date tactic? Throwing money around to impress girls?”

Nat grins, leaning forward on her elbows so the dim light catches her smirk. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to impress you, I'd be telling you how beautiful you look in that dress, not the price of the wine. Which, by the way...” Her eyes slowly drag down, then back up, and the deliberate once-over makes your breath hitch. “...is criminally short.”

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs, doing your best to keep your composure. “Bold.”

“I told you I wanted to take you out. I meant it. I want your time. Your attention.” She tilts her head, that predator's smirk curving her mouth. “And maybe your lips. Eventually.”

Your fork nearly slips from your hand, your gaze faltering but you make a show of recomposure by clearing your throat — although, your mind had started to slip back to the reason why you always push away in the first place. “You don't waste time.”

“Why should I?” She shrugs, eyes locked on you. “You've been making me come to that bar every night, watching you brush off every guy who thinks they have a shot. I'm just cutting the line, detka.”

The Russian endearment rolls off her tongue like velvet, and you feel your pulse spike.

You try for calm, raising an eyebrow. “And what makes you so sure you're not wasting your time too?”

The redhead leans closer, elbows resting on the table, her voice dropping just enough that it makes the hair on your neck stand. “Because you wouldn't be here if you didn't want me to try. ”

The flicker of candlelight made Nat's eyes glow in a way that made your heart twist. She leaned in slightly, the usual chin-resting-on-her-hand pose as she studied you like you were a puzzle she desperately wanted to solve. The conversation had been easy so far—flirty banter, teasing remarks, and the occasional smirk that made your pulse quicken. But now... now it was getting too real. She was serious.

You cleared your throat softly and dropped your gaze to your glass, fingers tightening around the stem. “Natasha, I think I should.. probably tell you something.”

Her brows furrowed faintly, her teasing smirk softening into something gentler. “Sounds serious,” she murmured, voice low but encouraging.

The quiet hum of the restaurant wrapped around you both, soft jazz playing in the background while candlelight flickered between each of your wine glasses. Natasha was halfway through cutting into her steak, perfectly at ease, when you finally spoke, yout voice hesitant but firm.

“I have a child.”

Natasha's hand didn't even pause mid-slice. She looked up, expression calm, maybe even curious. “Oh, really?” she asked casually, like you had just told her you liked her steak medium rare. “How old are they?”

“Yes, I know it's sudden but—” You blinked, stunned by her reaction. “Wait.. didn't you hear what I said? I have a child, Natasha. A daughter.”

“Yeah,” Natasha replied evenly, green eyes flicking up to meet your before she took a bite of the piece of steak. She was casual about this. Way too casual and damn, you were not used to this. "And I asked how old she is."

Guess you never thought Natsha Romanoff would've surprised you in more ways than one.

After a few minutes of silence, You let out a sharp, sarcastic chuckle, leaning back in your chair, your chest tightening as old memories clawed up. “Really? That's what you're asking? You're not gonna... I don't know, make a whole scene or suddenly get a phone call, maybe excuse yourself to the bathroom, and disappear from my life forever?”

Natasha's fork paused midair this time, her green eyes locking onto your face again with an intensity that made her heart stutter.

“Now,” Natasha said softly, voice low but razor-sharp with conviction, “why would I do that?”

The question hung heavy between you.

You froze, caught between defensiveness and disbelief, because that damned Russian was looking at you like you'd just said something tragic, not shameful. Like you were the one who deserved an apology for being made to feel this way.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. “You thought I was here for... what? A fling?” Her tone wasn't mocking, but it carried weight—like she needed the truth.

Your lips twitched as you tried to keep your cool. You tightened your jaw then let it relax. “Well... most people, when they find out about her, they just—" you exhaled shakily, cutting yourself off.

“Disappear," Natasha gently finished the sentence for you as she started to understand. “Because they're cowards.”

You chewed on the inner part of your lower lip, stunned silent by the simplicity of her answer.

The redhead tilted her head, eyes softening. She could tell it wasn't quite easy for you to process this, since you had seemingly been going through the same pattern of rejection for God knows how long. So, as the sympatetic person she is, she didn't try to show pity but went on with the conversation. “So, how old is she?” she asked again, this time quieter, gentler.

You finally whispered, “...She's four.”

Natasha's lips curled into a faint smile. “That's a fun age.” She reached for her glass of wine like nothing about this conversation scared her. “You'll have to tell me her name.”

That cracked something deep inside you, a shaky laugh slipping out. “You're really.. not running away, huh?”

Natasha smirked, leaning back in her chair, confidence radiating off her in waves. “Sweetheart,” she said with a slow smile, “if I wanted to run, I wouldn't have asked you out in the first place.”

You blinked at her, startled and she continued to speak. “If anything, I'm impressed. You've been out here looking like that”—her gaze swept over you slowly, deliberately—"and raising a kid on your own? That's badass.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “You don't care that—?”

“Of course I care,” Nat said softly, her tone shifting again, grounding. “It matters. She matters. But if you're asking if it makes me want to leave? No. Not even a little.” She tilted her head. “Actually, I like that you told me. Shows me you trust me enough to be honest.”

The tightness in your chest loosened all at once, and you didn't realize you'd been holding your breath until you exhaled shakily.

The Russian's hand slid across the table, palm up, silently asking for yours. Hesitant but desperate for that grounding warmth, you placed your hand in hers, and she immediately laced your fingers together.

Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You're gorgeous, you're smart, and now I know you're a devoted mom too? You're kind of raising the bar, detka.”

You couldn't help it — you laughed, half from relief, half because of how serious and sincere she looked while saying it.

Then Natasha leaned in just a bit more, voice dropping lower, her lips curling into a wicked smirk. “And now I definitely need that second date.”

You just stared at her, stunned, heart pounding because Natasha wasn't just staying—she was all in.

. . . . . . . .

The night air was crisp, soft against your skin as the redhead led the way down the quiet street, her hand lightly brushing yours. Not holding, not yet—but that subtle contact made your pulse spike every time.

