Are you surprised you’re losing count? You shouldn’t be. She’s most definitely not. That was, among other things, her goal.
“Eight. That was eight. I know you’re enjoying this, I can feel you get more wet with each one, but try to use that smart little brain for me, hm?”
A high pitched moan leaves you as her hand comes down on your bare cunt once again. Your legs are spread apart, ankles held by hers. It’s normally a comfort to have Natasha’s strong body behind you—a warm and steady presence—but the way she has you trapped and unable to do anything but buck your hips up is almost infuriating.
She taps your clit with two fingers, a reminder.
“N-nine…” you squeak out, eyes pinched shut. The pleasure pain is like a subtle throb, your clit puffy and your inner thighs and cunt red. She has her mouth next to your ear, and because of that, you can feel her lips curl into a smile.
“Good girl.” Natasha brings her hand down again, and you’re expecting the slap to your sensitive clit, but then it doesn’t come. You peek an eye open, shifting your head to try to catch a glimpse of her face, and you’re thinking maybe she’s done with her fun, and then the spank finally lands.
God, she loves how your back arches in surprise. She laughs lowly into your ear, biting on the lobe as she rubs her hands over the warmed skin of your inner thighs. It’s slick there, as is the rest of your pussy.
“Count, malen'kiy zaychik,” she murmurs, voice raspy and thoroughly amused. You—her “little bunny”—are shaking in her arms, biting your lip in a failed attempt to hold back those pretty moans. “Is your brain too broken from a few spanks? You really can’t do something as simple as counting?”
“Pl-please—“ You’ve barely got the word out before another spank lands, your hips jumping up. If Natasha wasn’t holding your legs apart, they would’ve shut closed, something she’s aware of.
“Ten and eleven,” she supplies for you, “and if you try to close your legs one more time, you won’t cum for a week.” Her voice is firm, and you know she’s serious. She delivers two spanks to your pussy in quick succession, overwhelming your senses.
Tears break from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks. Her hand, the one previously used to help soothe your thighs or hold your waist, comes up and smears the salty tears across your flushed face.
“That’s it, cry for me,” she says, voice nearly a growl now. It’s affecting her just as much as it is you—the spanking. “Seven more and I’ll fuck you like the pretty slut you are. And you better keep counting, or I’ll edge you until you’re screaming.”
You feel yourself clench around nothing at her words, imagining her strap drilling into you with no mercy. Of course, she doesn’t let you dwell on the thought, because she spanks your pussy again, her closed fingers hitting your clit with direct precision.
“F-fifteen.”
Natasha rubs your clit for what feels like only two seconds, then spanks.
“Sixteen—“
Spank.
“Seventeen. Pl-please, can’t—“
Spank.
“Eighteen.”
Spank, this one on your inner left thigh, only her pinky brushing your pussy.
“Nineteen!”
The final spank comes directly to your clit again, her hand lingering to feel the sensitive bud pulse in time with your quickened heartbeat.
“T-twenty…” You’re fully crying now, but not because of pain. It’s relief now. Relief, because you know what you’ll get for taking your punishment so well.
“Oh, look at you,” Natasha hums into your ear, rubbing your clit at a steady pace now, ankles spreading your legs even wider so you feel the cold air hit directly on your now overly sensitive pussy. “Are you ready, my love? You did so well, you deserve your reward now.”
You nod desperately, hands gripping the sheets nearly hard enough to rip them. Natasha laughs again, cooing at you and enjoying the state she’s got you in.
Summary: you try to help pay. Natasha doesn't let you
Word count: ≈1200
Warnings: fluff, slight sexual implies
Reading time: ≈10 mins
Type: Oneshot
a/n
promo - join the scarlett johansson fan discord server
The front door clicks shut behind Natasha Romanoff, the rhythmic click of her heels coming to a stop just inside the doorway. You meet her quickly, pressing a kiss to her lips. She smiles as she watches you stand on your tiptoes to reach her.
“You're home early,” you comment, arms wrapped loosely around her neck.
She hums, holding your waist. “Mm...guys finished up early, so I thought I'd take you to dinner.”
“Dinner? Where?”
“It's the little Italian restaurant.”
“What do I where?”
“It's not too fancy, but it's not jeans-type either,” Natasha replies, smiling. She knew you hadn't been out together in ages, and she knows she's been staying at work longer than she should've been. “Come on, get off me. We both need to get changed.”
You sigh, untangling yourself from her before turning to walk back up the stairs as Natasha follows you.
Natasha doesn't change her style much, just swaps her navy tailored pants for black ones, her shirt for a white, thick strapped tank top and a black blazer draped over her shoulders. She never changed her earrings or her jewellery, though her wedding ring was always the only thing on her left hand.
You change into something a little nicer than your previous "eat leftovers on the couch" outfit, adding jewellery around your wedding ring where necessary.
Natasha locks the front door behind you both, quickly sidestepping Infront of you to open the passenger side door of her black Audi for you. She pushes the door shut with little effort before climbing in the driver's side, turning the key in the ignition. Her hand doesn't leave your thigh as she drives.
Once she stops the engine, you let her walk around the car to collect you, because Natasha Romanoff treats you like a princess. You both follow the waitress to a quiet booth in the corner, sitting down opposite each other.
She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Happy?”
You nod. “I'm glad you finished early. We haven't spent time together in ages.”
She grimaces slightly, reaching across to bring your hand up, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “Sorry, sweetheart. We can spend all tonight together.”
You smile, squeezing her hand. “I love you.”
She smiles back just before two menus are slid onto the table by the waitress. “Can I bring any drinks first?”
“Red wine, thanks.”
“Peach Bellini,” you tell the woman. She nods, walking back behind the bar.
“That's not wine.”
“It has alcohol in it,” you tell her.
She snorts. “Barely.”
You stick your tongue out at her, a childish gesture. “You're just jealous mine comes with fruit.”
Natasha sighs, shaking her head lovingly. “What are you fancying? Same as usual?”
“Always. You?”
“I might try a Papperdelle beef Ragu this time.”
