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Pairing: Mafiaboss!Natasha X wife!reader
Summary: after deciding to try out a new TikTok trend, Natasha quickly reminds you you're hers.
Word count: ≈1600
Warnings: possessive Natasha
Reading time: ≈12 mins
Type: oneshot
a/n - decided to try something different and have contemplated posting it for days. i think this is proper rubbish tbh but whatever
promo - join the scarlett johansson fan discord server
You'd seen the recent trends on TikTok, while you sat scrolling between various house jobs that needed completing personally. Trends never really interest you, but this one did.
The next video comes onto your screen. “My heel collection as someone who hates heels,” “My heels as someone who works in business.”
What harm could come from giving it a go yourself? You push yourself up from the sofa, moving to your walk-in closet in yours and Natasha's room. She was still at work, doing whatever mafia boss' do all day.
Perfect time to do a silly TikTok. You pull out a few of your favourite heels. A pair of black Loubuttins, with the red sole beneath the heel. A pair of simple black heels, Manolo Blahnik, if you remember it right. Then, Jimmy Choo heels, black, with a silver-stoned ankle strap. A simple tall, red heel. Long, above-the-knee black boots. Finally, another black pair, with straps that wrapped around.
You prop your phone up against the closet door, ready to record on Tiktok.
You step into the frame in just your old “stay at home” socks, then out just as the recording pauses. First, you remove your socks, then slip your feet into the Loubuttin heels with the red underneath. They were the first pair of heels Natasha had bought, so they were fairly special to you.
You reset the film, then step into the frame again, holding one foot up slightly to show the heels off properly before stepping out of the camera.
Next , the Manolo heels, simple, casual, with a relatively small heels. You step back into the frame once again, hold one foot up briefly, then step out. Two heels down, and still a good half an hour before Natasha should be getting home. You know she doesn't really like you messing around with TikTok trends, but she isn't here now.
You fasten the silver-stoned strap around your ankle, walking casually back into the frame. You'd seen other people's versions of this, watching them slip or trip or just look all-around uncomfortable in heels, but not you. If there was a professional heel-wearer, you were it.
Next, the pair of tall red heels. They were probably your least favourite of what Natasha had bought for you, but the way she'd looked as she handed them over with a bouquet of flowers was too romantic to say no to.
You have to work hard, as usual, to pull the knee-high boots onto your legs, your arm workout, really, but you loved the boots. You stand up from the little stool in the corner, rotating your ankles a little in the boots as you lean down to zip the sides up. They weren't exactly tall heels, so maybe it was something to do with them being knee-highs that made you feel so much taller in them.
You smile slightly, even though noone can see it, as you step back into the frame, slightly further away this time to capture the full length of the boots.
Finally, you slip on probably your favourite pair of heels: the black, stiletto-like heels with the wrap-around ankle strap.
You wrap it around once, twice, then finally buckle it together at the back of your calf, resetting the camera for a final time. Your perfectly manicured toenails, paid for by Natasha, of course, are visible now for everyone to see how much money she spends on your nails.
You curl one leg upwards slightly a final time, when you feel a silent presence behind you. Two strong arms snake around your waist, Natasha’s chin settles against your shoulder. “What’s this?” she asks softly.
You jump slightly before relaxing back into her warmth. “A trend.”
“Mm.” Her eyes drag over the phone screen, over the heels lined neatly across the floor. “And you were planning to post this?”
“Maybe.”
One manicured hand slides down your waist slowly before stopping at your hip. “Detka,” Natasha murmurs, almost amused, “do you have any idea what those shoes do to people?”
You snort softly. “They’re just heels.”
Natasha’s laugh is quiet against your ear. Dangerous. “No,” she says. “They’re my wife in heels. They make people stare.”
“People stare because you walk around like you own Manhatten,” you snort, letting her press her lips to your cheek.
“I own parts of it,” she replies against you, casual as talking about the weather.
You nod, “that's why people stare. 'cause you own the place.”
She shakes her head now, her hands gliding over your dress down to your waist to spin you around to face her. “People stare, because my wife is gorgeous.”
Natasha’s eyes flick down slowly, taking in the thin black straps winding around your ankle, the sharp heel lifting your leg just enough to make the slit of your dress fall open a little more. “…Those are new,” she says quietly.
You smile innocently. “You bought them.”
“I buy you a lot of things, detka.” Her hands settle on your waist again, thumbs pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress. “Doesn’t mean I expect the internet to see them.”
