#giannamrvl

[giannamrvl]

STAY

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Word Count: ~700

Warnings: None | Fluff | Sleepy reader | Post-mission comfort

Summary: After an exhausting mission, you insist you’re not tired but Natasha sees right through you. When you finally drift off on her shoulder during the flight home, she refuses to move, content to let you rest no matter how long it takes.

Masterlist

Sam was asleep with his head tipped back against the wall. Steve sat across from him, pretending to read the mission report on his tablet even though his eyes had closed at least three times already. Clint was busy picking dried blood from beneath his fingernails with a look of complete boredom.

You had every intention of staying awake.

Really.

It wasn’t that the mission had been particularly difficult it was just… long. Twelve hours of surveillance, a fight that lasted far longer than anyone had planned, and the adrenaline crash that always came afterward.

Your eyelids grew heavier.

Across from you, Natasha watched quietly, pretending not to notice.

“You should sleep,” she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that three times in the last ten minutes.”

“I am.”

“You just blinked for about fifteen seconds.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “Wasn’t that long.”

“It was.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but another yawn betrayed you.

Natasha’s lips curved into the smallest smile.

“C’mere.”

You frowned. “What?”

She patted the empty space beside her.

Your brain was too exhausted to question it. You shuffled across the narrow cabin until you were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“Happy?”

“Mhm.”

You leaned back against the seat, determined to prove that you wasn’t actually tired.

Less than a minute later, your head tipped sideways.

It landed gently against Natasha’s shoulder.

You didn’t even notice.

Natasha glanced down at you, expecting you to jerk awake and apologize.

Instead, your breathing slowed, your body relaxed, and within moments you were completely asleep.

She smiled to herself.

Without saying a word, she shifted just enough to make you more comfortable, careful not to wake you.

Across the cabin, Clint looked up.

His grin was immediate.

“Oh,” he whispered.

Steve followed Clint’s gaze, then smiled knowingly before setting his tablet aside.

No one said another word.

For the rest of the flight home, Natasha didn’t move an inch.

Even when her shoulder started to ache.

Even when the quinjet hit turbulence.

Even when Clint quietly offered to swap seats so she could stretch.

She only shook her head once.

“No,” she murmured, never taking her eyes off you.

“She’s finally getting some sleep.”

[giannamrvl]

Every little Detail

ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀ ɴᴀᴛᴀꜱʜᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏꜰꜰ x ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Warnings: Yandere!Natasha, Netflix's YOU AU themes, YOU AU narration style, stalking, invasion of privacy, manipulation, dark themes.

Summary: You think bumping into a beautiful stranger at the bookstore was just a lucky accident. You have no idea Natasha has been planning this exact moment for weeks.

Hello, you.

You have no idea I’m here. To you, I’m just a stranger standing three rows back in the history section of this dusty, second-hand bookstore. You’re completely absorbed in the paperback in your hands, chewing on your bottom lip the way you always do when you’re focused.

You think you’re completely alone in the world right now.

You don't know me. You don't know that my name is Natasha. You don't know that for the last month, I’ve been the shadow walking half a block behind you on your way home from work. You don't know that I have a clone of your phone's SIM card running on a secure tablet in my apartment, or that I know you set three alarms every morning and still hit snooze on the first two.

My world is full of liars, killers, and ghosts. I’ve spent my entire life covered in red, looking over my shoulder. And then, four weeks ago, I saw you on the subway. You gave up your seat to an elderly woman, smiled that bright, unguarded smile, and went back to listening to your music. You were so pure. So blissfully unaware of the monsters in the dark.

I decided right then that I was going to keep you safe from them. From everything.

But I can't just walk up to you. You're skittish. Your heart rate elevates around aggressive people I know, because I hacked the smartwatch you’re currently wearing. If I push too hard, you’ll run. So, I have to let you find me.

I watch you slide the book back onto the shelf with a soft sigh. You’re looking for a specific biography—one on Catherine the Great. You need it for your thesis. You’ve been stressing about it for days in your emails.

It’s not on the shelf. Because the only copy this store had is currently in my leather jacket pocket.

You turn to leave the aisle, your shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Action.

I step out from behind the mahogany bookshelf, timing my stride with tactical precision. I keep my eyes lowered just enough, pretending to read the spine of the book in my hands, and step right into your path.