“Ooh...that does sound good..”
Natasha smiles again, taking a sip of red wine immediately as it arrives. The waitress asks, “Are you ready to order, or still deciding?” with that typical, over polite, tired custome service smile.
“I'll have the beef Ragu, and she'll have the seafood linguini.”
“And garlic bread for the table, please,” you tell the waitress, her pen scratching across her notepad. “Thank you.”
The waitress smiles before leaving, you and your wife alone again.
“For the table?” Natasha questions.
“Yeah. For both of us.”
She just hums in response, smiling, before reaching across the table for your Bellini, taking a sip.
“Hey, you've got your wine.”
“Mm...but I wanted yours.”
You huff, rolling your eyes. “At least ask next time.”
“Don't roll your eyes at me,” Natasha murmurs lowly across the table, one eyebrow raised. You roll them again, just to be annoying. “You wanna be a brat, rolling your eyes? Oh, sweetheart...they'll be rolling tonight.”
Unfortunately, your food arrives just as your cheeks flush a hot pink, the waitress sliding your usual linguini in front of you, Natasha's Ragu in front of her and the garlic bread between you. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you,” you reply, embarrassingly shy now.
“Someone's gone shy,” Natasha hums.
“Shut up,” you mutter, biting into a piece of garlic bread. Natasha takes a bite of her beef Ragu. “Good?”
She hums. “It's alright. Not as good as you though.”
The casual way she said things like that was always what caught you off guard, like she was talking about the weather instead of how you taste or how she'll make your eyes roll back.
You clear your throat. “Yeah. Mines good too.” Natasha reaches over her plate to grab a piece of garlic bread, just as you lean over with your fork to grab a forkfull of her Ragu. “Mm..it is good.”
The food disappears quickly between you two, sharing each others meals and drinks because that's what married people do, according to Natasha.
The tiramisu you ordered, which ended up being shared because Natasha decided that she actually did want dessert, was equally delicious, and the bill was soon being slid onto the table in place of the plates. You reach into your pocket, pulling out a $50 bill and sliding it towards her.
Natasha sees it immediately. “Sweetheart.”
“Natasha,” you reply, batting your lashes innocently.
“What's that for?”
“The bill.”
“Y/N.”
“Nat.”
“No.”
“I can help pay,” you tell her.
"You can," Natasha agrees. You brighten. "Just not tonight."
You groan. "Natasha."
"Y/N."
"That's not fair."
"It is when I invited you."
You fold your arms. "We're married."
"Correct."
"Our money is basically the same money."
"Also correct."
"Then why won't you let me pay?"
Natasha considers this. Then she takes your note out of the folder. You smile triumphantly.Only for her to slide it back across the table. With two extra hundred-pound notes tucked underneath it. You stare. "Natasha." She raises an eyebrow. "Natasha."
"What?"
"Why is there more money now?"
"I improved your contribution."
You look horrified. "You added four hundred dollars!"
"Two hundred."
"That's still ridiculous!"
Natasha shrugs. Across the table, the waitress is trying very hard not to laugh. "Take it back."
"No."
"Nat,” you half-whine.
"No."
"That's not how paying works."
"It is for me."
You push the notes toward her. She pushes them back. You push them again. She pushes them back again. The waitress finally gives up pretending she can't hear. "Should I come back in a minute?"
"Please," you say immediately.
"No," Natasha says at the same time.
The waitress snorts and walks away. You drop your head into your hands. "You're impossible."
"Yet you married me."
"Unfortunately."
Natasha's smile softens. "Keep it."
"I don't need it."
"You wanted to pay."
"Yeah, not profit,” you mutter.
She reaches across the table and takes your hand. "Buy yourself something nice."
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "Is this your way of spoiling me again?"
"Maybe."
"Natasha."
"Maybe."
You try not to smile. You fail. Natasha looks entirely too pleased with herself.
A few minutes later, when you stand to leave, she slips an arm around your waist and guides you toward the door. "I'm paying next time."
"Of course you are."
You stop walking. "Really?"
"No."
"Natasha!" Her laugh follows you all the way to the car.
Sumary: Natasha didn’t expect anyone to notice she was barely holding it together—let alone you. But when a simple playdate turns into days of fevers, exhaustion, and quiet overwhelm, you’re the one who shows up. No questions. No expectations. Just soup in hand, arms open, and eyes that see right through her
Paring: Natasha Romanoff x reader, Natasha Romanoff x platonic!Avengers
Word count: 4312
warnings: flu, stomach bug, natasha being vulnerable, age gap and a huge amount of cuteness.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
author notes: Thank you all sooo much for the love you’ve sent over this mini fanfic — seriously, my heart’s full! I’m beyond excited to say that yes, a little series about our chaotic (but adorable) family is officially happening <3
Time had a funny way of folding in on itself when you weren’t paying attention.
One moment, you were a reluctant presence on the fringes of her and Ana’s quiet world, and the next… you were everywhere. Slowly. Naturally. Not because you forced your way in, but because Ana wouldn’t let you be anywhere else. Because Natasha hadn’t known she was waiting for you until you started showing up.
With each passing week, you had become more a part of them—tangled in the fabric of small, ordinary things. Breakfast crumbs. Quiet laughter. The gentle thud of little feet running to find you the moment she entered a room. Natasha had told herself it was nothing. Just temporary. Just the way Ana gravitated to you.
But it was more than that. You weren’t just a presence. You were constant. Steady. You were becoming a part of them in ways Natasha hadn’t prepared for.
And that terrified her.
Because she’d started loving you.
More than she meant to.
And not just emotionally—her body had begun responding to you like it remembered something ancient, like it knew what it wanted before her mind had a chance to catch up. It wasn’t just attraction—it was primal. Deep. Dangerous. Her womb would ache in ways she hadn’t felt since before Ana. Ovulation, hormones, cravings… not just for you, but for the idea of you beside her, in her, with her. You, with Ana. You, in their future.
And you made it worse by being exactly who you were. By showing up when she least expected it. Like now.
