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 😂
You and natasha are sent in as a couple to work a weapons broker at an upscale gala. the cover is airtight. you're both professionals. you've done this before. The problem is you haven't done it with her. and natasha romanoff touching you like you're hers and whispering mission updates against your ear is a lot harder to be professional about than anyone briefed you on.
Written May 16, 2026 —May 18, 2026
----------------------------
You take longer in the bathroom than you mean to.
It's not nerves. You don't get nervous, or you do, and you've spent enough years training the evidence out of your body that the difference stopped mattering a long time ago. It's something else. Something quieter and more inconvenient than nerves, which is the fact that on the other side of this door is Natasha Romanoff, and tonight you have to stand next to her in a room full of people and pretend you're in love with her.
The pretending isn't the problem.
The problem is that you're starting to forget what the pretending feels like.
You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress is black, sleek, fitted, cut just low enough to be intentional. Your hair is done. Your earrings catch the light. You look, objectively, like a woman who has her life completely together, which is an excellent lie and you're grateful for it.
You open the door.
Natasha is at the vanity mirror across the room, fingers raised to her ear, working in an earring and she stops. Not gradually. Not the slow trailing off of someone distracted. She just stops, earring half in, hand suspended, and she looks at you in the mirror.
You watch her look at you.
It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that you feel it move over you like something physical, her gaze, unhurried, taking in the dress and then up, your face, and then something happens in her expression that she almost immediately collects and puts away. Something that had no business being there on the face of a woman who is supposed to be a professional.
She finishes putting in the earring.
Looks back at the mirror. Adjusts it once though it didn't need adjusting.
"You're ready," she says. Not a question. Her voice is even and unbothered and tells you absolutely nothing.
"I'm ready," you confirm.
You don't smile. You do what you always do, you take it, fold it small, add it to the collection of things you keep about her that you don't examine too closely. The two hours on the extraction flight where she slept against your shoulder and you didn't move. The way she always knows where your hand is in a crowded room. The fact that she put your name in the request form for this op and told Fury it was because you were qualified, and Fury had looked at her for a moment too long before he agreed.
You're very good at collecting things and not examining them.
You cross the room to get your clutch off the bed.
That's when you see her dress properly, deep green, and devastating in the specific quiet way that Natasha does everything, not loud about it, just irrefutably true. It's doing something deeply unfair to her shoulders and you know for a fact she chose it and you know for a fact she knew exactly what it would do and you look at your clutch.
"You look good," you say, because you are a professional and professionals make neutral observations.
She glances at you in the mirror again. One corner of her mouth moves.
"I know," she says.
There it is. You almost laugh. Eight months of working next to the most self-possessed woman you've ever met and she can still catch you off guard with the sheer unbothered certainty of her. I know. No thank you, no deflection. Just the flat acknowledgment of fact from a woman who has never needed your confirmation and doesn't intend to start.
It should be annoying.
It is annoying.
It's also, and this is the part you don't examine, sort of the most attractive thing you've ever heard.
She picks up her clutch from the vanity. Inside it, you happen to know: one lipstick, one knife, one comm unit. Very Natasha.
"Let's go over parameters," she says, turning for the door.
"I know the parameters."
"Humor me."
You don't argue. Arguing with Natasha about mission prep is like arguing with weather, technically possible, completely pointless, and you'll end up doing what the weather wants anyway. You follow her out.
The car is a black SUV with tinted windows and Hill's voice already waiting in the earpiece when you climb in.
Natasha takes off her coat.
She crosses her legs and looks out the window.
You look out yours.
You get a two-minute debrief you already have memorized: Aldric Voss, weapons broker, mid-level but climbing. Known associates, exit points, your cover ID, a couple, eighteen months together, met through work, vague enough to be waterproof.
The city slides past in amber and dark. She's close enough that you can smell whatever she's wearing tonight, something warm, something that cost more than your first apartment, and you look at the window on your side very deliberately and think about the mission.
"You nervous?" she asks.
"No."
"You're doing the thing with your hands."
You look down. Your fingers are doing a slow press against your knee, one-two-three, one-two-three. Stress habit. You've had it since you were twenty-two and you've never successfully hidden it from her.
"I'm focused," you say.
"Mm." She's still looking out the window. "You need to be relaxed tonight. Couples are relaxed."
"I'm relaxed."
"Y/n."
"Natasha."
She finally looks at you and the city light through the window catches her eyes at an angle that's really unfair, is what it is. "I'm good at this," she says simply. "Cover. Persona. I've been doing it longer than you've been an agent. Just follow my lead and it'll read."
"I know you're good at it," you say. "That's not what I'm nervous about."
A beat. You realize half a second too late that you've said too muc, left the door open, and you watch her clock it, watch the small shift in her expression that means she filed it.
She doesn't push. She looks back out the window.
"Follow my lead," she says again, quieter.
You look back at yours.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
The gala is exactly what the briefing photos promised: too much money in one room, everyone dressed like they're auditioning for something, a string quartet earning their pay in the corner. The kind of event where the champagne is real and so is the danger and the two things coexist with a smoothness that always makes you feel slightly ill.
Natasha takes your arm at the door.
Just, takes it. Slides her hand into the crook of your elbow like she's done it a thousand times, which she hasn't, which your nervous system clocks immediately and thoroughly. Her grip is light. Her posture shifts, shoulders drop a fraction, chin lifts, the set of her mouth changes. She becomes someone softer. Someone with nothing to hide.
It's the most unsettling thing you've ever watched.
"Smile," she says from the side of her mouth, still looking forward. "We're happy."
"We're happy," you repeat, and smile, and hate that it doesn't feel entirely like acting.
You walk in.
The first twenty minutes are choreography.
You work the room the way you were trained, slow circuit, no urgency, let the crowd bring the target to you rather than hunting him directly. Natasha is extraordinary at this. You've worked with her before, field ops, extractions, twice in situations where both of you probably should have died and didn't purely out of stubbornness, but you've never watched her do this. The social work. The performance.
She laughs at something a man in a grey suit says and the laugh is perfect, warm, just shy of flattered, the exact sound of a woman who is charmed but not available. Her hand stays on your arm the whole time. Anchored there. When the man in the grey suit looks at you she angles slightly, just slightly, and the body language is so clean you almost don't catch it.
Almost.
She's pulling you in. Closing the gap between you without making it a thing, just leaning into your space until you're close enough that anyone looking would see a couple, would see someone who doesn't want distance between herself and her woman
You redirect your thoughts aggressively.
"Voss is at the bar," you say quietly, mouth barely moving.
"I know." Her fingers press briefly against your arm. "Don't look."
"I wasn't going to look."
"You were calculating an angle."
"That's not the same as—"
"He's not going anywhere. Relax."
You exhale slowly through your nose. Fine. Relaxed. You're the picture of a person enjoying a gala with someone they're absolutely not in love with, everything is completely normal.
A waiter passes with a tray. Natasha plucks two glasses off it without breaking the conversation she's half having with a woman in pearls and hands one back to you without looking, just, reaches back, finds your hand, presses the stem into it with the kind of easy intimacy that comes from time and attention and knowing someone.
You stare at the glass.
She knew where your hand was. She always knows where you are in a room, tactical awareness, you've told yourself, she's built that way, but that wasn't tactical. That was something else. That was the muscle memory of a person who reaches for someone because reaching for them is just what you do.
You drink the champagne. It's very good. It does nothing helpful.
Forty minutes in, she dances with you.
You'd like to say it was for the mission. You'd like to say Voss was watching or the angle required it or there was some clean operational reason that Natasha Romanoff took your hand and led you toward the floor without asking. Without explaining. Just a slight pressure at the small of your back and an expectation that you'd follow.
You followed.