We collide. Softly. Just enough to make you gasp and take a step back. I let the book slip from my hands, landing with a muted thud on the floor between us.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," you say immediately, your hands fluttering up in apology. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"No, that was my fault," I say, keeping my voice gentle, pitching it to the exact frequency that psychology profiles suggest builds immediate trust. "I was too lost in my own head."

I crouch down to pick up the book, and you instinctively kneel to help me. Your fingers brush the cover, and you freeze.

Your eyes go wide, darting from the title to my face. "You're reading Catherine the Great: Portrait of a Woman? I... I was literally just looking for this."

I blink, feigning mild, polite surprise. Up close, you smell like vanilla and rain. It takes every ounce of my willpower and Red Room training not to reach out and touch your cheek. "Really? They told me at the front desk this was the last copy."

"Yeah," you laugh, a little breathlessly, looking up at me. Our eyes meet for the very first time. Your pupils dilate slightly. Perfect. "My luck, I guess. I'm doing my thesis on Russian history. I've been hunting for this specific edition everywhere."

I look at you. I let a slow, warm smile touch my lips—the kind of smile I haven't given anyone in years.

"Well," I say softly, standing up and offering you the book. "I’m just reading it for fun. A thesis sounds much more important. Take it."

"What? No, I couldn't," you protest, but your eyes linger on the cover. You want it.

"I insist," I press the book gently into your hands. My fingers graze yours, and I feel the slight flutter of your pulse. "On one condition."

You look up at me, a pretty pink flush creeping up your neck. You’re completely disarmed by me. "What condition?"

"You let me buy you a coffee, and you tell me all about your thesis. I'm Natasha, by the way."

You bite your lip, considering it. You shouldn't talk to strangers. But I don't look like a threat. I look like a beautiful, generous woman in a leather jacket who just solved your biggest problem. I look like fate.

You give her your name, smiling back, clutching the book to your chest. "And... yeah. Coffee sounds great."

"Lead the way then," I murmur.

You turn and start walking toward the exit, casting a shy, excited glance over your shoulder at me. You think this is serendipity. You think the universe just handed you a perfect, romantic meet-cute on a silver platter.

You have absolutely no idea that I'm never letting you go.

[giannamrvl]

faint of heart

natasha romanoff x fem!reader (Highschool AU)

FLUFF

summary: For three months, Natasha Romanoff has been your cold chemistry partner who clearly detests you. But when a stormy Friday detention forces a confrontation, her "mean girl" facade completely shatters revealing that she isn't actually trying to murder you. She’s just hopelessly bad at dealing with a massive crush.

authors note: first story ^^

masterlist

The rain is drumming a steady, relentless beat against the school laboratory windows, matching the exact rhythm of the headache forming behind your eyes. It’s 4:00 PM on a Friday. The final bell rang an hour ago, the hallways are entirely empty, your friends are already gone to spend their friday night somewhere, and you are trapped in AP Chemistry with Natasha Romanoff.

Which is basically a psychological death sentence.

Natasha sits on the stool next to yours, her black leather jacket slung over the back of the chair. She’s gorgeous, she’s intimidating, and for the last three months, she has made it painfully clear that she detests you.

Every time you try to make small talk, she gives you a flat, one-word answer. If your hands brush while reaching for a box of filter paper, she flinches away like you’re radioactive. Right now, she’s supposed to be helping you rewrite the failed titration report from Tuesday a failure that was mostly your fault because you had been too busy staring at her side profile to notice the acid overflowing but instead, she’s just staring out the rain streaked window, tapping a green pen against the black countertop.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It’s driving you insane. You pull your sweater sleeves down over your knuckles, staring at the messy data columns in your notebook.

"You know, if you're just going to sit there and breathe aggressively, you could at least pass me the rubric," you mutter, not looking up.

The tapping stops instantly. The sudden silence in the room feels heavier than the storm outside. You feel her intense, unblinking gaze land on the side of your face.

"I don't breathe aggressively," Natasha says. Her voice is smooth, low, and completely devoid of warmth. It’s the tone she uses when she’s dismissing a teacher or shutting down a guy or girl trying to flirt with her in the hallway.

"Could’ve fooled me," you snap, finally tossing your pen down. The frustration that’s been simmering all semester suddenly boils over. You're tired, you're missing your weekend, and you're exhausted from being treated like an inconvenience by someone you secretly look at when you think she isn't noticing. "Look, Natasha, if you hate me this much, just go. Seriously. Pack your bag and leave. I'll lie to Mr.... (i dont know couldn’t think of a name) on Monday and tell him you did half the calculations. Just stop looking at me like I’m a piece of garbage you stepped on."