“Thanks for walking me back,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice casual even though your stomach was a riot of nerves.

Natasha glanced at you, that smirk tugging at her lips. “You're welcome. I don't let pretty girls wander home alone, detka.”

You chuckled, but your laughter was nervous. “You don't know how used I am to people disappearing the second they find out anything about my life.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I mean... no one ever reacts like you did tonight. Every date I've had just look at me like they've seen a ghost when they find out I have a child. They stutter, they make excuses, and then they leave. Forever. I... I wasn't expecting you to be any different.”

The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. Her eyes were steady, warm, and full of that rare softness that made your chest ache.

“And yet,“ you continued, voice trembling slightly, “you were. And I...” You trailed off, letting out a heartfelt chuckle. “I'm happy you were. I'm happy you're here.”

Her lips curled into a small, tender smile. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

There was a long pause, just the two of you in the glow of a nearby streetlight. Natasha's hand finally reached for yours, intertwining her fingers with yours in a gentle grip.

“I should say goodnight,” she murmured, though her voice betrayed the hesitation in her own chest.

“Or...” you started, heart hammering, “maybe not.”

Before Natasha could respond, you leaned in, brushing your lips against hers in a deliberate, confident kiss. To her surprise, you were the one initiating it. Her eyes widened for the briefest moment, then slowly closed as she deepened the kiss, one hand moving to cradle your face while the other stayed entwined with yours.

When you finally pulled back slightly, breathless, Natasha rested her forehead against yours. “Well,” she murmured, a teasing smirk returning, “you've got quite the initiative, hotshot.”

You chuckled, chewing on your lower lop while your thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Maybe I just wanted to make sure you knew you're not the only bold one here.”

Nat's laugh was low, warm, and full of admiration. “Oh, trust me... I know. And I'm really glad you are.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that, foreheads together, hands intertwined, letting the quiet of the night wrap around you both, knowing that something—dangerous, thrilling, real—had just begun.

. . . . . . . .

Its Thursday morning when your phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand as sunlight streamed in, catching dust in golden beams. You groaned, pulling the phone toward you, and saw Natasha's name lighting up the screen.

Of course it was her.

After that Saturday night date, a second, a third and a fourth one took place. Obviously not followed up, since you were both busy with your own lives and jobs.

The second date was on Tuesday afternoon and Natasha wanted to do something of your choice, since she had chosen the spot for the first date. It was after work for her while you had an evening shift. That was a way to get to know you better so, you both went to explore an art gallery and discuss each of your favorite pieces—that's how she discovered your subtle appreciation for art.

The third date took place on Thursday and you both decided it would be fun to try an escape room together. There were other people there as well : three teenagers, another couple—friends,maybe—at last, a father with his teen son. Out of the four teams, you and Nat solved the mystery first and that's how you discovered how incredibly smart she was since she'd found most of the enigma's answers on her own. Then you walked to a nearby ice cream shop afterward to talk about the funniest moments, the clues you had missed, and what you'd try differently next time.

And finally the fourth date happened last night, on Saturday. You attended a drive-in theater, then went out for bowling.

Her company was certainly enjoyable and she was quite funny. She also beat you multiple times at bowling and the only three times you scored : first one was out of luck. second, she'd let you win since you kept missing and as much as she enjoyed your pouty face, she preferred your smile and thank God you hadn't noticed her purposefully missing the shot so you'd get a score instead. the third was when she eventually taught you how to aim for a perfect strike

You can recall the fluttering feeling of her chest pressed against your back, her hands hovering yours as you both held the ball—and oh, the rasp of your voice at your ear.

You were also convinced that she actually wanted you for you—not because she simply saw a pretty face that made her look twice and a nice body—because she never pushed for sex.

Those days that you didn't spend together—last Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Friday—you both fulfilled them with phonecalls instead. either to talk about her day at work, yours or any other topic. Between all that, she never asked, initiated or even hinted for sex. Not even once.

And yes, one might say, 'it had only been a week', but not you. Not when you'd been asked for it at two day's time of getting to know the person or even right in the middle of the first date.

She wasn't driven by lust, she actually liked you unlike many others who simply saw you for your body.

“Morning,” you said, voice still hoarse from last night.

“Good morning, pretty girl,” Natasha purred on the other end. That low, teasing tone made your stomach clench in the best way. “Slept well?”

You tilted your head, biting back a smile. “Better than I probably should have. You?”

“Like a kid in a candy store,” she said smoothly. “Though some candy is much more... distracting than others.” Her grin practically radiated through the phone.

You chuckled, leaning back against the pillows, a hint of sleep tugging at your eyes. But it's not like you would fall asleep again anyway. It's been four years since you've woken up early but that didn't mean you were going to let her sweet talk you as an apology for waking you up. “It's early, Romanoff, why'd you call. And don't say it was to «hear that beautiful voice of yours».”

"No, really," she said seriously now, though that mischievous edge never left. “I want to see you again. Soon. I can't stop thinking about you. About last night."

You felt your pulse spike. "Nat..."

She cut in before you could get shy, bold and playful. “I know, detka. Just... when can I see you again? Dinner? Or maybe breakfast this time?”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Breakfast, huh? You're really pushing it, Red.”

“And you,” she countered, voice dropping low and teasing, “are going to let me. Because last night? I know you liked it. Admit it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her confidence. “...Maybe I did,” you whispered, voice soft.

"Good," she murmured, a satisfied smirk in her tone. "Then it's settled. I'll come for breakfast. And maybe after that, you can teach me some of your bartender tricks."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think you'll just be more of a distraction than a student.”

“Perfect,” she said, almost triumphantly. “I like being a distraction. Especially for you.”

You rolled your eyes again, heart hammering, but couldn't help the wide smile spreading across your face. Natasha Romanoff had just proven she was not leaving—and somehow, you didn't want her to.

. . . . . . . .