If there was a reason, she doesn't share it.
She turns to face you and puts one hand at your waist and you put yours at her shoulder and you start to move and the thing is, the thing is, she's warm. You knew that in the abstract. You've been close to her before, in the field, in debrief rooms, once on a six hour extraction flight where she fell asleep against your shoulder and you stayed completely still for two hours because you didn't want to wake her. You know she's warm.
But her hand at your waist, steady and certain and not going anywhere, is a different kind of knowing entirely.
"Voss's contact is late," she says.
Her mouth is at your ear. Not quite touching, just close enough that her voice arrives before her breath does, low and even, meant only for you. A tactical update delivered at a register that does things to your concentration that are deeply inconvenient on an active op.
"How late?" you manage.
"Fifteen minutes." A pause. You turn with the music. Her grip at your waist tightens, not dramatically, just enough to guide, just enough to feel. "He's nervous. That's useful."
"Copy," you say, which is a completely normal thing to say and not at all the voice of someone whose higher functions are running at approximately forty percent.
She pulls back just far enough to look at you. Checks your face the way she checks everything, quickly, thoroughly, filing. Whatever she finds there she keeps to herself.
"You're doing well," she says.
"We established I'm good at this."
"I'm acknowledging it."
"Natasha Romanoff acknowledging someone else did something well." You let the pause breathe. "Should I be worried? Are you dying?"
Something moves across her face. Not quite a smile, she doesn't smile easily, and you've spent eight months learning to catch the things that happen instead. The slight softening. The fractional shift in her eyes.
"Focus," she says.
"I am focused."
"On the op."
"Obviously."
She exhales through her nose. You count that as a win.
You turn again with the music and that's when you feel it, the quality of her attention shifting. Still moving, still perfectly composed, but something underneath changes. A new kind of stillness. You keep your eyes on her and say nothing.
She sees him before she means to.
He's at the edge of the room, drink in hand, shoulders loose, the easy posture of a man who has never once in his life had to make himself smaller, and he is looking at you.
Not a threat. She'd already know. She's had the full room mapped since the moment you walked in together, every exit and variable catalogued and filed, and he is nobody. Soft hands. No tells. He is absolutely nobody and he is standing there looking at you in that dress with the specific expression of a man who has decided he'd like to do something about that, and something in Natasha's chest goes very, very still.
She keeps dancing.
Her hand stays at your waist. Her face stays composed. She gives him exactly three seconds of her peripheral vision and then she makes a decision, not consciously, not with any particular deliberation, she simply decides, and lets her eyes move.
She looks at him.
The full weight of it lands across the room like a hand around a throat. Her jaw sets, the line of it going sharp and certain beneath her skin. Her chin tilts up, barely, just the fraction of an inch that means she has assessed something and found it lacking. Her eyes, green and flat and depthless, the particular green of water that goes down further than you'd expect, settle on him with the unhurried patience of a woman who has never once needed to hurry.
Her brow lifts. One increment. The period at the end of a sentence that requires no words.
She has done this in dark rooms in six different countries. She has done this to men with weapons and men with power and men who thought they were untouchable, and every single one of them has made the correct decision. This man, with his soft hands and his expensive watch, is not going to be the exception.
But here is the thing, here is the thing she is fully, lucidly, uncomfortably aware of as she holds his gaze across a crowded room, this is not the same. This is not a threat assessment. This is not operational. There is no version of tonight's debrief where she writes down redirected civilian attention via sustained eye contact and means what she actually means, which is something rawer and more inconvenient than anything she'd put in a report.
She's mine.
Not performed. Not tactical. Just, true, in the quiet way that things are true when you stop arguing with them. True in the way that has been accumulating for eight months in the space between her professionalism and something she hasn't named yet and has no intention of naming tonight.
He looks away.
Good.
She looks back at you. You're watching her, you're always watching her, those eyes that take everything in like they're cataloguing her the same way she catalogues everything else, patient and thorough and giving nothing back. She doesn't know exactly what you saw. She knows you saw something.
She doesn't adjust her expression. She doesn't reach for an explanation.
Instead she moves.
Her arm slides around you, slow, smooth, the way she does everything, with the efficiency of someone who has decided and is simply following through, and her hand presses flat against the small of your back. Drawing you in. Closing whatever distance was left between your body and hers until there is very little of it, until you're held against her, encompassed by the line of her arms, her warmth wrapping around you with a completeness that has nothing to do with cover and everything to do with the thing she is not calling what it is.
She is aware she is doing this. She is fully, consciously aware.
She does it anyway.
Her red hair falls forward as she dips her head, one curtain of it brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate, the scent of it close enough to be a thing you'd remember, and she brings her mouth to your ear. Not touching. Just the proximity. Just her lips a breath away from your skin, close enough that the warmth of them would reach you, close enough that if she spoke it would arrive like a secret.
She doesn't speak.
She just stays there. Her jaw near your temple. Her lips at the curve of your ear. One hand flat at the small of your back and the other at your waist and her whole body a quiet wall between you and the rest of the room, between you and him, between you and anyone who might be under the impression that you are something available to be looked at without consequence.
She knows he's still watching. She can feel it, the way she feels everything she isn't looking at directly. And she knows, she knows, that what he sees right now is not a cover. Is not a performance. Is not two agents running a gala op in a city that doesn't care about either of them.
What he sees is a woman who has made something abundantly, irrevocably clear.
And she lets him see it.
She stays exactly where she is, lips at your ear, red hair falling soft between you, and she breathes out once, slow, controlled, the only concession she makes to the fact that her heart is doing something she would not put in a report, and lets the silence say everything she won't.
Then she straightens.
The red hair settles. Her hand moves back to your waist, one hand, appropriate, professional. Her face reassembles itself into something even and unreadable and composed, the mask back on so smoothly it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look for the seams.
She is, she reminds herself, very good at this.
She is also, and this she acknowledges only briefly, only in the space between one breath and the next before she closes the door on it, completely aware that she stopped running cover a long time ago.
When she pulls back she's composed again. Completely. The mask is on and the op is running and her hand is at your waist and her expression gives you nothing.
Except.
You were watching. You caught the tail end of whatever that was, the quality of her gaze before it came back to you, the extra second at your ear where she said nothing at all. You've run enough ops to know what performing looks like. You know every tell of a woman pretending something is fine.
You say nothing. You add it to the collection, fold it careful and small, tuck it somewhere you won't examine until later, much later, when you're alone and she can't see you figuring her out.
Her hand at your waist does not move.
The man at the bar does not look back.
The music plays on, and you let yourself be held, and neither of you say a single word about any of it.
It's after the dance, during the slow drift back into the room, when she does the thing with the dress.
You've stopped near a tall window, good sightline to the bar, natural place to stand, and she's beside you, close, her arm just brushing yours. She glances down. Frowns, very slightly. Reaches out and adjusts something at your shoulder, a strap that had shifted maybe two millimeters out of place, and her fingers are careful and light and she's looking at what she's doing instead of at you.
"Just selling it," she says.
"Right," you say.
She smooths the strap once. Doesn't move her hand immediately.
"You know," you say, because apparently you've lost your self-preservation instincts somewhere between the car and the champagne, "most people don't have to remind themselves they're acting when they're acting."
Her hand stills.
"I don't know what that means," she says.
"Yeah you do."
She looks up. And this, this is the thing about Natasha, the thing that you have spent eight months carefully not examining, when she drops it, when the performance falls away and it's just her, just the actual her underneath all that careful control, she looks at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.
She looks at you like that now. Just for a second.
Then she looks back at the bar.
"Voss is moving," she says.
He is. You both straighten. The op reasserts itself, clean and welcome, something to do with your hands, a reason to be standing this close that has nothing to do with anything.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Always," you say.