Natasha was wrecked. Exhausted beyond measure. It had started with one stupid playdate. She should’ve known better—one of the other mothers had been coughing in that vaguely suspicious “I’m fine, really” way, and now Natasha was paying the price. First came the fever. Then the stomach bug. First for her, then for Ana. And now they were both half-alive, curled into a blanket cocoon on Natasha’s couch, in the dim light of her apartment.
Ana was burning up and clingy in the way toddlers get when they don’t understand why they feel so awful. She wouldn’t let go of Natasha, not for a second—not even to sleep. And Natasha herself was barely staying upright, her limbs heavy, her head pounding, her body still trying to fight off the virus she’d caught. Her shirt was damp with sweat, and Ana had been crying for the last thirty minutes with no real reason other than pure discomfort.
She was drowning. Alone, exhausted, and on the edge of breaking.
And then the door opened.
No warning. No knock. Just the sound of your voice, soft but firm.
“Hey.”
Natasha didn’t have the strength to lift her head fully. But you were there. Jacket already half-off, eyes scanning the mess in a heartbeat. You didn’t need an explanation. You didn’t ask questions. You just moved.
You took Ana from her arms with practiced ease—Ana went willingly, burying her flushed face into your shoulder like it was the only place she’d ever belonged. You murmured something soft, bouncing her lightly, hand rubbing circles on her back. Natasha watched you lower onto the couch beside her, Ana now pressed between you both, content in a way she hadn’t been all day.
And just like that… the panic faded. Natasha breathed again.
Your hand brushed against hers when you reached for the thermometer on the table. You glanced at her sideways. “You look like hell.”
Natasha gave a breathless laugh. “Thanks.”
“I brought soup.”
“You’re a menace.”
But you were her menace. She leaned her head against your shoulder without meaning to, eyelids fluttering closed for just a moment.
And you let her.
There weren’t any declarations. No promises. Just the warmth of your body beside hers, Ana dozing between you both, and the quiet understanding that, somehow, this wasn’t temporary anymore.
It had never been temporary.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep—not really. Just close her eyes for a moment. But something about your presence always disarmed her, made her forget how long she’d been holding everything together. And now, with Ana tucked warm and feverish against your chest, with the tension in her own body finally starting to loosen, she let herself lean into it.
Only for a few seconds.
When she stirred, it was to the smell of something warm and simple. Soup. Real food. She blinked blearily and found you in her kitchen, moving with lazy familiarity. You were pouring the soup into a bowl, spoon already in hand, as if this was your place to do that. As if you belonged here.
You did.
You handed her the plate without a word, just gave her that look—eyebrow lifted, smirk tugging at the edge of your lips, the one you always wore when you were pretending not to care. She took it with both hands like it was a gift from the gods and didn’t even bother pretending otherwise.
“Okay,” she rasped, already taking a spoonful. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
You gave a faux bow, already shaking up a bottle for Ana with one hand while she watched you from the curve of your hip, dazed and blinking.
“It’s literally canned soup, Romanoff.”
She took another spoonful and closed her eyes, groaning. “You heated it like a pro.”
“Oh, I’m very skilled with microwaves. A real domestic goddess.”
“You’re lucky I’m too weak to throw this at you.”
“You’re welcome.” You smirked, adjusting Ana gently in your arms as you rocked side to side, absently bouncing her. It was natural now. So seamless it made something in Natasha’s chest ache.
She watched the two of you for a moment, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth. Ana had gone still, her eyes fluttering closed, hands curled loosely against your chest. She looked content. Safe. Natasha swallowed past the knot in her throat.
“How did you know?” she asked, voice quieter now, worn at the edges. “That I was sick?”
You didn’t look away from Ana, just smiled lightly and said, “F.R.I.D.A.Y. noticed your vitals were way out of range for a few hours. High cortisol, spiked temp. She told me you weren’t doing great. I figured something was up.”
Natasha blinked. “You figured?”
You finally looked at her, that teasing glint still there, but softened. “I’m not gonna let you fall apart on your own, Romanoff. You and Ana… you’re mine too. My family.”
She didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. The warmth in her chest wasn’t fever—it was you. The way you said it so simply, like it wasn’t something enormous. Like it didn’t undo her piece by piece.
She looked down at her bowl and took another bite of soup, mostly to keep from crying. “Well,” she murmured after a moment, “you might’ve just earned another microwave session.”
You raised an eyebrow, adjusting Ana as she finally slipped into deeper sleep. “I’ll take that as a declaration of love.”
She smirked, eyes still on her bowl. “Keep telling yourself that.”
And in the quiet that followed, with Ana asleep between the two of you and the warmth of soup lingering in her hands, Natasha let herself believe it was real. That maybe this wasn’t just a moment, but the beginning of something she never dared to imagine.
The soup was almost gone by the time Ana stilled completely in your arms, her little hand twitching once, then going limp against your collarbone. You stayed swaying, even as your legs must’ve grown tired, and Natasha didn’t miss the way your fingers moved gently across Ana’s back, steady and rhythmic, like it was instinct.
The kind of instinct that made her want things she had no right to want. The kind of instinct that made her heart ache.
“She loves you,” Natasha said, voice softer now, almost inaudible. She wasn’t even sure why she said it—maybe to test the sound of it in the air. Maybe to see if it shook you the way it shook her.
You didn’t look up. “I know.”
The answer was simple. Certain. It wasn’t arrogance—it was truth. You knew. And Natasha realized then that maybe you’d known for longer than she had. Maybe you’d been letting Ana pull you into their orbit from the start, quietly, without resistance. Maybe you’d been falling too.
“I thought you didn’t like kids,” she said after a beat, not teasing this time.
You finally looked over, the weight of Ana sleeping across your body anchoring you both to the moment. “I don’t,” you said lightly. Then added, “But she’s not a kid. She’s Ana.”
And Natasha smiled.
God help her, she smiled.
You glanced at her empty bowl. “Do you want me to warm up the rest?”
Natasha shook her head slowly. “No, if I eat more, I’ll owe you even more declarations of love, and I’m not sure your ego can handle that.”