You weren't expecting Natasha to actually follow through with the "I'm coming over with breakfast" text. Yet, there she was at your door at eight fifty in the morning, hair in a loose bun, the usual leather jacket swapped for a hoodie, and a paper bag in one hand.

You were in your pajamas. Not the cute, matching kind. Just a soft pair of linen short and a slightly oversized shirt. Your hair was messy, and you were pretty sure you still had pillow lines on your cheek.

And Natasha Romanoff was standing there looking like sin in a leather jacket.

“You're...early,” you said, blinking as she stepped into your apartment without hesitation.

“I said breakfast,” she teased, shrugging as she placed the bag on your kitchen counter. “That usually happens in the morning, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to feel flustered. “Yeah, well, I didn't think you meant actual morning. You could've at least given me a warning.”

She gave you a slow, amused once-over. “What, you don't like surprises?”

“Not this early. And definitely not when I look like this.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, leaning on your counter. “You look perfect. Now sit down. I got coffee, too.”

You squinted at her but obeyed, climbing onto one of your kitchen stools. "Mm—coffee first, compliments later."

She smirked and handed you a cup. “Bossy.”

You took a grateful sip and hummed. “God, that's good.”

“Of course it is. I got the same thing as last night—vanilla latte with oat milk. You're easy to please. ”

You raised a brow. “Or maybe you're just paying too much attention.”

The Russian smirked, clearly not denying it. She pulled out bagels, pastries, and a little container of fruit, arranging everything on your counter like she was setting up a feast.

“You know, for a first date aftermath, you're setting the bar really high.”

“Good,” she said simply, settling on the stool next to you, close enough that her knee brushed yours. “I like high bars.”

You took a bite of your bagel, smiling around it. “You're very confident for someone who barged into my apartment at nine a.m.”

Natasha tilted her head, “You let me in.”

“Because I was too tired to say no.”

She laughed softly, that low, warm sound that made your stomach flutter.

“Don't tell me you're shy now,” Natasha teased, leaning a little closer.

Swallowing and trying to match her energy, you raised your chin. “I'm not shy. I just wasn't expecting.. this.”

“What, breakfast?”

“No,” you said, smiling faintly. “You.”

That seemed to throw her for a second, her smirk softening into something very much more genuine.

Your heart fluttered, and before you could allow yourself overthink it, you leaned forward and kissed her.

It was soft at first, just a brush of lips, but Natasha was quick to deepen it, her hand coming up to cup your jaw. The taste of coffee lingered between you, and you couldn't help but sigh into her mouth, feeling her smirk against your lips.

When you finally pulled away, Natasha was grinning, eyes glinting with amusement as she used your words against you. “Bold.”

“Well..” You shrugged, trying to play it off even though your heart was racing. “You like bold.”

“I do,” Her voice was a gentle murmur, her thumb brushing your cheek. “And you,” she countered, voice dropping low and teasing, “are exactly the kind of chaos I've been trying to chase all week.”

You perched on the counter edge, swinging your legs. “You might get addicted to my chaos,” you said, leaning forward and pressing your lips against hers once more—a soft, teasing kiss this time before pulling away. “Consider yourself warned.”

Natasha laughed—a low, warm sound—capturing your wrist in her hand and pulling you back gently toward her. “Addicted already, hotshot. I'll need more than one warning.”

Before you could respond, she leaned in, brushing her lips lightly against yours in a feather-light kiss. “See? Bold doesn't always have to come from you,” she whispered against your lips.

You smirked, tipping your head forward and daring her. “Oh? You want to play that game?”

Natasha grinned, low and wolfish. “I always play that game, pretty girl.” She leaned in again, longer this time, and your lips met hers with more insistence. Her hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you close, and you let yourself relax fully against her, running your hands lightly along her arms.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, the Russian's green eyes glinted with mischief. “You're terrible,” she murmured.

Then she reached for a piece of your bagel without asking, and the moment dissolved into playful bickering about food theft.

By the time breakfast was over, you were laughing in your kitchen, still barefoot as you cleaned around, Natasha stealing kisses every time she got the chance—on your cheek, your jaw, and once, scandalously, on your just to see you shiver.

. . . . . . .

With a belly full, you're now curled up on the couch with Natasha, the two of you in a perfect cocoon of warmth. She's got an arm draped around you, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your arm as if she's memorizing every inch of you. The faint scent of coffee lingers in the air, and the sunlight filtering through the curtains makes the whole moment feel unreal—like time slowed down just for you two.

The redhead murmurs, her voice low and husky, lips brushing the crown of your head. “I could get used to this.”

You tilt your head back to look at her, playful. “Lounging around in pyjamas while you bring me breakfast? Yeah, I could get used to this too.”

That earns you a soft smirk. She leans closer, her nose brushing yours. “I'd spoil you like this every day if you'd let me.”

Natasha presses her lips to your temple in a lingering kiss that makes your heart skip. “You're... really something, you know that?”

You smile at the gesture and the sincerity in her voice. “Something good, I hope,” you tease, though there's a vulnerability under your words.

“The best,” The way she looks at you makes you shift, suddenly aware of how close you are. Her hand slips from the couch to rest lightly against your back, coaxing you closer. Your heart stutters at how effortlessly she says it, no hesitation, no shield. Natasha Romanoff doesn't say things she doesn't mean. She hums softly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I don't do and I won't do this with or for anyone else,” she says gently, her hand sliding to cup your jaw. “You are... different. Safer, refreshing. Like I can actually breathe when I'm around you.”

The vulnerability in her tone makes your chest ache in the best of ways so you shift closer, curling into her side, and she lets out a quiet sigh like she's been waiting for this.

“I like you a lot, Y/N,” Nat admits finally, her fingers brushing along your arm. Her lips twitch into the ghost of a smile before her expression softens. “I want this. You. Not just as some... temporary thing.”

You can feel her heartbeat against your side, steady and strong. For a while, there's silence, just her fingers combing gently through your hair. Then she speaks, her voice quieter now. Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with the lightest touch.