She takes your arm again. You walk toward the bar. Her grip is just slightly tighter than before and you don't say anything about it and she doesn't either.
The system, holding.
For now.
It happens naturally, the way professional things do, Voss's contact finally arrives and the op requires coverage on two sides of the room at once. Natasha clocks it first, the way she clocks everything first, and she leans in close enough that her mouth brushes your ear when she speaks.
"Split up. You take the east side, draw out the associate by the column. I'll stay on Voss."
"Copy," you say.
She pulls back. Looks at you for just a half second longer than the mission requires.
Then you separate
You are focused, present, professional, and entirely on task, and you do not look for Natasha once.
What you do, approximately four minutes in, is hear her.
Her voice arrives in your earpiece low and warm and completely unhurried, the cover voice, the one that's softer than her real one, the one she puts on like a second skin, and she's talking to Voss.
"I've heard about your work in Vienna. My associate mentioned it actually, she has excellent taste."
A pause. Voss says something you don't catch.
"Oh, she's very selective." A small laugh, warm and practiced. "That's what I've always loved about her."
You become very focused on your associate's left cufflink.
Because that, the ease of it, the way she says loved like it costs her nothing, like it's just cover, like it's just words, is doing something to your concentration that you are not going to examine while you are actively on an op. You ask your associate a perfectly calibrated question about his employer's shipping routes and you do not think about Natasha Romanoff's voice saying that word in your ear.
You think about it for the next twenty minutes.
Across the room, Natasha finds you.
The first time is almost involuntary. She's mid-sentence with Voss, something charming, something that makes him laugh, the warm practiced ease of a woman who has made men feel interesting in four different languages, and her eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find you across the crowd, to confirm you're there, to take in the easy angle of your shoulders and the way you've got the associate exactly where you want him.
She looks back at Voss.
Files it. Moves on.
Tells herself it was a tactical check.
The second time she's at the bar, waiting on a refresh, and the room has shifted enough that you're visible through a gap in the crowd. You're laughing at something the associate said, not a real laugh, she can tell the difference, she's always been able to tell the difference with you, and the line of your profile is caught in the warm overhead light and she watches for two seconds longer than any tactical check has ever required.
The bartender puts a glass in front of her.
She picks it up without looking at it.
The third time she's not even trying to justify it.
She's wrapped up a conversation, Voss circling back to the contact, the op running clean and smooth in the background the way good ops do, and she lets her eyes find you across the room because she wants to and she has apparently stopped arguing with herself about that.
You're there. Of course you're there. Working the room with that particular ease that she has spent eight months quietly cataloguing, the way you move through a crowd like you belong in it, the way you make people feel like the most interesting thing in the room without ever quite letting them have you.
She raises her glass and takes a slow sip.
And you look up.
Right at her.
Like you felt it. Like you knew.
She doesn't move. Doesn't adjust. Keeps the glass raised and her eyes on yours and lets the moment sit there between you, twenty feet of crowded room and a string quartet and the whole careful architecture of the last eight months, and she does not look away.
Neither do you.
Three seconds. Four. Five. Long enough that it stops being accidental on either side, long enough that something passes between you that has no tactical classification, long enough that she is aware, fully, uncomfortably, with complete clarity, that she is not performing anything right now.
Then someone steps between you, a body crossing the sight line, and the moment closes.
She lowers her glass.
Goes back to work.
Does not examine what just happened. Does not examine the fact that her pulse has done something she would not put in a report. Does not examine the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you've always known, like you've been waiting for her to stop pretending long enough to just
Voss moves toward his contact. She follows.
The fourth time she finds you she's already on her way back across the room, op nearly wrapped, Voss handled and filed. She's not looking for you. She doesn't have to look for you.
She just knows.
Her eyes find you through the crowd without searching, the way they always do, the way they have been doing all night, all eight months, if she's being honest, which she isn't, not yet, and you're there, exactly where she knew you'd be, and she lets herself watch you for just one unguarded moment before she schools her face and moves through the crowd toward you.
Her arm finds yours when she arrives. Slides in easy and warm, like it never left. Like this is simply where she ends up.
Because it is. That's the part she's been not examining. This is just where she ends up.
"Voss is clean," she says quietly. "Associate?"
"Account manager. Name and location. Hill's going to want it."
The corner of her mouth moves. Not a smile, the thing she does instead. "Good."
"I know," you say.
She glances at you sidelong. Something in your voice. Something dry and certain that catches in her chest the way you've always caught in her chest and she looks back at the room and says nothing about it.
The silence holds.
Then Voss moves.
Her eyes cut across the room. Mission, clean and immediate, the mask back in place between one breath and the next.
"He's going for the east exit," she says. "That's not on the brief."
"No," you say. "It isn't."
Her hand finds your arm. And you move, together, no words, no briefing, the kind of sync that only comes from time and attention and knowing someone down to the way they breathe in a tense room. Her hand steering slightly, you adjusting without being asked, cutting through the crowd like one thing, not two.
She has spent eight months telling herself that this, this particular feeling, this specific ease, is professionalism. Training. Field familiarity.
She is no longer telling herself that.
You reach the corridor just as Voss slips through the east exit.
Her hand tightens on your arm.
"Ready?" she murmurs.
You look at her. The mission in her eyes, and underneath it, still there, not put away, not this time, the other thing. The real thing. Looking right back at her.
"Always," you say.
And you go in.
The corridor is narrow and dim and smells like old carpet and money, the kind of back hallway that exists in every building like this, the one the staff uses, the one that connects the public rooms to the private ones, the one that Voss just slipped into with the quiet purposefulness of a man who doesn't want to be followed.
You follow him anyway. Natasha three steps behind you, silent.
Voss stops at a door near the end of the corridor. Produces a key card. Your hand moves to the comm unit, ready to relay to Hill. And that's when you hear it.
Not from the corridor. From the earpiece. A voice, young, female, clipped with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to sound calm "
This is Reyes, I have eyes on the asset, I'm moving to make contact—"
You and Natasha go still at exactly the same moment.
"Reyes, stand down." Hill's voice, sharp. "Do not make contact, I repeat—"
"I have a clear window, I'm taking it—"
"Agent Reyes, that is a direct order—"
And then another voice, male, younger, with the breathless energy of someone who has already made a decision "Cole in position, I've got the east side covered, Reyes go—"
"Cole, stand DOWN—"
You look at Natasha.
Natasha is already looking at the end of the corridor, where it opens back into the main gala room, and her expression is the specific expression of a woman who has just watched two people set something on fire and is calculating exactly how fast it's going to spread.
It spreads fast.
Through the corridor entrance you can see it unfold in real time, Reyes, young and dark-haired and moving with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought they saw an opening, crossing the room toward the SHIELD asset with all the subtlety of a person who has trained for six months and believes that is enough.
And Cole, flanking from the east side, doing exactly what a panicking rookie does when they realize too late that the plan is already wrong, overcorrecting, moving too fast, drawing the eye of every person in a thirty foot radius.
Voss hears it before he sees it.
Some shift in the room's atmosphere, the specific change in energy that a man who has survived this long learns to read, and he turns. Slowly. His eyes move to Reyes, to Cole, to the asset between them, and you watch the calculation happen behind his eyes, clean and fast and professional.
Then his eyes move to the corridor.
"Abort." Natasha's voice in the earpiece is flat and final. "Hill, we're pulling out."
"Confirmed, Romanoff. Reyes, Cole — you are blown, extract immediately—"
"Wait—" Reyes, realizing. "Wait, I can still—"
"You are done," Natasha says, and there is something in her voice that closes the conversation like a door being shut. "Both of you. Out."
She doesn't wait for the response.
She steps forward, in front of you, between you and the corridor entrance, between you and Voss's eyeline, and her hand closes around your arm.