You finally turn your head to look her right in the eye, expecting a sharp retort, a biting insult, or at the very least, a smug, dismissive smirk.

Instead, Natasha is just staring at you. Her green eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted in a look of genuine, unadulterated shock. The terrifying, "mean girl" facade she wears like a shield every single day suddenly looks incredibly fragile, cracking right down the center.

"What?" she asks, her voice strangely quiet, losing all of its usual sharp edge.

"You heard me," you say, crossing your arms tightly across your chest and leaning back against the lab bench. "You hate me. It’s fine. The whole school knows you’re elite and detached, but you don't have to make it so obvious that my presence is a chore."

"I don't hate you," Natasha says immediately. She sounds almost offended that you’d even suggest it.

"Oh, please," you huff, letting out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. "You literally look like you want to murder me every time I open my mouth. You won't look me in the eye. Last Wednesday, I asked you if you had a spare paperclip and you stared at me like I asked for a kidney. You barely even speak to me! If we weren't forced to be partners, you wouldn't even exist in the same airspace as me."

Natasha blinks, and then, right before your eyes, something impossible happens. A dark, sudden flush creeps up her cheeks, staining her sharp cheekbones a brilliant, unmistakable crimson. THE Natasha Romanoff is blushing.

She looks away, staring down at the black countertop, her fingers suddenly twisting the cap off her pen, then putting it back on. Over and over.

"I don't look you in the eye because..." She clears her throat, completely losing her usual terrifying composure. She swallows hard, looking everywhere in the room except at you. "Because you're distracting. And I don't talk to you because every time I try, I feel like I'm going to say something completely stupid."

You freeze. The words bounce off the tiled walls of the empty classroom. You trace the line of her tense jaw, trying to process if you heard her correctly. "What?"

Natasha groans, a sound of pure frustration. Her shoulders lose their rigid, perfect posture, slumping slightly as she lets out a defeated sigh.

"You're very oblivious?" she mutters, a self deprecating edge to her voice. "I don't think you're garbage. I think you're... terrifying. You're smart, and you're funny, and you don't even have to try. Everyone likes you. Last Wednesday, I didn't glare at you because of a paperclip. I glared because you smiled at me when you asked for it, and my brain completely short circuited. I forgot how to use human words, so I just froze."

Your brain is scrambling to recontextualize the entire last three months. The short answers weren't anger they were panic. The flinching away wasn't disgust it was nerves.

"You... you have a crush on me?" you ask.

"Don't make it sound so weird" she mumbles, though the blush on her face is only worsening, reaching the tips of her ears. "I'm not good with feelings.' I didn't know how to act around you, so I just stayed quiet and tried to keep my distance. I didn't mean to make you think I hated you."

The heavy, suffocating tension that had filled the room for weeks suddenly evaporates, replaced by something warm, dizzying, and completely electric. You look at Natasha really look at her and notice the way her fingers are trembling slightly against the cover of her spiral notebook.

A slow, involuntary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. The sheer absurdity of it all hits you, and the fear you’ve carried all semester completely vanishes.

"So," you say softly, leaning your elbow on the counter and tilting your head to force her to look at you. "The great Natasha Romanoff isn't actually a mean girl. She's just a massive coward."

Natasha's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing, but the mean spark in them is entirely playful now. "I am not a coward."

"You spent three months letting me think you wanted to shove me into a locker just because you got nervous over a smile?" You let out a soft laugh, sliding your lab stool a few inches closer to hers. The metal legs screech against the floor, but neither of you cares. "Yeah. Definitely a coward."

"Shut up," she says, but there's a tiny, smile tugging at her own lips now the first genuine, unforced smile you’ve ever seen from her. It changes her whole face, making her look incredibly soft.

"Make me," you tease.

Your heart does a sudden, violent flip in your chest as Natasha doesn't pull away this time. Instead, she holds your gaze, her green eyes bright and entirely unguarded. She leans in just a fraction of an inch, her voice dropping back into that low, smooth cadence, but this time, it’s filled with a warmth that makes the freezing rain outside feel a million miles away.

"Maybe I will," Natasha murmurs, a stray lock of red hair falling into her face. "But only if you let me help you finish the titration report first. I don't want Mr......... giving my future girlfriend a C-minus."