“Oh, I can handle a lot,” you said, setting Ana down on the couch between you both with infinite care, your hands lingering on her curls as she whimpered, then settled again. “I’ve got range.”
She gave a tired laugh, her body sagging sideways, finally letting herself rest now that the worst of it had passed. Now that you were here.
She glanced at you through her lashes, quieter this time. “You didn’t have to come.”
You looked at her for a long second. “Yes, I did.”
There wasn’t anything more to say after that. Not really. The silence between you both wasn’t empty—it was full of unspoken things. Full of what was building day by day, moment by moment, croissant crumbs and emergency soup and the soft thump of Ana’s head against your chest.
Natasha watched Ana’s little face in sleep. Then she turned to you.
“You know,” she said lightly, “I think she’s just trying to get herself a stepmom.”
Your mouth twitched. “Well. She’s doing a damn good job.”
Natasha leaned her head back against the couch, eyes half-closing again, lips curved with something half-smile, half-surrender. “This is your fault, you know.”
You raised a brow. “Mine?”
She nodded once, slow and deliberate. “You were supposed to hate kids. I was supposed to keep my life quiet. Ana was supposed to be enough.”
“She is enough.”
“I know,” Natasha said. Then softer, “But now there’s you.”
You didn’t say anything. You just looked at her like you already belonged there. Like you’d stay. Like maybe you were already home.
And Natasha—tired, sick, warm, and full of something she hadn’t felt in years—didn’t say it either.
She just smiled.
And watched you keep pretending like you weren’t already halfway hers.
“Go take a shower,” you said, rising from the couch, Ana tucked easily against your shoulder like she belonged there. “You look disgusting.”
Natasha scoffed, too tired to argue. “Charming as ever.”
You shot her a smirk. “I’m just saying, it might not be the flu. It could be self-inflicted. Maybe try soap.”
She rolled her eyes, but the way her mouth curved betrayed her. That ridiculous, easy charm of yours—that’s what made it dangerous. Not just because you were funny or disarming or beautiful in that sharp, effortless way. But because you made it feel like loving you would be so… simple.
She watched as you disappeared into the hallway with Ana, cradling her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. And despite the biting jokes and your performative annoyance, you moved like you were born for it. Like Ana was safest in your arms.
Natasha sat still for a moment. Her muscles were aching, her skin hot from fever and sleep, but her thoughts didn’t drift toward rest. They drifted toward you.
You, humming something softly under your breath while you ran warm water for Ana. You, scooping bubbles with your hand and making her giggle, even feverish and worn out as she was. You, being gentle. Thoughtful. Patient.
You, who weren’t supposed to want any of this.
But you did. Maybe not in the way you’d admit out loud—not yet. Still, it was there in every wordless offering. In the croissant you split without blinking. In the soup you served before she could even ask. In the way you told her, so casually, that they were yours too. That this—her and Ana—was home.
What are we even becoming? she thought, rubbing a hand over her eyes. The question made her heart beat harder than it should have.
She leaned her head back against the couch and sighed. For so long, her future had been a blank space—no risks, no attachments, just the weightless quiet of a life lived in retreat. Ana had changed that. She’d started painting the outlines of something new: slow mornings, comfort food, the kind of chaos that wasn’t dangerous but deeply, beautifully human.
But you… You filled the rest in.
And it terrified her, how easily she could see it now.
The three of you. A home that wasn’t just a safehouse. A life that wasn’t just survival. She could almost feel it like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, she thought, dragging herself to her feet. It’s just soup. Just a bath. Just you.
But she smiled anyway.
When you returned, Ana was clean and dressed in fresh pajamas, her damp curls already drying against your shoulder. She was fast asleep again, breath soft and steady against your neck. You were barefoot, shirt wrinkled, and your hair damp from whatever splash damage Ana had managed in the bath—but you looked so at ease. Like this had been your life forever.
“Your turn,” you murmured, keeping your voice low not to wake the baby. “Go. Before your skin peels off.”
Natasha huffed, but moved toward the bathroom without protest. She stopped in the doorway, turning back once more to glance at you. You were pacing slightly, patting Ana’s back, rocking her with barely a thought.
You didn’t see her watching you.
You didn’t have to.
Because the truth had already rooted itself deep in Natasha’s chest, undeniable and warm and terrifying.
This was never part of the plan, she thought, fingers curled lightly on the doorframe. But maybe it should’ve been.
And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the shower, letting herself wash off everything but the thoughts of you that clung stubbornly to her skin
The scent of soap and baby shampoo clung to the air. And she stared at it—the water, the stillness, the ghost of a moment that wasn’t hers alone anymore—and for the first time in days, she smiled without exhaustion in her bones.
You were supposed to be a complication.
Instead, you were comfort.
Natasha deixou seus pensamentos vagarem — só um pouquinho.
To quiet nights and lavender baths.
To soft smiles and someone else cooking soup.
To a world where she wasn’t carrying everything alone anymore.
Maybe not just someone.
Maybe you.
The water had helped.
Not in any dramatic, life-changing way, but enough. Enough to strip away the fog in her mind, the heat on her skin, the ache in her muscles that had been screaming for rest. She toweled off slowly, her movements heavy but less desperate now. Steam clung to the mirror as she stepped out into her room, wrapped in one of her fluffiest towels, hair damp and curling against her neck.
And paused.
You were there. Bent over her bed, sleeves pushed up, changing the sheets like it was the most natural thing in the world. You had already stripped the sick-sweat-drenched set and tossed them in the hamper. Now you were laying down clean ones—fresh, cool cotton with the faint scent of lavender detergent. Probably the same kind you used for Ana’s things.
“You organizing my closet next?” she said, arms crossing loosely over her chest, voice drier than the towel wrapped around her.
You glanced over your shoulder with a grin. “Already color-coded your knives, too.”
Natasha snorted, dragging her hand through her damp hair. “This part of the rescue mission, or are you just nesting?”
“Someone had to make your bed not smell like death,” you replied. “I drew the short straw.”