"We're leaving," she says. Not loud. Not urgent. The tone of a woman who has already made every calculation and doesn't need to hurry because she's already three steps ahead of whatever happens next.
She steers you back down the corridor, away from Voss, away from Reyes and Cole and the mess they've made of the east room. Her hand is on your arm and her body is angled slightly in front of yours and she moves with the unhurried certainty of someone running a controlled exit, not a retreat.
It works because it always works. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and this is what she does.
You reach the side exit without a single person looking twice.
The car is waiting exactly where it should be. She opens the door and her hand is at your back and you're inside before you've finished processing what just happened and she slides in beside you and the door closes and the city starts moving past the windows.
She doesn't look at you.
In your earpiece Hill's voice comes through tight and clipped "intel is secure, cover held, Reyes and Cole are being extracted, debrief tomorrow oh-seven-hundred" and then the channel goes quiet and it's just the two of you and the city and twelve minutes of silence that has a specific weight to it.
You watch her in your peripheral vision. The straight line of her shoulders. The set of her jaw. Her hand on the inside door handle, gripping it in a way that has nothing to do with the car moving.
She doesn't look at you once.
Not for twelve minutes.
You don't say anything either. You think about the corridor, her stepping forward, placing herself between you and Voss's eyeline before you'd even registered the threat. The way it happened before it was a decision. The way she hasn't looked at you since.
You file it.
For now.
The hotel room door closes behind you.
You set your clutch on the nightstand. She sets hers on the vanity. You reach back to unclasp your earring and she moves to the window and looks out at the city and the silence in the room has weight to it now, the kind that accumulates over twelve minutes of nothing and lands all at once.
You take out the second earring.
"Reyes and Cole," you say. Neutral. Conversational.
"Yes," she says. Still at the window.
"First field op?"
"Second." A beat. "Which somehow makes it worse."
"The intel's still clean. Cover held. Hill has everything she needs."
"I know."
"So." You set the earrings down. "We're fine."
She turns from the window.
"You were out of position," she says.
You look at her. "I was exactly where you put me."
"When the contact arrived you should have pulled back to the secondary—"
"If I'd pulled back Voss would have had a clear corridor and we'd have lost him entirely—"
"That wasn't your call to make—"
"It absolutely was, I was the one standing there with eyes on—"
"We had protocols, Y/n—"
"Natasha." You face her fully. "It worked. All of it. The only thing that didn't work tonight was Reyes and Cole and that has nothing to do with me—"
"It could have." Her voice drops. Gets quieter. That's the tell, you know that by now, the way her volume decreases as the thing she's actually saying increases.
"If they'd moved thirty seconds earlier you would have been in that corridor without cover and Voss would have had eyes on you and I was—"
She stops.
You go still.
I was. The sentence trailing off into the room like smoke.
"You were what?" you ask. Quiet.
"Nothing." She looks back at the window. "Get some sleep. Debrief is—"
"Natasha."
"—oh-seven-hundred—"
"Natasha."
"Drop it."
"You were what." Not a question this time. Something steadier than a question.
A long pause. The city outside is indifferent and glittering and she stares at it like it owes her something.
"You stepped in front of me," you say. "In the corridor. Voss didn't even have eyes on us yet and you stepped in front of me."
Nothing.
"That wasn't tactical," you say. "That was—"
"I said drop it—"
"You were scared," you say. "You were scared and you won't say it and now you're standing at a window picking a fight about protocol because it's easier than—"
She turns.
And crosses the room.
And her hand finds the back of your neck, certain and warm and without a single moment of hesitation, fingers pressing up into your hair, and she kisses you.
Not soft. Not careful. Not the measured thing of a woman who is uncertain. This is eight months arriving all at once, her hand firm at the back of your neck like she's been waiting to put it there, like she decided somewhere between the window and here and didn't once stop to argue with herself about it.
You melt into it.
That's the only word for it, the argument dissolving out of your chest like it was never there, your hands finding her without instruction, your body making a decision your brain is still catching up to. You kiss her back and it's nothing like you imagined. It's better.
It's eight months of careful distance collapsing all at once and the specific relief of it moves through you like a current, warm and total, and you make a sound against her mouth that you don't plan and don't take back.
Her hand tightens at the back of your neck.
The kiss deepens, not gradually, not carefully, but with the particular certainty of two people who have been waiting too long and have simply stopped being careful. Her mouth is warm and deliberate and she kisses you the way she does everything, like she's already decided, like she knows exactly what she wants and the only thing that was ever stopping her was the thing neither of you were naming.
You give it back.
Your hand finds her jaw and you tilt into her, angle shifting, matching everything she's giving and then some, and you feel the small catch in her breath, feel the way her whole body reacts to it, the subtle arch toward you, the grip at the back of your neck going from certain to something that borders on desperate, and that undoes you a little. More than a little. You press closer, eliminate the last fraction of space between your bodies, and she makes a sound low in her throat that you are going to be thinking about for a very long time.
Her other hand finds your waist.
Pulls.
Like she's been wanting to do it all night, like every careful professional touch, every tactical adjustment, every time her hand found you and had to have a reason, was building to this, to her hands on you with no reason required, no cover to maintain, nothing to perform for anyone. Just want. Just her wanting you and not doing anything about it except pulling you closer and kissing you like the argument was foreplay and eight months was foreplay and the entire evening was foreplay and she is done, she is so done, being patient about this.
You walk her back. Or she walks you back, honestly you're not sure, it's collaborative, two people moving in the same direction with the same urgency, until something meets your back and you don't care what it is.
Her body is against yours and her mouth is on yours and her hand has moved from your jaw into your hair and the grip of it sends something down your spine that makes your breath stutter.
She pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
Her lipstick is still perfect. Her red hair has come loose on one side, falling forward, and she doesn't fix it. Her eyes are dark and close and the mask isn't just gone it's nowhere, there's no trace of it, there's nothing between you and the real her, the actual her, the one she keeps underneath everything, and she's looking at you like she's been hungry for a long time and has finally decided to do something about it.
Her chest rises and falls. Once.
Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, unhurried, like she's been wanting to do it for months and is taking her time now that no one can stop her, and her eyes follow the movement and come back to yours and what's in them makes your stomach drop in the best possible way.
movement and come back to yours and stay there.
The silence holds for exactly one more second.
Then her eyes drop. Your mouth. Back up. And when she speaks her voice is low and unhurried and completely certain, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is done negotiating with herself about it.
"I want to take this dress off you," she says. "I've wanted to since I saw you walk out of that bathroom."
"Then take it off," you say.
She kisses you.
Deep and deliberate, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and when she pulls back you're both breathing differently and her eyes are darker than they were a second ago.
"I've been thinking about what's underneath it," she says, low, right against your mouth. "All night."
Something pulls tight in your stomach. "All night," you repeat. "And you said nothing."
"I'm saying it now."
Her fingers find the zipper at your back, slow, deliberate, not rushing, like she wants you to feel every second of it, and you reach for her too, hands finding the fabric at her waist, pulling the green dress taut.
"You're not the only one," you say. "Who was thinking."
She pauses. Looks at you. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more interested, the look of a woman who has just been handed something she intends to do something about.
"No?" she says.
"No."
Her mouth curves. Not a smile, something better than a smile, something with teeth in it.
"Tell me," she says, and her fingers resume their work, and yours do too, and the green dress and the black dress and the whole long evening are all running out of time simultaneously.
You feel the zipper give. Her fingers trail the newly exposed skin of your back and you breathe out.
"I was thinking," you say, "about your mouth."
Her fingers pause.
"All night," you continue, steady, holding her gaze. "Every time you put it near my ear. Every time you smiled at something Voss said and I had to stand there and watch and do nothing about it."