[giannamrvl]

Cold Pursuit (Series) - Chapter 1)

Avenger!Natasha Romanoff x Superpowered!Villain!Fem!Reader

Tags | Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Action & Cat and Mouse dynamic.

Summary: Stealing dead tech from HYDRA is easy money, right up until the Avengers show up to ruin your night—more specifically, a certain redhead.

a/n: I was planning to keep this in the drafts to collect dust slowly...

Masterlist

The air inside the subterranean bunker didn't just smell bad it felt heavy, almost solid, coating the back of your throat with every breath. It was a suffocating mix of damp, unventilated concrete, rusted iron, and the sharp, sour stench of small animals that had crawled into the air vents years ago and rotted down to the bone. Standing water pooled in the dips of the cracked floor, glowing faint pink beneath the slow, rhythmic flash of a red emergency strobe light attached to the low ceiling.

You swallowed hard, forcing your body to ignore the urge to gag. Your boots made soft, wet peeling sounds against the concrete as you stepped carefully over a collapsed section of the ceiling. The bunker had been abandoned since the late nineties, left to rot beneath the freezing European soil, but the bones of the place were still intact. Thick steel doors lined the hallway, their locking mechanisms long since rusted shut. You kept your eyes forward, scanning the shadows.

At the end of the corridor was the main server room. It looked like a metal ribcage, lined with massive, archaic computer banks coated in a thick layer of grey dust. You pulled a small, heavy flashlight from your belt and clicked it on. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating thousands of tiny dust particles dancing in the dead air.

You approached the central terminal. The metal was freezing under your bare fingertips as you brushed the dirt away from the keyboard. It was dead, completely devoid of power, but you didn't need the whole grid online. You just needed the hard drive.

The screen flickered, a sickly green light spilling over your face and casting sharp shadows against the wall behind you.

Booting sequence initiated.

You let out a slow, steady breath. You had no ties to HYDRA, and you sure as hell didn't work for SHIELD. You were a ghost who worked alone, taking whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. The moniker wasn't just a metaphor. The criminal underworld called you a ghost because no camera could ever catch you, no lock could keep you out, and you always knew exactly when they were coming.

Tonight, you were here for a multi million dollar payday on the black market: a cache of old, encrypted weapons schematics left behind in the server. Just another job.

The portable power unit you had wired to the console hummed a low, steady pitch. On the ancient monitor, a progress bar appeared, painfully slow as it began decrypting decades of locked data.

12 percent.

You leaned your weight against the edge of the terminal, closing your eyes and letting your hearing expand outward, pushing past the walls of the bunker. The dripping water from the hallway amplified in your ears plink, plink, plink followed by the scurrying of a rat three floors up.

34 percent.

Then, you heard it.

Long before the floor vibrated, long before the concrete groaned, your ears picked up the distant, high pitched whine of repulsor thrusters cutting through the freezing air outside. Then came the heavy crunch of boots on the frozen earth. Five distinct heartbeats. The sharp, metallic hum of a shield being unhooked from a magnetic harness.

The Avengers were here.

A few seconds later, a muffled, deep timbred boom resonated through the upper levels of the facility. Dust rained down from the exposed pipes above. The cracked glass on the dead monitors rattled in their metal frames.

They were loud, making a frontal assault. That worked to your advantage. Loud meant distracted.

You turned your attention back to the room, mapping out your exit. You swept your flashlight across the back wall and found a heavy iron ventilation grate, about three feet wide, bolted into the concrete.

You didn't bother pulling a knife. You just raised your free hand, focusing your mind on the four rusted bolts holding the iron grate to the wall. A faint, (colour) energy rippled around your fingertips. With a sharp twist of your wrist, the rusted bolts silently unscrewed themselves and floated to the floor. The heavy iron grate drifted off the wall and set itself down without making a single sound.

89 percent.

Your ears twitched. Someone was coming down the main stairwell.

You could hear a massive, rhythmic heartbeat approaching. It was too slow and powerful to be a normal human's. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Then came the heavy, deliberate tread of combat boots. Captain America.

You killed your flashlight immediately, plunging the room back into the dim, pulsing red of the emergency strobe.

You closed your eyes and let the familiar, icy sensation wash over your skin. Your physical form shimmered as you pulled the light around you, bending the visual spectrum until your boots, your jacket, and your face simply ceased to exist.