“Really? I think you’re just obsessed with me.”
You paused for half a second. Just enough for her to notice.
Then you looked at her with a smirk that was half-deflection, half-something warmer. “Keep telling yourself that, Romanoff.”
She hummed and moved slowly toward the bed as you smoothed out the comforter. You were almost done, and her limbs were already sagging with the pull of sleep again. Still, she didn’t want to rush this part. This version of you—quietly caring, effortlessly present, always pretending it meant less than it did—it made her want to look twice.
You finished tucking the corners in and stepped back, giving the space a satisfied nod.
“I know,” you said. “Perfect. You’re welcome.”
Natasha rolled her eyes but sat down, slowly sinking into the clean sheets like they were heaven itself. They felt crisp and cool against her overheated skin, and she let out a sigh she didn’t mean to.
“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, watching her with something closer to pride than smugness. “Say it. I’m incredible.”
She didn’t say it. But she smiled.
And when her head hit the pillow, she felt the familiar haze of exhaustion crawling back. Her eyes fluttered shut—but only for a second, because then you spoke again, voice lower now, less teasing.
“I can stay.”
Natasha blinked up at you.
You were standing beside her, looking down, and for once you weren’t hiding behind a joke. “I mean. If you want,” you continued, scratching lightly at the back of your neck. “I can sit with Ana tonight. Keep an eye on her so you can actually sleep.”
It wasn’t the offer itself that made her heart stutter—it was the way you made it sound like breathing. Like of course you would. Like this was your home too.
She opened her mouth to say thank you. To tell you that was kind. That you didn’t have to.
But what came out instead was, “Lie down.”
Your brows lifted. “What, here?”
She patted the empty space beside her. “You already changed the sheets. Might as well test them.”
You hesitated for a breath. Maybe two. Then you moved without a word, toeing off your shoes and sliding in beside her. There was still space between you—barely—but it felt charged. Intentional.
Ana’s soft breathing came from the baby monitor on the nightstand, and for the first time in two long, fever-drenched days, the room felt calm.
You turned your head on the pillow to face her.
“You sure about this?”
Natasha looked at you. At the girl who didn’t like kids. The one who made her soup and changed her sheets and rocked her daughter to sleep in the bath.
“I think I’ve been sure for a while,” she said softly.
You didn’t answer.
You just smiled—small and a little dazed—and reached over, letting your pinky brush hers between the sheets. Not taking. Not pushing. Just offering.
And Natasha, ex-spy, assassin, mother—she curled her finger around yours and held on.
The room had gone quiet.
Not the kind of silence that weighed heavy or pressed against your chest—but a hush that wrapped around them gently. Like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting for them to notice it.
Ana’s breathing was soft through the monitor. The hum of the city outside filtered in faintly through the curtains. But here, in this bed, there was only warmth. And you.
You didn’t speak for a while. Neither of you did.
You stayed lying beside her, not touching, not rushing. The kind of nearness that said more than closeness ever could. And Natasha—who had known how to kill a man in a dozen ways before she ever learned how to ask for help—just let herself exist in the moment.
Eventually, your voice broke through the dark.
“Do you miss it?”
She turned her head slightly, eyes finding you in the half-light. “Miss what?”
“The life before this.” You hesitated, your gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Before Ana. Before… quiet mornings and lavender soap and someone needing you all the time.”
Natasha took a long breath. Then shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I was good at it. But I never wanted to go back to that.”
You nodded, slow. Processing.
“I didn’t think you’d say that,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Everyone talks about you like you were unstoppable. Like you were this myth in red.”
Natasha smiled faintly. “I was a myth. But it wasn’t peace. It was noise. Constant noise. I didn’t realize how tired I was until she was born.”
You looked over at her. “And now?”
She met your eyes. “Now it’s like… I finally exhaled. Like I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until I saw her.”
There was a pause. You shifted slightly, the sheets rustling just a little. “She’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have her,” Natasha corrected gently. And then, after a beat, her voice softer: “And I think I’m starting to feel the same way about you.”
You blinked. Slowly. As if the words had knocked the air out of you without even touching you.
“You don’t have to say that,” you murmured, eyes flickering down. “Just because I’ve been showing up. I mean… anyone would, right?”
“No,” Natasha said simply.
She reached out then—not boldly, but with certainty—and let her hand rest on your arm, grounding, warm. “Not anyone. You.”
You swallowed hard, and for a second, she thought you might pull away. Instead, you turned toward her a little more, eyes clearer than she’d seen them all night.
“I didn’t think I had room for this,” you said, and the way your voice cracked a little almost broke her. “Not just the kid thing. Any of it. I have lived on my own since I was seventeen. I wasn’t built for this kind of… closeness. I thought it would break me.”
You let out a shaky breath. Then, tentatively, like you were still surprised it was allowed, you reached for her hand and held it fully this time.
“Sometimes I think she knew before I did,” you said.
“Who?” Natasha asked.
“Ana.” Your voice turned fond. “She just… decided. I walked into that briefing room and it was over. She picked me. I never stood a chance.”
Natasha smiled again—tired, wrecked, but so full of feeling it ached.
“She does have good taste.”
“Yeah,” you said, thumb brushing over hers. “She really does.”
Another pause. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full—of something new, something forming in the quiet between you.
“I can stay,” you said again, softer. “Not just tonight. If you’ll let me.”
Natasha didn’t answer right away.
She looked at you, fully and openly, and saw the way you looked back—unguarded, raw, still scared, but trying.
Trying for them.
So she gave you the simplest answer she could.
“You already are.”
You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her, eyes barely open, red hair a damp halo on her pillow, face soft in a way the world rarely got to see. That expression—the quiet, raw one that didn’t come from war zones or missions or victory, but from something quieter. Something safe.
You shifted, slow and careful, until your body was turned fully toward her. And then, without asking, without needing to, you reached out and wrapped your arm around her waist. Gently, but without hesitation.
Natasha didn’t tense. Didn’t joke or protest or pretend to be made of stone.