She looks at you for a moment. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more focused, the look of a woman recalibrating.
"What about my mouth," she says. Low. Not a question, a pull.
"What I wanted it to do," you say. "Where I wanted it."
The silence lasts exactly one second.
Then her hands are moving again, more purposeful now, less patient,and she steps closer and her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, and she says against your skin: "Show me."
Your breath catches.
"Natasha—"
"Show me," she says again, quieter, right at your pulse point, and you feel her smile there. "Where."
Your hand finds her hair. Guides her. And she goes, willingly, without hesitation, like she's been waiting to be told, and the sound she makes when she gets there is
Her zipper gives completely under your other hand. The green dress falls.
She pulls back just long enough to look at you. Flushed, hair loose, eyes so dark they've swallowed the green entirely, and she looks at you like you are something she intends to take her time with.
"Bed," she says. One word. The voice that closes rooms.
You go.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you go down without breaking eye contact.
The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the way Natasha crawls over you, predatory and graceful. The green silk is a forgotten puddle on the floor, leaving her bare in the dim light, stunning and terrifyingly focused.
She settles between your legs, her hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. Her hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out everything but her. She's so close you can feel her breath against your lips, see the way her pupils swallow the green of her eyes.
You lift a hand, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw before your palm settles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning hot beneath your touch. She leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a fleeting second as her expression softens from predator to something much tenderer.
"You're so beautiful," you whisper, watching the admission shatter her composure.
With careful, deliberate movements, Natasha finishes unhooking your dress, sliding the fabric down your body to reveal your bare skin. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, her pupils dilating as she takes in every curve and detail.
She runs her hands over your newly exposed flesh, worshipping your form with her touch.
Her touch skims over your collarbone, down between your breasts, tracing the curve of your waist before her palms spread flat across your stomach.
A shuddering breath escapes her as she leans down, pressing her forehead to yours.
"Absolutely breathtaking," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with something far deeper than lust. Her thumbs brush your lower lip, gentle and reverent.
You surge forward, crashing your lips against hers in a deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from your lungs.
Mid-kiss, she captures your hand, guiding it down the front of her torso until she slips it firmly between her thighs. The sensation makes you gasp sharply against her mouth, you can feel exactly how hard she is for you, throbbing and desperate beneath your fingertips.
"Feel that?" she breathes against your mouth, hips shifting to press more firmly into your touch. "That's what you do to me. One look, one touch, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."
"God, Natasha..." You whisper, your voice shaking with desire. You can feel her length pulsing against your palm, and you can't help but squeeze gently, making her suck in a sharp breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She lets out a ragged moan, her forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder as your fingers tighten around her. "I think I have some idea," she pants, her hips bucking instinctively into your grip. "You're destroying my control, sweetheart. Every single inch of me is screaming for you."
"Then don't hold back," you murmur, your thumb tracing slow circles over the leaking tip, feeling her shudder and drip in your palm.
"Fuck," she groans, her composure finally shattering as she grinds herself desperately against your hand. "I want to fuck you so bad it hurts. I want to be deep inside you, feel you clench around me, hear you scream my name until you're hoarse." Her words come out in a heated rush, raw and unrestrained.
"God, yes," you whimper, your legs spreading wider as you imagine her thick length filling you completely. Your own arousal drips down your inner thighs, and you can feel yourself growing increasingly wet and needy. "Natasha, please," you beg, squeezing her hard length again. "Fuck me."
"Not yet," she grits out, wrenching her hips back just enough to escape your grasp. Before you can protest, she's moving down your body, kissing and biting at your skin until her face is level with your dripping core. Her eyes rolling back at the sight of you.
"Natasha," you gasp, lifting your head to look down at her.
Her expression is one of pure hunger, her gaze locked onto your glistening folds like a starving woman presented with a feast. Without a word, she leans in and drags her tongue through your wetness, tasting you deeply.
Your back bows instantly off the mattress, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as her tongue flattens against your clit. She eats you with a terrifying intensity, alternating between broad, heavy strokes and pinpoint flicks that make your toes curl.
Your hands fly to her hair, tangling in the red strands to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.
"Natasha, oh god."
"Mmm," she hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system.
She spreads your legs wider, burying her face deeper between your trembling thighs. Her hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle and expose you even more to her merciless mouth.
You moan out, your thighs trembling as her tongue finds that perfect spot inside you and circles it relentlessly.
Pleasure builds like a storm behind your navel, your nails scraping against her scalp as you hold her tight against your soaking core.
"I'm close," you warn in a broken voice. "Natasha, I'm gonna—"
She doesn't slow down.
Your eyes roll back in your head as she sucks your clit into her mouth and flattens her tongue against it. You scream, your entire body convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a truck.
She swallows every drop of your arousal, lapping at your folds like a woman possessed.
Only when your trembling begins to subside does she pull back, her chin and lips glistening with your release. She crawls up your body, pressing her wet face into your neck with a satisfied groan.
"Still want me to fuck you?" she asks, her breath hot against your ear, her hard length dragging against your overstimulated folds.
"Yes," you whimper desperately.
Without hesitation, she slips between your thighs, her thick head pushing against your sensitive entrance. You spread wider, pulling your knees back to give her better access.
She grabs your legs, spreading them even wider and hooking them over her shoulders for leverage.
"Fuck," she groans, pushing in slowly despite her obvious desperation.
You're so wet and sensitive from your orgasm that she slips in easier than expected, but you're still tight enough to make her see stars.
Natasha's jaw tightens as she pulls out slowly, watching her wet, shiny length slide out of you. She pushes back in with equal slowness, her eyes fluttering at the incredible sensation of your tightness surrounding her. Out, then in, out...
"Natasha," you moan, your walls fluttering around her despite her agonizingly slow pace.
You grip the sheets, needing something more to anchor yourself as she rocks back and forth at this torturous rate.
"You're so tight," she grits out, her hips stuttering as she watches herself disappear inside you. "You feel so good," she admits, her voice strained with effort.
She pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, her eyes rolling back at how perfectly you squeeze her.
"Fuck," you whimper, your nails digging into her arms as she continues that slow, deep thrusting. Each withdrawal leaves you feeling empty, each push back in hits that perfect spot inside you.
"Natasha... please..." You're begging without even knowing what for....more speed? Deeper?
"Please what, sweetheart?" she whispers, her voice dangerously low as she leans down to nip at your bottom lip.
She pulls out slowly, her length sliding out until only the tip remains inside you. She holds still, teasing you with that shallow penetration.
"More," you pant, trying to lift your hips to take her back in. "Fuck, Natasha, give me more." You need her deeper, faster anything but this agonizing slow pace that's driving you mad.
"Deeper?" she asks softly, pushing back in slightly slower than before, watching as her length disappears into your tight heat. "Like this?" She pulls out again, leaving just the tip inside, making you whimper. "Or do you want it faster?"
"Yes, like that," you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow as she bottoms out inside you. "And faster, please Natasha, fuck me faster."
Your legs tighten around her waist, heels digging into her ass to encourage her.
With a low moan, Natasha starts moving faster, her hips snapping forward with more force. The slow torture is replaced by deep, quick thrusts that make the bed shake and your breasts bounce.
She hooks your legs higher over her shoulders, changing the angle to hit deeper inside you.
"Oh god, just like that!" you moan out, your back arching beautifully off the mattress as she hits that perfect spot inside you. The new angle is devastating, allowing her to plunge so deep you see stars with every thrust. "Don't stop, Natasha, please don't stop."
Natasha's composure finally shatters. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat as a loud, broken moan tears from her lips. Her eyes roll back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of your heat gripping her tightly.
"Fuck—oh god, you feel so good," she pants breathlessly, her rhythm faltering slightly as pure pleasure washes over her.