“I want to get to know you even more. All of you.” There's a pause before she keeps talking. “And one day, when you're ready... I'd love to meet Maeve too.”

Your breath catches a little at her words, not because you're scared, but because of how genuine she sounds. Natasha Romanoff, this confident, cocky but over-all gorgeous woman who had spent weeks chasing after you, and proved to be different than any other people you had tried to date, was now sitting on your couch talking about wanting to meet your daughter.

“If I'm sticking around, I need to know the tiny human that's part of you.”

You laughed softly, surprised at how warm the words felt coming from her. “Yeah... soon,” you murmured, already anticipating the chaos, laughter, and warmth she was bringing into your life. “But fair warning—she's a handful one.”

The Russian grinned, that wolfish spark in her eyes returning. “Well, I think I can handle that.”

You smile softly, leaning into her touch. “That means a lot, Nat... Really.”

Her eyes flicker with something tender, almost vulnerable. “She's part of you. How could I not want to know her?”

You blink rapidly, fighting the unexpected sting in your eyes. Natasha notices, of course she does, and she leans in to press a soft kiss to your lips, slow and careful like she's afraid of pushing too far.

You kiss her back without hesitation, and when she pulls back, she's smiling softly.

You let out a quiet laugh, tucking yourself closer to her side, and she wraps her arms around you like it's the most natural thing in the world. The rest of the morning passes in this cocoon of warmth : her heartbeat, her quiet humming, her thumb stroking lazy circles on your arm. You keep cuddling on your couch, the TV on—playing a show as a background noise— as you keep making out and sharing each other's warmth.

It feels safe, like home.

Noon rolled by, and it was time for Nat to leave. As much as she would enjoy spending the entire day with you, she couldn't and you understood that.

You made a task of walking her up to the door while kissing her. You weren't usually clingy but the lack of genuine care and warmth (aside from the one you received from your daughter) and the fact that she was actually here for a long time, not just a good time, not to leave right the moment she got what she seeked from you, made you never want to let her go.

She let out a soft, low moan as you bit down her lower lip—making you grin slightly, then she pulled out.

“I'll miss you.” you admit, still glued to her as your hands had slipped past the hem of her hoodie, resting at her waist. “Don't get all cocky when I say this but.. I wish you didn't have to leave. I want to keep kissing you.”

A soft laugh erupted from her throat, accompanied by a smile. She cupped your cheeks “I wish that too, sweetheart, and I'll miss you even more.” She leaned in, brushing her lips lightly against yours—a promise of more to come. “I'll see you soon, pretty girl,” she whispered.

. . . . . . . .

author's note ; longest one i've put together so far! i was planning on making this a one shot (with the rest of the fic) but it was going up to 19k words count and that ... is a lot in one go 😀

anyways, thank you for your time :) i hope i didn't disappoint! soft nat will forever be cherished <3

part 2 out soon!

(ps : inbox is open if you have any suggestions for how the meeting with Maeve should go or anything about this au, if it is even one atp)

[just-aake]

What History?

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

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

[just-aake]

Blurring the Boundaries

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

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.

Post-sex warmth. Nothing unusual. Nothing meaningful.

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 😅)

[norwayromanoff]

Number Seven

masterlist

Basketball player!NR x tutor!r

College AU

Word count: 3.8k

Summary: When Natasha gets injured, the school tells her that the six weeks of no training will be the perfect break that she needs to improve her concernedly low GPA. It’s either shape up or ship out, and considering basketball is everything to the star player, the latter isn’t an option.

All Natasha can think about is how she should be practicing. She should be running drills, or continuing conditioning training, or scrimmaging, or perfecting her free throws. She should be doing something.

What she shouldn’t be is seated in an office during practice time.

Her spiraling thoughts are interrupted.

“Are you listening, Ms. Romanoff?”

“Hmm?” Natasha hums vaguely in question before forcing her eyes to refocus on the athletic academic advisor sitting in front of her now, her gaze no longer blatantly pointed on a random point outside of the window. “I’m listening,” she replies unconvincingly.

The woman sighs, letting out a deep breath. She’s used to overseeing athletes that don’t ever want to talk academics, but Natasha outshines them all. “Look, I’m trying to help you. If you don’t get your GPA up by the end of the semester, you will be declared academically ineligible to continue competing.”

That gets Natasha’s attention, her one-track mind an endless loop of just basketball, basketball, basketball. “Wait, you’re pulling me from the team?”

“That’s not what I just said,” the woman responds calmly.

Despite the denial, Natasha remains visibly alarmed, only having heard one thing during this conversation: she’s getting kicked off the team. Her team. She’s been team captain for two years. She built the team. And now…

“I didn’t say that it was a definite,” the academic advisor tries to reassure while remaining firm, “My job is to keep you on track to graduate and eligible to play. We simply need to get ahead of this before it becomes a bigger problem.”

“How?” Natasha asks bluntly, urgently, trying and failing to tamp down the panic she’s feeling.

“I’m going to connect you with some support resources. We have some great tutors here on campus that are provided at no charge through the university.”

“I have to go to tutoring?”

“It’s highly recommended. Look, Ms. Romanoff. This is just a courtesy warning. You have until the end of the year to raise your GPA to the minimum GPA requirement and remain in good academic standing. If you choose to accomplish that without a tutor, that’s up to you, but this isn’t something to take lightly. Your scholarship could be affected.”

“What?” Natasha asks, voice going up an octave in further alarm.

The woman sighs a second time at how Natasha is somehow taken off guard yet again. None of this should be news to her. The details of her scholarship, of her contract, of her seat on the basketball team were all outlined very clearly when she got accepted into the university, but here she is, acting as though the consequences of her actions have never been explained to her before.

“Your scholarship is up for non-renewal at the end of the year if your GPA doesn’t improve. If we don’t see you trying academically, you’ll lose your full ride here.”

Natasha is speechless, her jaw practically on the floor, and when she doesn’t respond, the academic advisor keeps going.