“It’s just a TikTok trend.”
“Mhm.” Natasha glances toward the phone still recording against the closet door. The little red light blinks steadily. “And how many people exactly were you planning on showing my wife’s legs to?”
You laugh softly. “You sound jealous.”
“I am jealous.”
The honesty catches you off guard enough that your smile falters slightly. Natasha steps closer until the pointed toe of her heel nudges between your heels. “You know what these say to people?” she asks, fingers sliding down the straps around your calf.
“What?”
“That you’re expensive.” Her voice lowers. “Untouchable. Mine.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks instantly. Natasha notices, of course she notices. She always notices. Her gaze drifts toward the lineup of shoes on the floor. The Louboutins. The boots. The Jimmy Choos sparkling beneath the closet lights. Little pieces of a life you never thought you’d have.
“You know what I like most?” she murmurs. You shake your head slightly. “That none of them look uncomfortable on you.” A faint smirk tugs at her mouth. “Everyone else wears heels like they’re suffering through them.” Her hand squeezes your hip lightly. “You wear them like weapons.”
You snort softly. “That sounds dramatic.”
“I’m Russian. Everything sounds dramatic.”
That earns a real laugh from you, warm and bright, and Natasha’s expression softens instantly at the sound. Then her eyes drift back to the phone again. “You’re still not posting it.”
“Oh, come on—”
“No.” She leans down just enough for her nose to brush yours. “Because then strangers start thinking they can look at you the way I do.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Very.”
You grin despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
Natasha hums softly. “Maybe.” Her fingers trace lightly down your front. “Keep the heels on though.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Natasha.”
“What?” she asks innocently. “I’m appreciating my wife.”
You hum, “I kno—” cut off by her lips pressing against yours. Natasha’s hand tightens slightly at your waist when you smile against the kiss, like she can feel you trying not to laugh at how possessive she’s being. When she pulls back, her lipstick is faintly smudged now. “You think this is funny.”
“A little bit.”
“Mhm.” Her gaze drops again to the heels wrapped around your ankles. “You know these are dangerous.”
“They’re shoes.”
“They’re six-inch black stilettos on my wife,” Natasha corrects calmly. “That is a weapon.”
You roll your eyes affectionately. “You sound insane.”
“And yet,” she murmurs, fingertips brushing your stomach, “you married me anyway.”
Your phone is still recording from across the closet. The tiny red light blinks steadily while Natasha looks you over like she’s cataloguing every detail; the slit of your dress, the straps winding around your legs, the polished black heel against the hardwood floor. “You know,” you tease lightly, “normal people just say their wife looks pretty.”
Natasha’s mouth twitches. “I did say you look pretty.”
“No, you said I looked expensive.”
“You are expensive.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“It is to me.”
You laugh again, quieter this time, and Natasha’s expression softens immediately at the sound. It always does. Beneath the sharp suits and cold reputation and the way people lower their voices when she enters a room, there’s still this version of her with you; hands warm on your waist, eyes softer than anyone else ever gets to see. Her thumb brushes the inside of your wrist absentmindedly. “Which pair is your favorite?”
You glance toward the line of shoes scattered across the floor. “These,” you admit, lifting one foot slightly. The black wraparound stilettos catch the closet light subtly. “Definitely these.”
Natasha hums approvingly. “Good choice.”
“Why? Because they’re your favorite too?”
“No.” A slow smirk appears. “Because they make your legs look incredible.”
“Natasha.”
“What?” she asks innocently again, though her hands slide lower to your hips. “I’m being honest.”
You shake your head, trying to hide your smile. “You’re impossible.”
“And you were about to post this online for free.” She tsks softly, dramatic. “Terrible business strategy.”
You snort. “Maybe I’ll post it anyway.”
Natasha’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Detka.”
“You can’t stop me.” A pause.Then Natasha reaches past you calmly and taps the screen, ending the recording instantly. You stare at her. “Did you just—”
“Yes.”
“That took me like half an hour!”
“And now,” she says smoothly, slipping the phone onto the shelf behind her, “you can spend that half hour paying attention to your wife instead.”
Your mouth falls open slightly in disbelief before you laugh again. Natasha smiles faintly at the sound, then leans in close enough for her forehead to rest against yours.
“Besides,” she murmurs softly, eyes flicking down to the heels one last time, “those were never meant for strangers.”