She's reduced to incoherent moans and curses, her hips moving wildly as she loses herself in the feeling of being buried deep inside you. One hand grips your thigh tightly while the other reaches down to spread you wider, giving herself better access.
"Natasha..." You whimper her name like a prayer, your voice breaking on a high note as she hits that perfect spot inside you again.
Your hands fly to her bouncing breasts, squeezing the soft mounds desperately as pleasure overwhelms you both.
Natasha leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy, passionate kiss that steals your breath. You pant into each other's mouths, tongues tangling as she continues thrusting hard and deep.
The kiss is sloppy and needy, a perfect reflection of how desperately she's fucking you.
With a low groan, Natasha pulls out slowly, her wet length slipping free of your dripping core. You both watch, panting heavily, as she brings the tip to your mouth.
"Taste how wet you are," she pants, rubbing her slick head against your lips.
You open your mouth obediently, your tongue darting out to lick along the tip, tasting yourself mixed with her. Natasha moans, thrusting slightly deeper between your lips.
"Good girl... Suck," she commands breathlessly, gripping your hair. You wrap your lips around her and take her into your mouth, bobbing your head as she slowly thrusts down your throat.
Natasha's eyes roll back into her head as your mouth works her wet length, your tongue swirling around the tip while you suck eagerly.
A moan rips from her throat, her thighs trembling as pleasure rockets through her.
She grips your hair tighter, fucking your mouth with shallow, desperate strokes while her head falls back, completely lost to the sensation.
Her red hair falls wildly around her face and shoulders, green eyes squeezed shut as she rocks her hips forward, feeding you more of her length.
Your own hair is messy from her fingers, face flushed and dripping with saliva as you enthusiastically take her, cheeks hollowing out with each suck.
Natasha's large, round breasts bounce freely with each thrust into your mouth. Yours heave with every breath you take around her length.
Natasha's thick, veiny length glistens with a mix of spit and precum, stretching your lips wide as you suck her. Her green eyes are still rolled back, mouth open in a silent moan.
Your jaw works overtime, tongue flattened against her shaft while you bob your head eagerly, cheeks caving with each greedy suck as a string of saliva connects with each suck.
Natasha's green eyes flutter open, half-lidded and glassy with pleasure as she looks down at you. Her gaze is fixated on her length disappearing between your stretched lips, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the sight.
She watches, transfixed, as your mouth works her over eagerly, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the room.
With a pop, Natasha pulls her length out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip.
She drags the wet head down your between the valley of your breasts, coating each before moving lower.
She presses the tip against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that make your whole body shudder.
"I need to come so bad..." Natasha moans, her voice trembling with desperation.
She rubs her wet tip against your clit, teasing you both mercilessly.
You respond by spreading your legs wider and arching your back, wordlessly begging for her to fill you again.
"Then fuck me," you whisper breathlessly, your hips lifting toward her.
Natasha groans, sinking her length deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
"Fuck—" she gasps, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she starts moving, chasing her release with every deep stroke. Her pace quickens, chasing that edge.
Your eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you grip the sheets beneath you.
"I'm— I'm close," you gasp, your walls tightening around her in warning.
Natasha pushes deeper, her hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, two fingers pressing against it as she thrusts harder.
"Come on my dick," she demands it, her fingers rubbing tight circles against your sensitive bud as she drives into you relentlessly.
The pressure snaps instantly, your back bowing off the mattress as a scream tears from your throat. Your vision whites out, your entire body shaking violently as you clamp down around her, dragging her over the edge with you.
"That's it, baby," she grits out, pounding you through it. "Fuck!"
Natasha's entire body goes rigid above you, her length pulsing deeply inside you as she comes with a strangled cry. Her hips stutter, losing rhythm as she spills into you, painting your tight walls white with her thick release.
Her head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone as aftershocks wrack through her.
A broken moan vibrates against your skin, her fingers still pressed to your clit as she rides out every pulse inside you.
"You feel— fuck— can't stop—" She's trembling, entire body locked in the aftermath, completely undone beneath her usually composed exterior.
"Natasha..." you moan softly, your hands sliding up her trembling arms to hold onto her as your own orgasm fades.
Your body feels like jelly, completely spent and utterly satisfied. You nuzzle into the side of her neck, placing gentle kisses along her jaw as she catches her breath against you.
Natasha presses lingering, open mouthed kisses against your collarbone, her lips trembling against your skin.
It's a reverent, grounding touch, the final release of months upon months of tightly wound control finally snapping. She holds you impossibly close, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if anchoring herself to reality.
"I've needed this," she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "Needed you—so fucking badly."
Her arms tighten around you practically painfully, 8 months of suppressed desire pouring out in every tender kiss she presses against your neck.
"You have no idea...How much I've craved your touch... your voice... your smile," she murmurs roughly, trailing kisses down to your chest. "Being with you—it's heaven. Pure, perfect heaven after so long in hell."
"I'm right here," you whisper softly, running your fingers through her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere." You tilt your head up to press a tender kiss on her lips, pouring all of your love and dedication into it. "I've been waiting for you, too."
Natasha's eyes flutter shut at your words, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans into your touch. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she just... exists in the moment with you.
For the first time in a long time, she feels at peace. At home.
Summary: Natasha thought keeping things casual would be simple, that is, until the lines between what’s casual and what’s not start to blur.
Warnings: fluff, light angst, sexual themes
Words: 5768
The Avengers Compound kitchen is unusually calm that afternoon. Just the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the soft afternoon light spilling through the large windows as the two agents engage in a deeply serious debate.
“No, but listen,” Clint insists from the other side of the kitchen counter. “They made a good point.”
Natasha barely looks up from where she’s resting her forearms against the counter as she waits for her coffee to finish, but the faint curve of her lips shows she’s listening.
“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.
“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”
Clint brightens immediately.
“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”
Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.
Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.
It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.
The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.
“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.
Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.
“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.
You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.
“Mmmhmm.”
Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.
“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”
Natasha snorts softly under her breath.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.
Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.
When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.
“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”
Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.
For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.
“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.
Your smile appears instantly, but then—
Flick.
Her finger taps your forehead.
“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.
Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.
You respond with an exaggerated pout.
Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”
A beat passes before she continues.
“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”
You roll your eyes and sigh.
“Alright, guess I’m going now.”
You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.
“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”
Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.
“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.
You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.
Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.
When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.
Natasha narrows her eyes.
“What’s with your face?”
Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.
“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”
Natasha’s expression immediately flattens.
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”
Clint waves his hand vaguely.
“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”
He points toward the door you just exited through.
“However…”
Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.
“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”
Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation.
“It was a hug, Clint.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clint nods thoughtfully.
“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”
Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.
“It’s just a hug,” she insists.
“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”
Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.
Because…no. Not really.
You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.
But that kind of hug?
Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.
That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.
Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.
You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.
Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.
Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.
“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”
Clint raises both hands in surrender.
“If you say so.”
His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.
Instead, he nods toward the counter again.
“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”
Natasha smirks again.
“Doesn’t make you worthy.”
Clint sighs dramatically.
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The room is quiet.
Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.
This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.
Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.
Sleep refuses to come.
It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.
Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.
Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin.
You usually aren’t here this long.
Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.
And then you leave.
Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.
But tonight is different.
You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.
Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.
Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.
But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.
And Natasha had let you stay.
Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.
Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.
For a long moment, she simply watches you.
There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.
And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that.
Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.
Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.
Did it mean anything?
“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.
Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.
Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.
“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.
“Barely,” you grumble.
You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.
Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.
“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.
You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.
“What hug?”
“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”
Your brows draw together slightly.
“What about it?”
Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.
“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”
She trails off, searching.
“…intimate.”
The word lingers between you.
You go still for a second, thinking.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.
Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.
The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.