She just let you do it.
And when you pulled her against you—when you guided her into your space like she belonged there—she went easily. Folded into you like she’d been waiting for it all along. Her back settled against your chest, her breath hitched just once, and then her whole body melted.
You held her close. Not like she might disappear, but like you were tired of pretending you didn’t want to. Like holding her was the most natural conclusion to every shared moment before this.
Your arm tucked snugly around her waist. Your nose brushed the back of her hair. She smelled like clean skin, steam, and something faintly herbal—maybe Ana’s baby shampoo, clinging to her like a memory. She was warm and exhausted and completely real.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world could’ve fallen apart around you and it wouldn’t have mattered.
“Is this okay?” you murmured against her shoulder, voice almost lost in the dark.
She nodded, a slow movement against your pillow. “It’s more than okay.”
You felt her fingers brush yours where they rested on her stomach, weaving through them with deliberate care. Not asking. Not rushing. Just saying I’m here.
And she didn’t speak again. Didn’t need to. She let out a shaky sigh—half relief, half something deeper—and her muscles softened further in your arms. She nestled closer, fitting her body more tightly to yours until you could feel every small breath, every quiet shift, every wordless surrender.
You held her tighter. Pressed your forehead lightly to the back of her neck. Whispered her name once, like a promise.
And when she finally fell asleep like that—safe, held, loved—you stayed awake just a little longer. Listening to her breathing even out. Feeling the weight of her against you.
Summary: On a mission gone wrong, the Avengers are thrown back into 1943, where Natasha goes undercover and falls in love with a sharp, kind-hearted young woman: you. When the team finds a way back to the future, Natasha leaves without explanation — but you know better, and spend the rest of your life waiting for a promise that was never really broken.
Men and minors DNI
The mission went sideways fast.
They were expecting a weapons cache. Maybe some human experimentation—the usual Hydra horror show—but instead, tucked beneath the snow-covered Alps, they found something they couldn’t make sense of.
A machine.
It was massive, built like a generator, whirring quietly in the centre of the underground lab. Strange glyphs were carved into the metal. Not Wakandan. Not Skrull. Not anything they recognised. Tony circled it, eyes sharp beneath his visor, muttering theories under his breath.
“Definitely not from this century,” Bruce had said, crouching down beside a panel.
That’s when one of the Hydra agents, half-dead but grinning like a zealot, slammed his bloody palm on a red switch.
Everything went white.
When they came to, it was cold. Snow drifted in the air. Old-growth pine trees stretched high above. No satellites. No cell service. No sign of the bunker.
Just a rusted sign nailed to a tree:
“U.S. Military Training Grounds — Camp Lehigh.”
Steve went still. His mouth parted slightly, eyes distant. “This… this is where I trained. Before the serum.”
They were in the past.
Not metaphorically. Not in a ‘Hydra’s behind old tech’ kind of way. But literally, irreversibly in the past.
1943.
Steve looked like a ghost. Bucky was eerily quiet. And Natasha? Natasha adjusted the straps of her tactical vest, swept snow from her boots, and said calmly, “We need to blend in. Quickly.”
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The plan, insane as it was, came together faster than expected.
They faked identities. Claimed to be a European special ops unit sent for coordination. Natasha, Wanda, and Sam infiltrated the camp first, using forged papers, heavy accents, and enough charm to get past the half-curious, half-exhausted guards. Steve and Bucky—this era’s versions—were somewhere on the base. That was a problem.
A few nights in, they sedated them. Took their clothes, their roles, and stashed them with a trustworthy medic deep in the countryside. Steve had insisted on it being non-lethal. “They have to survive. It’s the timeline.”
And so, just like that, the Avengers became ghosts among ghosts. Soldiers who never existed. Shadows in old photographs.
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You first met her on laundry duty.
You were scrubbing a blood-stained sleeve in a freezing tin bucket, your breath clouding in the morning air, when the redhead with foreign eyes walked past.
She paused. “You use cold water for blood?”
You glanced up. Her uniform didn’t match anyone you knew. Neither did her voice—smoothed by years of languages, all of them layered over Russian.
“Warm sets it,” you replied. “Cold gets it out.”
She tilted her head. “Not bad. What’s your name?”
“People just call be Dovie.”
“Dovie,” she repeated. The name sat strangely gentle in her mouth. “I’m Natalia.”
And she didn’t leave.
You expected her to keep walking—most did—but instead she knelt beside you, dipped her hands in your bucket like she’d done it a hundred times, and said, “Give me a sleeve.”
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You didn’t fall in love with her right away.
It started in pieces.
A look across the canteen. The way she smiled, but only for you. How she spoke a dozen languages under her breath and never flinched when the bombs went off nearby.
She wasn’t like the other soldiers. She wasn’t like anyone.
But God, she made you feel safe.
You grew closer, in stolen moments. She would sit by your bunk late at night, whispering stories from “home” that didn’t quite add up. Cities that didn’t exist. Wars that hadn’t happened yet. You thought she was grieving. You didn’t press.
There was a tenderness to her that didn’t match the violence you saw when she fought. A contradiction. You liked contradictions.
One night, under the brittle stars, she kissed you like it might be the last time. Like she already knew how this story ended.
From then on, you were hers. And she was yours.
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Time didn’t feel real.
Not when she was holding you. Not when you were laughing in the mess tent, or stealing sheets from the officers’ quarters, or dancing slowly in the supply closet to a crackling old phonograph.
You asked her once, when things quieted, “Do you ever think about after?”
She looked at you too long. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I try not to,” she said. “But with you, I almost wish I could.”
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They found a way back.
Tony, Bruce, and Shuri—whom they’d brought accidentally via a failed beacon jump—had been quietly reconstructing the time device in the ruins of an old chapel. A makeshift lab. Wires, stolen plutonium, scavenged parts.
“Two more days,” Tony said. “And we’re out of here.”
Natasha stood silently in the doorway, your dog tags wrapped around her fingers.
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She didn’t tell you. She couldn’t.
She said she had to go to the front line. A reconnaissance mission. Just a week. Maybe two.