“The coaching staff has been made aware of-”

“You told my coach?” Natasha’s interrupts.

“It’s procedure.”

“Fuck,” she groans, the curse long and drawn out, her body slumping down into her seat.

“Ms. Romanoff,” the academic advisor chides her language.

“Sorry,” Natasha mumbles, but it’s halfhearted. She takes in a breath, eyes closed as she tries to settle her nerves and come to terms with everything that’s just transpired since she first stepped foot in this small office. “So… a tutor then?” she asks, finally acknowledging the reality of her situation.

“A tutor,” the woman confirms, and then she offers up a weak smile, “Try to think of your injury as a blessing in disguise. You were spending all your time training, but now, you have the next six weeks to devote to studying and raising your GPA. There could be a silver lining to all of this.”

Natasha can’t say that she agrees.

Natasha is late to her first tutoring session. She makes sure of it.

You’re waiting at the agreed upon table in the library, pencil tapping impatiently on the flat surface, wondering if perhaps your new student got lost? Or maybe something happened? Maybe she had an emergency?

But when the redhead comes casually strolling through the library doors, your irritation flares.

“You’re late,” you say flatly when she arrives.

“Am I?” she asks as if she’s not blatantly showing up a half hour after the scheduled time.

You purse your lips but decide not to push it. Your frustration is already at an all-time high. No need to make it worse. “Let’s just get started,” you mutter, “We’re already behind.”

Natasha refuses to even look at the textbook in front of her. Every attempt at teaching her is met with an apathetic huff and an eye roll. She doesn’t try to hide the fact that she doesn’t care. If anything, she’s broadcasting it for everyone to see.

“Look, if you don’t care about-”

“I don’t,” Natasha cuts in.

“Your grades are shit, and you’re injured. You might as well study. You have nothing better to do.”

“I have everything better to do.”

“Isn’t there the possibility of you getting kicked off the team?”

“Who said that?”

“Academic advisors don’t actively ask me to tutor someone unless there’s risk involved.”

“They’re not kicking me off the team,” Natasha states firmly, scoffing in disbelief, “I’m their star player. They need me.”

“Whatever. Refocus,” you retort, pointing back to the problem at hand.

Natasha doesn’t listen.

You find yourself waiting on Natasha a second time, anger simmering beneath your skin as you know Natasha is doing it on purpose.

She’s once again disinterested, unmotivated, sulky, basically spending the hour whining about how she’s been wronged and doesn’t deserve this and shouldn’t be here right now, the ‘woe is me’ act on full display, much to your annoyance.

She’s the worst student you’ve had in your entire career as a college tutor, and if you weren’t getting paid for the time wasted with the redhead, you wouldn’t be showing up to sessions where you make no progress and only gain headaches.

When the third tutoring session begins the same way, Natasha’s disinterest more than obvious, you abruptly stand up from your chair.

She may be the absolute worst in your opinion, but you can tell her behavior is because she’s struggling at the root of it all. She’s lost basketball, the thing that drives her, her believed purpose. She doesn’t know who she is without the sport, and although you think that’s rather stupid, you can’t blame her for being adrift given the circumstances, when that’s all that she’s known since childhood, only ever practicing with the aim to perfect.

“Get up.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get the fuck up.” You give her foot a kick for good measure and then start packing up the materials you had laid out in preparation on the library table.

“Why?”

“We’re not staying here.”

“What about tutoring?”

You scoff. “You have been purposely refusing to listen for the past two sessions… which is wild, considering your scholarship is on the line.”

Natasha grumbles at that, lips pursing in displeasure at being called out, but she stands anyway, following suit by putting away her own minimal number of supplies back in her backpack.

“Fine. Where are we going?”

You don’t answer, turning on your heel and walking away, expecting her to follow behind you.

It’s not a long walk, but you do cross campus to a more unpopulated area.

“Where are you taking me? What the fuck is this place?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow as she takes in the solitary tree at the top of a hill that you seem to be leading her to.

When you make it to the top, you stop, just gazing out at the campus below you. “I go here sometimes,” you say, voice softening unconsciously as you talk about the place, “When I need to think. When the world is just a little too loud. I thought it could benefit you too.”

For once, there’s no snarky comeback or quip, no belittling your words or efforts.

A comfortable silence falls over you two—the first one since meeting—and you both just stand there, watching as students walk to their next classes, listening to the birds chirping above in the tree, the breeze rustling through the leaves.

It’s peaceful.

And it’s only interrupted when loud cheers resound from the quad below you. You both glance over in that direction.

Natasha recognizes the player from her team, expression turning bored. You, on the other hand, look on curiously, wondering what all the commotion is about.

“They’re just giving their jersey away,” Natasha tells you flippantly.

“What?”

“It’s basketball team tradition,” she explains, “You give your jersey to someone special for the championship game. It’s supposed to be good luck.”

“Have you ever given yours away before?”

“Me? God, no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not really my thing.”

You just hum, gaze still watching the scene below you.

Things change after you bring her to the tree, after you share a piece of yourself with her.

Natasha starts trying during tutoring sessions, starts giving you her full attention when you’re teaching, taking in what you’re saying and attempting to apply it to her schoolwork and assignments.

You two make a new habit of going to get food after sessions together, sharing a basket of fries, talking about more than just school, and, after two or three outings, Natasha even begins paying, pulling the check away from you before you can see the price and refusing your offers of your debit card.

Everything feels different. You notice how she always tips more than 20% even when she’s just ordering a coffee, you notice how her eyes light up whenever she discusses basketball, her passion for the sport clear, you notice how, even though she acts nonchalant about it, she’s genuinely proud of herself and the progress she’s making in her classes. You’re growing to like her; she’s always on your mind.

You wonder if she feels it too.

You walk out of the lecture hall, stressed, cortisol levels probably slightly higher than healthy, and close your eyes as you let out a shaky exhale. That was the hardest midterm you’ve taken in a while. You spent the whole semester keeping up with the material, studying for hours after class, and yet, you still don’t feel good about over half the tested questions.