Natasha hates how quickly she notices.
You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.
“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”
Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.
It was just—
Nothing.
For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.
You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.
Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.
The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.
Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.
The contrast is jarring.
Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.
When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.
Then your lips press softly against hers.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.
For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.
Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.
But before she can act on it, you pull away.
“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”
Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.
“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.
You smile, soft and small.
But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.
“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”
Your expression softens further.
“At least when we’re not hooking up.”
The words settle heavily in the quiet room.
“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.
Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.
The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision.
The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.
And what that would mean.
In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.
They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.
Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.
So Natasha made it simple.
No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.
And it has worked so far.
You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.
“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.
“Sweet dreams.”
The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.
Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.
The misunderstanding is gone.
Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.
What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.
She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.
Again. And again. And again.
Eventually, sleep begins to take her.
But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.
The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.
Everything appears normal.
But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.
The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.
And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.
She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.
When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.
At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.
But she had been wrong.
It started small.
A movie night in the common room.
Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.
Then in the gym.
After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.
But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.
Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.
You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.
Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.
Still beside her but never close.
Always careful. Always just far enough away.
Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.
So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.
And she had agreed to it.
So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?
Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.
Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.
Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.
Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.
Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.
It should mean nothing. It is nothing.
Just like how it is for her.
But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.
Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.
A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.
Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.
Then she moves.
Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.
You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.
“Hey—”
Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.
Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.
“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”
Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.
You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.
“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.
The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.
You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.
There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.
She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.
For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.
The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.
Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.
Mine.
The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.
Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.
When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.
“Hey, what’s wr—”
She silences you with another forceful kiss.
Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.
Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.
“Natasha…” you murmur.
The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.
Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.
Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.
The contact draws a quiet breath from her.
Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.
Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.
But the sensation is complicated.
Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.
Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.
Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.
The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.
But the thought does not fade.
Only here. Only like this.
Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.
She shakes her head.
“I can’t do this.”
The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.
You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.
“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”
She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.
“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
The words settle heavily in the space between you.
Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.
For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.
“Oh.”
The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.
You look hurt, though you try not to show it.
Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.
But she remains still.
What right does she have?
She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.
Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.
She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.
She wants you.
Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.
The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.
Because the words still refuse to come.
You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.
Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.
You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.
Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.
Only now does she understand why.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.
She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.
The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.
It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.
Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.
However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.
Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.
A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.
She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.
The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.
Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.
You appear just as surprised to find her there.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.
Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.
But you do not step closer.
Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.
And Natasha notices it immediately.
You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.
“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”
The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.
Everything surrounding them, however, is different.
There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.
Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.
She understands what this moment means.
You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.
“Good luck,” she says quietly.
The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.
Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.
“Thanks, Natasha.”
Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.
That is what breaks her composure.
It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.
Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.
Her body moves before the thought fully settles.
“Wait.”
The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.
You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.
Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.
Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.
Then she kisses you.
There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.
A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.
Then instinct takes over.
Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.
In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.
Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.
Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.
When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.
The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.
Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.
This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.
Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”
“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”
You do not look away from Natasha.
There is a brief pause.
“…Understood.”
Silence settles again, softer now.
Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.
“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”
The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.
Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.
“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.
Your brow lifts slightly.
“And they are...?”
She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.
“Whatever lets me love you.”
The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.
For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.
Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.
The distance is gone.
Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.
She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.
“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”
You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.
“…Did it mean something?”
After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.
“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”
Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.
“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.
You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.
“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”
You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.
“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”
She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.
Your grin returns instantly.
“Oh?”
Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.
“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”
Amusement flashes in her eyes.
“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”
You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.
“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: hope you enjoy the fic and thank you for reading! (love/hate relationship with this one but I needed to get it out of the drafts so that I can stop editing it every time I see it 😅)
people on tw1tter having a discourse about the og avengers coming back except natasha when multiverse saga exists. tbh i get it, i also want nat to come back but oh boy, scarlett said it multiple times that natasha’s story is done i trust her (kind of) i don’t trust the mcu not to mess it up if they bring her back 😂
You keep ending up in situations where you’re cuddling with Natasha
Note: This is a soft one. Enjoy!
Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 1, Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 2, Main Masterlist
The first time it happened it was a complete accident.
You were assigned an overnight mission with Natasha and when you got to the hotel room there was only one bed. She tried to sleep on the floor, but you protested.
“If you sleep on the floor, then I sleep on the floor too,” you had said.
“Then what’s the point of the bed?” She asked.
“Exactly. There is no point then. Come on,” you said.
You were both exhausted from the mission and a good nights sleep was calling your names.
Natasha laid down a careful distance from you. The bed was plenty big enough to share, but she didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. Or maybe she didn’t want her feelings for you to get even more complicated.
After falling into a deep slumber, Natasha woke up first in the morning. As she became aware of her surroundings, she realized she had another body tangled up in hers.
Her arm was draped around your waist as you rested with your head on her shoulder. You breathed into her neck and your legs intertwined with hers.
If she could just ignore reality, then she could imagine this is how it would feel to wake up with you every morning.
But the reality is that you’re not together and she untangled herself from you as stealthily as she could. You simply rolled over and went back to sleep.
When you finally woke up, Natasha hadn’t suspected that you knew about the accidental cuddling.
Until it happened again.
This time is happened at the compound. It was movie night, a new bonding experience the team was trying, and you sat next to Natasha on the couch.
Most of the team had gone to their rooms, but you and Nat were trying to finish the movie.
Sleep started to take over and you leaned slightly to rest your head on the couch. But what you found was Natasha’s arm outstretched behind you. She tried to move it but you stopped her.
“You’re more comfortable than this couch,” you told her.
She only laughed shyly and left her arm in place. You snuggled into her shoulder once again and her fingers ghosted over your arm. She wanted to touch you, to hold you, but she didn’t want to ruin the moment.
When you fell asleep against her, she turned off the movie and you practically laid across the her lap. You weren’t consciously doing it, but Nat just felt so safe that you couldn’t help yourself.
She smiled to herself as she drifted off to sleep as well.
You woke in the middle of the night realized where you were. Your head was on Natasha’s lap and she was asleep.
Grinning, you closed your eyes and went back to sleep.
But once again, Natasha untangled herself from you and got up early. You missed her warmth and she all but vanished the rest of the day.
Later that night, you decide to confront her about it.
You haven’t been to her room before, but you got up the courage to go to her floor and knock on her door.
“Who is it?” Her voice comes from the other side.
“It’s y/n,” you say. “Can we talk?”
The door opens to reveal Natasha in her pajamas. The plaid shorts and a black tank top make her look so perfect.
“What’s up?” She asks.
“Can I come in?”
“Uh, yeah,” she agrees hesitantly. You walk into her room and take a quick glance around.
It’s about what you expected. Very organized and neutral colors aside from the desk that is littered with photos of the team and of Natasha with Clint’s family. She also has drawings and trinkets that the kids have gifted her.
“I would’ve cleaned up if I knew you were going to stop by,” Natasha breaks the ice again.
“If you don’t think this is clean then I hope you never see my room,” you joke.
You share a laugh. She gestures for you to sit down on the edge of her bed next to her.
“Natasha,” you begin, swallowing your nerves. “I wanted to talk to you about- well about us.”
“Okay,” she says. “Can I say something first?”
You nod and watch as Natasha fiddles with her fingers. A nervous tick you’ve only seen her do a few select times.
“I really like you,” she begins. “But I’m just not sure what to do about it.”
She pauses and you jump in. “Well, we could be together.”
She looks stunned at your words. Had she been unaware? You don’t think you did a great job pretending you weren’t in love with her.
“Y/n, I’m not someone you need to date,” Natasha says. Her barriers start to rise and you realize you have to stop them before you’re locked out.
“Natasha, you are exactly the person I want to date. I’ve liked you since I met you. And clearly, I feel so comfortable with you that I’ve subconsciously snuggled with you a few times,” you say. “So please, can we try?”