You didn’t argue. Not at first.
You just looked at her for a long, quiet moment. Then:
“You’re not coming back, are you?”
She froze.
You stood there, arms crossed, jaw trembling. “It’s in your eyes. You already said goodbye.”
Natasha looked down. Her silence said everything.
“I don’t know what you are,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you’re not from here, are you?”
Still, she didn’t answer.
“I don’t care,” you said. “I love you anyway.”
Her lips parted. Her eyes, rimmed red, finally met yours. “I love you too.”
And it was the truth.
It had always been the truth.
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That night, you danced.
In a quiet corner of the chapel-turned-lab, with soft light spilling through broken stained glass, Tony found an old phonograph.
He put on a record.
“Kiss me once, then kiss me twice…”
You were already crying by the second verse.
“…then kiss me once again… It’s been a long, long time.”
Natasha held you like you were the last real thing in the world. You swayed slowly, cheek pressed to her shoulder, trying to memorise the shape of her hands on your waist.
“If you ever end up visiting Brooklyn,” you whispered, “come find me.”
Natasha didn’t speak. She just nodded.
And that night, she made love to you like she was trying to etch herself into your skin. Slow. Deep. Reverent. As though if she touched you carefully enough, she could stay.
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When you woke up, she was gone.
The blankets were still warm. Her side of the bed smelled like her.
You sat up slowly, already crying.
On the pillow beside you, she’d left your dog tags and a small, folded scrap of paper. You opened it with trembling hands.
It said, in her sharp, slanted handwriting:
“I’ll find you. In every life. —N.”
There was a smudge of lipstick at the corner.
And nothing else.
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Back in the present, everything resumed like nothing had happened.
Natasha was quiet. Focused. Efficient. She kept the pain buried like she’d buried everything else.
But at night, when the tower went still, she sometimes put on that same song.
She’d lean against the windows of her floor, watching the city lights, eyes glazed with memory.
And she’d whisper your name to the wind, hoping time might be cruel enough to let it echo back.
“It’s been a long, long time…”
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The mission was done. The machine had worked. The past had closed around them like a wound.
And yet, Natasha never healed.
She walked the streets of Brooklyn in silence, years later, half-hoping, half-dreading she’d never find a trace of you. You belonged to another time. Another life.
But then she saw you.
Or — no. Not you.
A girl. Young. Laughing. Balancing two coffees and a bag of bagels, coat flapping in the wind.
You.
Exactly.
Same eyes. Same mouth. Same walk.
Natasha stopped dead on the corner, wind slicing through her like ice. She watched the girl disappear into a brownstone with ivy crawling up the bricks. A name was etched onto the buzzer.
L/N.
She stared at it.
Then pressed the button.
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The girl opened the door like a hurricane. “Sorry, my hands are—oh.”
Her smile froze.
You — this echo of you — looked at Natasha with a weird kind of familiarity. Like a dream she half-remembered from childhood.
“Can I help you?”
“I… I knew your grandmother.”
There was a pause.
Then: “You’re her Natalia, aren’t you?”
Natasha’s breath caught. “What?”
The girl stepped back, stunned. Her eyes watered instantly. “Oh my God. You’re real.”
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Inside the flat, photos lined the walls. Most were old. Sepia. A few in colour. There you were, smiling in every one — young, older, elderly — always with that same spark.
“She talked about you every day,” the girl said, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, still in her coat. “Said you were a ghost from the war. The red-haired soldier who stole her heart, danced with her in the dark, and vanished like smoke.”
Natasha stood frozen, fingers trailing the edge of a black-and-white photo. It was you, in uniform, a crooked grin on your face.
“She left you something,” the girl said. “Said it wouldn’t make sense until you found me.”
She disappeared down the hall and returned with a small, battered tin box. Natasha opened it with trembling fingers. Inside:
• The old dog tags
• A folded piece of paper — her note from that night
• And a letter.
“To Natalia.
If you’re reading this, then you did what you always said you would — you found me. Not the me you left behind, but some piece of me. That means everything.”
“I never forgot you. Not for a single day. And when I saw her — my granddaughter — I knew she had your fire in her future.”
“Please don’t love her because she looks like me. But if you love her at all, love her for her own soul.”
“But if you choose to walk away — I’ll understand. You gave me your only forever. Thank you.”
— Dovie
Natasha’s eyes blurred. She had to sit down.
Across from her, the girl — your granddaughter — was crying quietly. “She always said you’d be the great heartbreak of her life. But she never sounded sad about it. Just… grateful.”
Natasha looked at her. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if the ache in her chest was loss or something dangerously close to hope.
“I’m not her,” the girl said, voice trembling. “But if you want to talk, I make a killer cup of tea.”
Natasha smiled, exhausted. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
She stayed for an hour. Then two.
You weren’t there. But your memory was. Your warmth had been passed down like an heirloom. This girl had your curiosity. Your laughter. She showed Natasha old journals, records, a locket with your photo in it.
And when Natasha finally stood to leave, the girl asked, shyly:
“Do you think… we could talk again sometime?”
Natasha hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
She visited again a week later. Then again.
Never pretending it was you.
But letting herself fall — slowly, uncertainly — in love with the life you left behind.
You Were His Mission | Natasha Romanoff x Stark Reader!
Summary: She was your father's new assistant, or so she wanted you to believe.
Content Warning: Mild violence and emotional conflict.
Word count: 1061 words
From the moment Natalie Rushman walked through the doors of Stark Tower, you knew something was off. She was too perfect. Her walk, her presence, her precision. She observed every corner like she already knew it, every gesture calculated as if she expected to be discovered. Tony—your father—introduced her as a recommendation from Human Resources: his new personal assistant. But you, with the sharp intuition you inherited from him and your own innate intelligence, knew she wasn’t just an efficient secretary.
Natalie was a constant. Always present. Always a few steps away. Always smiling, as if she were playing a game only she knew the rules to. The worst part was that, even though you didn’t trust her, you couldn’t look away. The way she looked at you was like she was stripping your soul bare. Every word she spoke felt rehearsed, and yet, when she said your name, there was something… different. A softness that sent shivers down your spine.