You immediately make a beeline to the tree, needing distance from the school, from people, needing to take a moment to yourself and just breathe and decompress.

But when you arrive, you find Natasha already there, sitting on the ground, leaning back against the trunk.

She offers you a small smile when she sees you. “Sorry,” she murmurs, “It seems I commandeered your space today.”

You shrug, and for some reason, you’re not particularly bothered by the fact that you’re not going to be alone… because it’s Natasha.

You take a seat next to her, and, after a few seconds, you lean your head on her shoulder.

She doesn’t push you away.

She has to feel it too.

It’s one of Natasha’s first practices back from her injury. You’re seated in the bleachers, waiting for it to finish, you two having plans to grab a bite together afterward.

You’re attempting to actually watch the practice, to watch all of the players and the drills, to watch the free throws and three-pointers and whatever other things basketball players do that you have minimal knowledge about, but your gaze keeps getting drawn to Natasha.

The way she dribbles, the way she pivots, the way she moves. The way she’s just… her. In her element on the court.

You barely notice when the team is wrapping up, too focused on Natasha’s form, Natasha’s hair falling out of her ponytail and clinging to her sweaty forehead, Natasha’s body in her jersey and shorts, to fully realize.

“Hey, teach,” Natahsa calls out softly as she begins walking your way, “How’d you like seeing me practice?”

You smile up at her. “I knew you were good, but I didn’t know you were that good,” you compliment, standing up from your seat to meet her in the middle.

An arm is immediately thrown around your waist when you two make contact, Natasha pulling you in close. She only barely resists placing a kiss to the top of your head. It would be a first.

“Natasha! Is this the girl you’ve been absolutely gushing about?” one of her teammates questions loudly from her position on the court. A few of the others around laugh, and they all begin to make their way toward where the two of you are currently standing by the bleachers, intending on embarrassing the redhead.

Natasha’s cheeks go pink at the question. “Shut up,” she replies, glaring playfully, but there’s no heat in her words. They’re not a lie; she has been gushing about you almost nonstop to her team.

She’s met with more laughter, and then her team immediately starts shooting off questions and comments regarding you and her.

“Oh, you were right. She is cute.”

“Come on, Natasha, introduce us! We’re all dying to meet her.”

“We all just want to know who the girl is that has had you in a tizzy for the past few weeks.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at their rowdy behavior, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she murmurs, trying to ignore the fact that she’s still blushing furiously. She introduces you easily, smiling fondly as she does, eyes on your face as she gives your name to her team before… “She’s my…” she trails off, catching herself, suddenly unsure what to call you. Technically, you’re not a couple yet—not really, not officially—so what labels are allowed right now?

Your glance over at Natasha’s hesitation, your expression one of curiosity. One of your eyebrows is raised as you wait for her to complete her sentence. You’re aware that nothing has been truly established, but it’s always felt established, so you’re definitely interested in hearing just what Natasha is going to say.

“She’s my… tutor,” Natahsa finishes lamely, struggling to find an appropriate title. She knows she’s fucked up the moment the words come out of her mouth.

Her teammates instantly snicker at her answer, not even trying to hide their reactions, and you deflate, both disappointment and hurt reflecting themselves on your face for a few seconds before you school your features into neutrality, tamping down your emotions as your gaze drifts away from the redhead in front of you back to her team, unable to look at her at the moment. You offer up a slightly strained smile to her teammates.

“Yep, that’s me. I’m her tutor.”

Natasha’s eyes have been on your face this entire time, watching the array of emotions play out.

One of her teammates speaks up again. “Damn, just your ‘tutor’? Nothing else?” she asks, poking and prodding at the already precarious situation.

Natasha is about to respond, to correct herself, to try and fix the disaster she’s made, but before she can, you interject.

“Nope, that’s it,” you reply quickly, and then you’re gently removing Natasha’s arm from around your waist. “I’m really sorry, but I have to run. It was nice to meet you all. Natasha, I’ll see you at your next tutoring session, yeah?” You’re already walking away; the last question is called out over your shoulder.

Panic flashes on Natasha’s face as she sees you approaching the exit. “Wait-” she tries, but your back is to her, and you make no move to turn around to listen to what she has to say. “Uh, okay, yeah, yeah! Next tutoring session then. See you!” she tries to shout toward you as you exit the gym. She’s certain that she was unsuccessful at hiding the note of desperation in her voice.

There’s an awkward silence between her and her teammates now as she just stands there for a long moment, frozen, wondering if she just screwed everything up for good.

“‘Tutor’?” someone echoes, rubbing salt into the wound, “Good luck recovering from that one.”

Natasha groans, putting her face into her hands. “I can’t believe I just said that,” she mutters through her fingers, “Fuck.”

Her teammates just look at her with a mixture of pity and sympathy.

“Did I just fuck everything up?” she asks.

“It wasn’t your smoothest moment,” one of them confirms.

“I didn’t know what else to call her. We haven’t exactly…”

“You couldn’t have just said ‘friend’?”

“I just- I panicked, okay? We’re not together, but we’re not not together.”

“You should probably go talk to her… sooner rather than later.”

Natasha nods, and then she’s promptly rushing out of the gym, bursting through the doors in an attempt to find you, but you’re already gone.

Natasha texts you nonstop, calls you nonstop, over the next few days, desperate to remedy the situation.

‘I don’t know why I said that.’

‘You have to know you’re not just a tutor to me.’

‘Please, can we just talk?’

‘Look, I’m fucking stupid. I promise I didn’t mean what I said.’

“I just panicked. We never talked about what we were. I didn’t know what to say.’

Despite her pleas, her apologies, her imploring, you never reply, and the texts and calls eventually dwindle to a stop when she realizes that maybe you aren’t ever going to.

Eight days after receiving her last text, the day of the championship game, your phone lights up one more time.