“I don’t know,” Nat says. “You’re so young and innocent. And I’m, me.”
“Exactly. You’re you. And I-” you stop yourself, but she remains silent. “I love you.”
Natasha’s eyes fill with tears. No one has ever been so outwardly loving of her and said it to her while really meaning it.
“I don’t know what to do,” Natasha admits.
“That’s okay,” you tell her. You scoot closer to her and pull her into a hug. “I don’t know either, but we’ll figure it out.”
“I want to try,” she says, her face buried in your neck. She mumbles something else in Russian that you don’t understand.
When you pull back from the hug, Natasha presses her forehead against yours. You soak up the moment together.
That night, you sit on her bed with her and talk about how this is what you both want and how to make it work.
You fall asleep with your bodies entangled once again, but this time it’s on purpose. And you wake up the next morning still tangled together and feeling safe and warm.
This is your favorite thing when Natasha comes back from a mission. As soon as debrief is done, she turns off her phone and spends the next 24 hours with you.
And for the next day or two, she’ll stay glued to your side, even when you’re trying to cook or clean. Which inevitably means take out, making out on the couch, showering together and cuddling in the bed or living room.
This must have been a very exhausting mission, because ever since she’s been home, you’ve spent the better part of the day in bed. She’s snoring lightly and you’re on your phone, because your day just started while Natasha’s still on a different time zone.
You try not to move too much, your girlfriend’s arm around your middle. But when you get the notification of a sale on your favorite store, you immediately go to their page, adding enough things to the shopping cart to get free shipping (girl math, duh).
“What are you doing?” Natasha mumbles when you try to get up.
“I need my credit card” you explain, pushing her arms off. “Be right back, babe”
“Why are you paying for things?”
“It’s just clothes” you say, knowing Natasha hates it when you pay for anything. “I can manage”
“I’m buying them for you. But you have to stay here with me” she pulls you closer, kissing your neck. The contact distracts you enough to losen the grip on your phone, and Natasha takes it away, placing it on her nightstand.
“You were sleeping. How do you even know…” you protest and she places you on your back, peppering kisses all over your face.
“Green velvet corset top, denim pencil skirt, short checked jacket, white lace top, red lingerie…”
“I was not buying lingerie” you laugh.
“Right. I am. Now, let me take care of some stuff” she says, her hand slipping between your thighs.
You grant her access, feeling beyond spoiled.
—
The issue with being spoiled is that it can turn to brattiness real quick.
Natasha’s been taking your attitude for the better part of the day.
It started with the usual morning. She went out for her run while you made breakfast. Your girlfriend came back with a bouquet of red roses and a scone from your favorite place.
“Aw. Were they out of tulips?” you ask as you put the flowers in water.
Natasha has to stop herself from glaring, because you’re turning around and kissing her cheek.
Of course, you’re only teasing. But it’s not like your behavior gets any better.
Especially when, that same night, you go to Tony’s party wearing a low cut dress and very obviously, no bra.
“Would you like to… change into something more comfortable? It might get cold” Natasha tiptoes around the question. She doesn’t want to come off as controlling.
“No, I’m fine. Do you think I look bad?” you say, tilting your head, pretending to be confused.
“You always look perfect, detka”
“Ok, then let’s get going” you say, standing on your toes to kiss her.
And if your tongue darts out to lick her lower lip, making Natasha groan against your mouth, well…
“We don’t want to be late” you remind her when she stares at you.
As expected, the party is in full swing when you arrive. Natasha is dragged along the other side of the room to confirm one of Tony’s crazy stories. You seem to be doing pretty well, chatting with Wanda and Pietro.
But then there’s Ellie, from IT. You’d gone on a couple of dates before Natasha asked you out, and of course you broke it off, amicably.
Mostly. Ellie would block Natasha’s access to the building from time to time.
The fireworks are the perfect excuse to come get you, and the other woman must sense Natasha approaching, because she reaches for your hand and you laugh, waving as she leaves.
“What was that about?” Natasha says as soon as she’s next to you. You sip from your martini, arching your eyebrows. The redhead is about to ask again when you frown.
“How many beers have you had?”
“Three… and a half”
“Mhm. Let’s see the fireworks” you take her hand, smiling as if you hadn’t just ignored her question.
You stand next to her on the balcony, greeting Steve as he approaches you.
“You must be freezing” he says, taking off his jacket and putting it over your shoulders.
“Aww, Steve. You’re such a gentleman. And yes, I was getting a little cold. Natasha didn’t tell me it would be this bad”
Your girlfriend lets out a pathetic sound, half protest and scoff as you keep talking to Steve. She’s still trying to find a way to remind you she did in fact bring up the weather, but then the fireworks start and you slip your hand into hers.
“It was a nice show” you comment once it’s all done and Natasha nods. “You want to go home?”
“Yes, please”
“Alright, you good to drive?” you say, noticing she had another beer.
“Yes, detka” she insists, impatient. Natasha's never been drunk, especially when you're around. She insists on driving you everywhere.
Now she thinks the alcohol might have gotten to her head and you’re not really acting strange. Except that when you walk up to the car, you don’t wait for her to open the door for you.
“You couldn’t wait?” she says, practically huffing as you hide your smirk.
“What? You’re drunk, and my feet are killing me. Looks like you can barely find where to start the car”
That’s your bad, because she gets you out of the garage in under five seconds, only slowing down once you join the usual traffic.
“So, how’s Ellie?” Natasha asks, again. She’s not about to drop the subject.
“She’s fine. Asked for some relationship advice, because she’s seeing this girl and they’re not exclusive. Wanted to know how to ask her. Too bad I have zero experience with that”
“What do you mean?” Natasha says.
“Well… we never talked about it. You and me. Are we exclusive?”
“We live together!”
“Ok? So do Buck and Sam. And they’re not a couple” you say, trying really hard not to laugh at Natasha’s expression.
“Sorry, is this piss-off-Natasha day? Because you’ve been acting strange” she says, turning off the car once you reach your own building.
“Strange how?”
“Off. Just…”
And then it happens.
The last straw is something stupid.
You, reaching for the door handle. Natasha dashes forward, and in one swift motion closes the door again and locks it.
“Natalia! You’re kidnapping me!”
“Listen to me” she says, holding your chin between her thumb and index fingers. “You don’t pay for stuff, or open car doors or check the price tag on anything, understood?”
The contrast between her icy tone and the care behind her affirmations make you squeeze your legs together.
“Use. Your. Words”
“Understood”
“Now, the coat was my bad. I should have picked a better outfit for you. I’m never drunk enough to drive you anywhere and I’m certainly not letting anyone else touch what’s mine. Are we clear on all fronts now, detka?”
“Yes, baby” you nod, the bravado fading as soon as she reminds you of your place.
“Are your panties ruined?”
“Yeah” you sigh, feeling like a total fraud. This morning, you woke up ready to tease her and she’s got you wrapped around her finger in a matter of seconds.
“Are you wearing that red set I bought you?” she smiles when you nod, because the part of your brain in charge of words is not functioning right about now. “Good girl”
You moan.
“Stop looking at me like that” you say, annoyed when she smiles. “Open the door so I can change out of this”
“I’m opening the door for you, and then I’m carrying you to the apartment and I’ll undress you, however slow or fast I want to”
There’s a beat of silence and then you nod, pretending you’re not happy with her conditions.
“Fine, whatever”
She kisses your cheek, walking around the car and offering her hand to help you out.
That’s the last time she’ll be this gentle tonight. Because after this, she kisses and fucks you until you can’t take it anymore, saying her name like a prayer.
andulkaphoto
2087
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
amandla
discoholicmusic
snowghoul