You didn’t want to admit it, but you were drawn to her. Terribly so. That attraction mixed with your distrust, making everything harder. As if every step you took to unmask her brought you closer to wanting her. And it consumed you.
You started tracking her movements. You faked run-ins in the lab, asked for help with projects you could handle on your own. You were playing with fire. She never slipped up, never hesitated. She always knew exactly where to find what you needed—even if you’d never mentioned it. And that wasn’t normal.
You also noticed how she sought you out. She appeared on floors she had no reason to be on. She showed up with vague excuses, always with that smile on her lips, like she had been waiting for you. Like you were her mission too.
And you were.
You just didn’t know it yet.
The elevator was the breaking point. You were heading to the testing level, reviewing a new biotech model you’d been obsessed with for days, when Natalie appeared. She stepped in with that effortless elegance. Fitted suit, folder in hand, eyes fixed forward. She stood beside you, silent, almost like a reflection.
The background music was barely a whisper. The elevator descended slowly. And your heart was pounding like a free fall.
“Stop pretending,” you said, without looking directly at her.
She turned her face toward you slowly. Her eyes scanned you in a second, her brow arching with elegance. But her expression didn’t show surprise.
“Excuse me?” her voice was calm—too calm.
“I know who you are,” you said, locking eyes with her this time. “Natalie Rushman doesn’t exist. You’re not my father’s assistant. You’re Natasha Romanoff. SHIELD agent. Spy.”
Silence stretched for a moment. Barely a second. Then she smiled. Not mockingly—knowingly.
“You’re as brilliant as they say.”
“And you’re as cynical as you seem,” you shot back, your tone sharp, barely hiding your racing pulse.
You didn’t know what pushed you. Maybe the adrenaline. Maybe the desire. Maybe the fact that she was so close. But you stepped forward and tried to grab her from behind—an impulsive attempt to prove you could beat her at her own game.
It wasn’t smart.
In seconds, Natasha spun, deflected your arm, threw you off balance, and pinned you to the ground with a move so clean it knocked the air out of you. There was no pain, but your body hit the floor and your lungs emptied from surprise. You were trapped under her gaze, her face just inches from yours. You could feel her breath.
She was smiling.
“Be grateful I like you,” she whispered.
And she walked away as if nothing had happened, leaving you lying on the elevator floor, caught between humiliation, desire, and a growing obsession.
Days passed, and the tension between you grew. Every time Natalie appeared, your heart raced and your suspicions grew stronger. But her presence also became more and more irresistible.
One afternoon, in the lab, you were working together on a project to improve biometric sensors for armor. Your fingers accidentally brushed hers as you handed her a component. She paused, looking at you with something between amusement and something indefinable.
"You're Tony Stark's daughter, but with a touch of your mother," she murmured in a low voice, almost a sigh.
You didn't know what to say. You just nodded.
"I know you're looking for me," she continued, "not just with your eyes."
You felt trapped by her words, and before you could react, her hand covered yours.
"Let it go," she whispered. "Not everything is what it seems."
Before you could reply, an alarm sounded throughout the Tower. Something had happened in the testing wing.
Later that night Tony’s party was elegant chaos. Guests from around the world, music blasting, drinks everywhere. And Tony, completely drunk, pretending to be a DJ with his suit’s glove while “California Love” blared from the speakers. The atmosphere was a ticking bomb.
And then, there she was. Natasha. In a tight red dress that looked like a living threat. Hair down, lips scarlet—a goddess among sinners. She avoided you and sought you at the same time. Every time you got close, you felt her back brush your chest, her lips near your ear, her words like sweet blades.
“You look more beautiful when you’re trying to figure me out,” she whispered during one of those brushes, her back against you while pretending to look at something across the room.
Your hands were trembling—not from fear, but from restrained desire. And just then, everything went to hell.
Tony, in his drunken state, activated part of his suit and broke several glasses trying to “liven up the party.” Rhodey shouted from across the room, clearly annoyed.
“Tony, stop! This isn’t a damn comedy club!”
“Relax, Rhodey! We’re celebrating!” Tony yelled, firing a beam near the floor just for fun.
Rhodey didn’t wait. His suit activated, and within seconds both were in the middle of the room, firing energy blasts while guests fled.
That’s when Natasha found you again. She grabbed you by the shirt, firmly, and shoved you behind a steel column.
“Stay here!” she ordered, standing in front of you like a human shield.
“I’m not leaving you out there alone,” you protested, trying to grab her arm.
She turned, her face hardened—but her eyes… her eyes said something else.
“Don’t make me choose between duty and you,” she said, quietly.
Before you could reply, she kissed you.
It was sudden. Fierce. Like the world was about to end right then. Her lips crushed against yours, her hands holding your face, and you… you embraced her like she was the only anchor in the chaos.
When you pulled apart, you were both breathless. The music still thumped in the background. The fight continued. But in that little corner, the universe had shrunk to a pair of lips and an unspoken confession.
“You lied to me,” you whispered, your thumb brushing her cheek.
“Yes,” Natasha admitted, shamelessly.
“And this? Is this part of the plan too?”
She shook her head slowly. Her gaze softened.
“This… is you. And that complicates everything.”
She looked at you one last time, with that mix of desire and danger only she could conjure—and then she was gone. A shadow once more. The spy again.
But you knew the truth now. You had seen it in her eyes. Natasha Romanoff could lie to the whole world.
Except to you.
And that, you knew, was the beginning of something much bigger than any mission.
mommy!nat who keeps her fingers in your panties all night, saying its because “you are just so warm malyshka”. when you finally fall asleep, completely unaware of the fact that she began touching your ‘princess parts’. listening to your soft whimpers, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you. after you woke up in the morning, confused sleepy and with sticky thighs you questioned her.
mommy!nat just dismissed it saying “its okay, zaya. you just had one of those naughty girl dreams. how about you make it up to mommy, hm?”