‘The championship is tonight… I don’t expect you to be there, but I’d really appreciate if it you were.’

You still don’t respond.

It’s game day. It’s game time.

Halftime should have already passed… not that you’re keeping track.

You want to go to support her—you really do—and Natasha’s constant texts only further that feeling. She said that she’s sorry, that she wants you there, that you’re more to her than just a way to help her raise her grades. But you remind yourself that she couldn’t say it out loud, that you’re just her tutor when in front of others. Nothing more.

You sigh and continue your walk to the tree, the currently and seemingly endless feeling of dejection still present.

Your squint your eyes, brows furrowing in confusion, as you approach, seeing something sitting at the base of the trunk.

A jersey. Her jersey.

There’s no note, no explanation, nothing to tell you what it’s doing there. It’s just her jersey, neatly folded with her number—number seven—facing up, waiting for you.

You pick it up, holding it delicately in your hands, turning it over and feeling the soft mesh on your fingertips, and then you’re running, sprinting across campus.

There’s somewhere you need to be, and you have to make it in time.

You slam on your brakes in front of the gym, feet screeching to a halt, breathing hard, and you just look at the doors for a few moments, your anxiety skyrocketing. What if she doesn’t want to see you?

The sounds of the game coming from inside are loud as you stand there, the squeak of sneakers, the cheers and applause from the crowd, the blow of the referee’s whistle.

You take in a steadying breath and steel your nerves, carefully putting on the jersey over your shirt before forcing yourself to walk inside and face the girl you’ve been avoiding.

It’s chaos within, the bleachers packed to the brim, the smell of sweat and rubber invading your nose, both teams clearly pushing themselves to their limits. You glance at the scoreboard. It’s neck and neck, the timer relentlessly counting down the seconds, Natasha’s team only two points behind the opposition.

You can tangibly feel the stress, the determination, the heightened emotions from the players as the game continues. Natasha’s teammate has possession of the ball, and you watch with bated breath as she passes it off to Natasha with only a few seconds left on the clock.

Natasha immediately begins dribbling down the side of the court, her movements urgent, every moment now crucial, dodging oncoming defenders before finding an opening. She pivots… aims… takes the shot from the three-point line.

The basketball flies through the air, the gym falling deadly silent as everyone watches with overwhelming anticipation.

She scores.

The crowd explodes with cheers, exclamations of joy and excitement echoing throughout. Natasha’s teammates run to her, clapping her on the back, pulling her in for a hug, praising and congratulating her, but she’s distracted. Her gaze is scanning through all the spectators, scanning the gym. She doesn’t think you’re here, but she has to search just in case anyway.

And then… she finds you, still standing by the doors, your eyes wide and your expression a mix of happiness at the win and uncertainty over what’s to come.

She instantly takes off toward you, gently pushing people and other players trying to surround her out of the way, needing to get to you and confirm that you’re really here.

When she makes it in front of you, neither of you speak.

“I… I think I was a little late,” you finally say, awkwardly breaking the silence.

“No, no, you’re here,” she says back, an overjoyed smile appearing on her face, “You’re actually here.” The adrenaline from the game is still pumping through her veins, and it only feels amplified by the sight of you, by the fact that you actually came to her game to watch and support her after everything.

You just stare, not sure what else to say. You want to apologize, you want to ask about the jersey, you want to confirm what happens now, but you just remain in place, stiff and unable to look away.

“You’re wearing my jersey,” Natasha comments happily.

“You left it for me.”

Natasha nods emphatically. “There’s no one else I’d want to be wearing it,” she murmurs, and then she’s picking you up, hoisting you into her arms as she begins to walk back onto the court to show you off, to join the ongoing celebration that is still occurring in the background.

There’s no way anyone can doubt what you two are to each other anymore, not with you wearing her number, not with the way she’s cradling you against her chest, not with how she presses a firm kiss to the crown of her head for everyone to see and tucks you even closer, smiling giddily into your hair.

[just-aake]

Don't Fall in Love with Me

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Being told not to fall in love with someone is difficult, especially when that someone is Natasha Romanoff—and especially when the warning comes far too late.

Warnings: fluff, angst, implied sexual themes

Words: 8244

The music pulses through the floor of the club like a second, louder heartbeat, trying to drown out your own. 

Lights fracture across the room in restless bursts of color, slicing everything into shifting pieces. Faces appear and disappear, hands are thrown into the air, and bodies collide and reform in rhythm.

Everything blurs into noise, into heat, into something wild and uncontained.

It's chaos.

And you sit just outside of it.

Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this. 

One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.

A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.

"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"

"Nope."

You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.

"Keep walking."

He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.

"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.

A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor. 

"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.

Because she's there.

Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes. 

"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.

The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.

You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead. 

There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.

Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.

"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.

Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.

"Shut up."

You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.

"That took a while," you comment casually.

Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.

"Line was long."

"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.

You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.

"Let me guess…new number?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.

"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."

You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.

"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."

Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.

"We'll see if I feel like it."

You smile faintly into your drink.

That's always her answer.

And you already know how it ends.

By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.

And in the morning?

She'll be gone.

Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.

Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.

"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now. 

"No," she deadpans.

You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you. 

"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."

Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.

"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."

The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression. 

It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.

Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.

Even you.

And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.

You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.

"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"

Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.

"I know what people want to hear."

You make a face.

"That's such a cop-out answer."

Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.

"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"

You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.

And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.

"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.

You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.

"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"

For a split second, there's silence. 

Then Natasha laughs.

It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard. 

Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.

And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.

You're just watching her.

Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.

"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.

You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.

"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."

You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time. 

It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.

Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.

"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."

You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus. 

This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.

Only then do you meet her eyes.

"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"

Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.

Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile. 

There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.

"Go ahead."

With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed. 

Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.

"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"

Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.

It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.

But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.

"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."

There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.

Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.

"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."

Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.

"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"

Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.

"Mhm."

Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.

It shouldn't affect you.

She hasn't even touched you.

And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.

"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.

Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.

"Someone interesting," she says.

Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.

"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.

There's a pause as she lets her words linger.

"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."

Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.

"Oh, is that all?" you tease.

Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.

"Think you can manage it?"

The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.

So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.

"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."

"I do," she admits without hesitation.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.

"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.

Her response isn't what you expect. 

There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms. 

It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.

Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.

"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."

You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.

"Maybe I am."

For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.

Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.

It just…stays.

Like she's waiting.

Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.

And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.

Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.

Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.

And then everything shifts.

Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.

That's what breaks the trance. 

You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.

And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.

Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.

Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.

Your breath catches.

When did you—

For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.

But there isn't one.

Just the quiet realization that it already has.

A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.

"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."

Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.

"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."

Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.

"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"

"Convincing?" she offers lightly.

You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.

"Dangerous," you correct.

She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.

Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.

"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."

You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."

"Good."

The word lands differently.

You glance at her.

She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.

"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.

It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.

But you hear it anyway.

It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.

Her smirk slides back into place like armor.

"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.

"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."

And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.

The best friend.

The one who is never supposed to cross that line.

The one who already did anyway.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement. 

It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.

"Not that good?"

The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.

Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates. 

Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.

"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"

You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.

"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"

You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.

She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.

"Of course," she says. "Take your time."

That almost makes it worse.

You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access. 

The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.

You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.

For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.

Because this should be working.

She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.

By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.

And it is.

So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?

Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.

Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.

Back to her.

Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.

When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.

When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.

And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.

But all you could think about was the difference.

The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.

"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.

This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.

And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.

You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.

This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.

The line rings once.

"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.

It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.

You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.

"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."

There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.

"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.

You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.

"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."

You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.

"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."

There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.

"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."

It's not a question. 

Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.

"Maybe," you concede.

A beat passes.

"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.

And that's the problem.

Because you know she means it.

She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.

The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.

Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.

"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.

"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.

"Do you want me to?" 

It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.

Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.

You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.

"I–"

"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.

Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in. 

There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.

Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising. 

Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.

So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?

You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.

By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.

"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.

You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.

"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.

It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it. 

And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.

"Something like that," she finally replies.

You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.

"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."

The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.

You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.

"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.

There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.

"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.

You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.

You straighten, pushing off the counter.

"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."

Another beat.

"…right," she replies, quieter this time.

You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.

"Enjoy your night, Natasha."

You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.

Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.

Just…heavy.

Like something quietly settling into place.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable. 

Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.

The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.

The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.

At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity. 

This time, you don't hesitate. 

You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.

And it feels good.

There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.

It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.

You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.

There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.

She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.

You know this moment. You've been here before.

You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable. 

Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.

But then your thoughts drift.

You think of Natasha.

You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.

She just acts.

And for once, you decide to do the same.

You lean in first.

The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.

But it doesn't stay that way.

She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.

You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.

It isn't empty.

It isn't meaningless.

But it isn't her, either.

And maybe…it doesn't have to be.

Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.

You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.

Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.

For a brief moment, it almost works.

It almost quiets everything else.

You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.

When you pull back, your breath is uneven.

Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.

"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"

There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.

"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."

The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Natasha stands a few steps away.

One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it. 

There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.

Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.

"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain. 

"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.

And just like that, the moment collapses.

"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."

You don't stop her. You don't even try.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."

She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.

"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.

Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.

The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.

You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.

"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.

"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.

You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.

"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."

Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.

"That didn't seem like you," she says.

Something in your chest snaps.

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.

"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."

You scoff, shaking your head.

"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."

Her jaw tightens, just slightly.

"That's different."

"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"

"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."

"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."

"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.

"Then what is it?" you press.

Natasha doesn't answer.

And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.

"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"

"Stop," she warns, her tone low.

But you can't.

You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.

"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"

At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.

Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there. 

Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.

But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.

The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.

Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.

"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.

And suddenly, you're exhausted.

Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.

Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains. 

"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."

For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.

You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.

"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"

"I love you."

For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.

"What?"

Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.

"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.

Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.

This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.

You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.

"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.

Nothing makes sense.

"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.

"I meant it."

"Then what the hell is this?"

Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.

"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."

She gestures between the two of you.

"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.

You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.

"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"

Her silence is answer enough.

You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.

Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.

"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.

She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.

Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.

A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.

Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.

Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.

Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.

"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"

She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

"I always lose them," she says.

Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.

"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."

No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.

The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice. 

You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.

"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"

Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.

"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.

Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.

"And yet, here you are."

She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.

Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.

The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort. 

The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.

With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.

You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.

"Hey."

"God—Natasha!"

You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.

"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.

Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.

A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.

"I did say something."

You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.

"I thought you left," you admit.

Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.

"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."

The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.

Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.

You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.

In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.

Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.

You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.

When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.

Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.

"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."

You glance toward her. 

"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.

A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.

"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."

There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.

At herself.

You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.

Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.

"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."

There it is.

Not I don't want you.

Not I don't love you.

Just:

I don't know how to survive being loved.

Her hands clasp together tightly.

"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."

She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind. 

Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.

"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."

Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.

Protect you. Protect herself.

You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.

"I know," you say softly.

Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.

You turn your head toward her again.

"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."

That gets her attention fully.

Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:

"Just trust me."

"It'll be different."

"You have to let people in."

As though fear is solved through persuasion.

But you don't try to take hers away.

"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."

Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.

You offer her a faint smile. 

"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."

Her expression tightens slightly at that.

"But I can promise something else."

You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.

She doesn't.

Your voice lowers softly.

"You never have to earn a place with me."

The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.

"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."

A shaky breath leaves her quietly.

"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."

Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.

"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."

That one almost breaks her.

Because what you're offering isn't pressure.

It isn't an obligation.

It isn't forever demanded upfront.

It's safety.

A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.

Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.

"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."

A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.

Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.

And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.

Just less alone inside of your love.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: this one got longer than I expected 😅, one day I won't chicken out on writing the sex scene like I originally planned (though it didn't felt like it needed it in the end). Again thank you for reading and now I disappear into my WIPs once more 😂