A bright beam of white light swept past the doorway, illuminating the floating dust in the hall. It passed directly over where you stood, shining straight through your invisible chest.

You listened to Steve Rogers' deep breaths. You could hear the faint, staticky crackle of his earpiece before he even pressed the button to speak.

"Clear."

His heavy footsteps continued past the server room, fading down the opposite end of the corridor.

100 percent. Transfer Complete.

The mechanical lock on the server drive gave a loud, solid clack as it disengaged.

You didn't hesitate. You let your invisibility drop, your body fading back into solid reality to conserve your energy. You ripped the cables from the console and grabbed the freezing metal hard drive from its slot, shoving it deep into the zippered pocket of your jacket.

You moved silently toward the open ventilation shaft, sliding one leg inside the cramped space. You pulled your other leg up, ready to disappear into the dark, when your breath hitched in your throat.

Your ears caught a sound that hadn't been there a second ago.

It wasn't a footstep. It wasn't the rustle of fabric or the squeak of leather.

It was a heartbeat.

It was impossibly slow, measured, and controlled—so quiet and perfectly spaced that it had blended flawlessly with the rhythmic dripping of the water from the hallway pipes. And it was standing less than ten feet away from you.

You stopped moving.

"Optical camouflage is a neat trick," a voice said from the darkness just behind you. It was soft, almost conversational, wrapped in a smooth layer of lethal calm. "But it doesn't hide a spike in room temperature when you drop the cloak."

You didn't turn around. You didn't give her the satisfaction of seeing your face, keeping your chin tucked low into the high, dark collar of your jacket. Instead, your eyes flicked to the left, catching the faint reflection in the dead, cracked glass of the monitor beside you.

Natasha Romanoff was standing in the archway of the server room.

She wore a sleek, dark tactical suit, a stark contrast to the decaying ruin around her. Over her right eye, a specialized thermal lens glowed a faint, menacing red, currently locked right onto your back. She slowly lifted a hand, sliding the lens up into her hairline, revealing two sharp green eyes that dissected your posture in a fraction of a second.

Only then did you hear the high frequency charge of her weapon. Her right hand held a baton, a faint, electric blue current sparking along the metal, cutting through the smell of rot with the sharp, clean scent of ozone.

"Going somewhere?" Natasha murmured.

A low, quiet chuckle rumbled in your chest. "Just beating the traffic, Widow."

Before she could take another step, you threw your right hand backward.

(random colour idk give me ideas) energy erupted from your palm, latching onto the massive, three ton row of archaic server racks between you and the door. With a vicious pull of your wrist, the rusted metal screamed. The entire bank of servers tore free from the concrete floor and crashed violently backward, a tidal wave of heavy iron and sparking wires raining down right where Natasha was standing.

In the reflection of the glass, you saw her dive flawlessly out of the way, rolling under the falling debris with terrifying grace. But it bought you exactly the two seconds you needed.

You threw yourself backward into the dark ventilation shaft, letting the shadows swallow you whole. By the time the deafening crash of the metal settled and the grey dust billowed up in a thick cloud, the vent was entirely empty.

Natasha slowly stood up, brushing a layer of concrete dust from her shoulder. She stepped over a crushed computer terminal, her green eyes scanning the dark, empty grate on the wall. She walked over to it, resting a gloved hand on the cold iron edge.

Her comms unit cracked to life in her ear.

"Nat," Steve’s voice buzzed. "The sublevels are empty. We missed whatever HYDRA left behind. Did you find anything down there?"

Natasha stared into the pitch black tunnel. She thought about the sudden drop in temperature, the completely silent footsteps, and the (colour) energy that had just torn a ton of steel from the floor.

"Not HYDRA, Steve," Natasha replied evenly. "Someone else beat us to the servers. Female. Enhanced."

"Do you have a visual?" Steve asked, his tone shifting into tactical command. "Should we pursue?"

"Negative," Natasha murmured. A faint, smirk touched the corner of her lips as she looked at the rusted bolts lying neatly on the floor. "She's already gone."

[giannamrvl]

🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*GIAS MASTERLIST 🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

✿ = fluff ✄ = smut ♡ = angst

Natasha Romanoff

Series:

Premium service Part 2 Part 3 ✿

Cold pursuit ongoing… ✿

One-shots:

faint of heart ✿

Every little detail

Drabbles:

Stay ✿

——————————————

Wanda Maximoff

Series: Coming soon…

One-shots:

Coming soon…