A bit jelly, aren´t we?
pairing: roommate!natasha romanoff x fem!reader
summary: living with nat was supposed to be a lucky craigslist accident - not a game of slow-burn tension and stolen hoodies
word count: 4.3k
warnings: 18+!!!, swearing, drinking, explicit smut, sexual tension, edging, praise, light dom/sub vibes, reader being a brat, pining, party flirting, suggestive teasing, soft aftercare, natasha being masc, cocky, and a big softy under all that muscle
an: this one’s been sitting in my drafts for forever, only recently circled back to finish it, the smut was way easier to write than expected, so maybe it’s not just a want anymore it’s a need. so yes please.
☀️ Summer with A masterlist ☀️
You’re both half-draped on the couch, leftover takeout boxes between you, some indie film playing quietly in the background, the kind that’s more vibes than plot.
Natasha leans her head back on the cushion, lazily glancing your way. "You're staring," she says.
You scoff, "I’m not."
"Mmhmm," she shifts, her knee bumping yours. "So it’s just your eyes naturally drifting in my direction at every possible opportunity?"
Your voice is quieter than you mean it to be, "maybe you’re the one sitting in my line of sight."
She grins, "maybe I just like being in it."
You look down at your hands, your hoodie sleeves pushed over your knuckles, "you’re annoying."
"And yet-" Natasha nudges your sock-covered foot with hers once again, "-you keep inviting me to your part of the couch.”
You don’t answer. Not immediately. Your cheeks are warm and you’re too aware of how her presence is making you feel. "I don’t remember inviting you to my part of the couch," you murmur.
"Oh," she hums, tilting her head, red hair falling over her shoulder. "So this is not your part of the couch? Interesting."
"Don’t start."
"Too late." She grins. "I claim diplomatic immunity as your roommate."
"You’re not diplomatic."
"I am after two beers." She lifts her half-empty bottle. "Which you opened for me, by the way. So caring."
You mutter, "I was being polite."
"Polite and gentle." She taps the rim of her bottle against yours. "Chivalrous, even. Be still, my heart."
You roll your eyes, "you’re insufferable."
"But cute," she adds, shifting closer to you.
You hesitate for a second, "yeah. You are."
She goes quiet.
Then, "say that again."
"What?"
"That I’m cute." Her eyes are bigger.
You blink at her, "no."
"Why not?" She grins slowly, "afraid I’ll take it too far?"
You look back at the screen, trying to act casual even though your pulse is sprinting. "You always do," you say softly.
Natasha shifts again, her voice quieter. Even closer, putting away the take-out. "You never stop me."
You dare and glance at her. Her arm’s stretched along the back of the couch now, fingers brushing your shoulder.
"I know," you say. "That’s the problem."
The air between you changes. Grows still.
Her smile slips a little, turns softer. "You know I’d never mess this up, right? Us."
"I know," you whisper, heart in your throat.
"You’re not just some… fun person to flirt with." Her fingers touch your sleeve lightly. "You’re my favorite person."
You swallow, "you’re drunk."
Natasha smirks softly. "They say… sober thoughts are drunk words. Or the other way around. Whatever. You know what I mean."
You do. Too well.
But neither of you says anything more. She doesn’t press. You don’t pull away. You sit there, still touching at the edges, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, while the movie flickers on, long forgotten. It’s not the silence that’s loud. It’s the awareness. The unspoken things between the two of you.
And you don’t sleep much that night.
The Next Morning you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, one of Natasha’s hoodies hanging loosely over your frame, sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing just below your thighs. The place still smells like popcorn and whatever candle she lit last night.
You’re trying to focus on making eggs.
Trying not to focus on her.
But she sneaks up behind you anyway. She always does.
Her arms wrap around your waist, her head resting briefly on your shoulder. She’s warm. Always warm. Sleepy and barely awake, in a tank top and joggers, with one arm lazily tugging you closer.
"Is that my hoodie?" she mumbles into your hair, voice still rough from sleep.
"Mhmm," you say, like you don’t care. Like your heart’s not punching your ribs.
Her hands tighten on your waist just slightly. "You look better in it," she says. "Unfair." Before you can open your mouth and say something, she continues, "and I mean it, pretty girl."
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. She doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even pretend to. "Let me make breakfast."
"You are breakfast."
You groan, "please stop, it´s early for those jokes."
"Can’t. It’s in my nature." She grins into your shoulder, humming softly like this is normal, because it is.
That’s the problem.
Living with Natasha Romanoff started out like some college housing accident. A randomly assigned craigslist miracle. It means all those little things put together. Of course it´s only some friendly banter, right? Just two roomates clicking instantly. Having fun. Loving eachother in a friendly way, of course.
You didn’t expect her to become your person honestly. But she did. Slowly. Softly. Stupidly. And till this day, it is still the same.
Well... maybe a little worse.
Like now, for example. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing that obnoxiously low-hanging tank top and your favorite sweatpants, that you like to see on her.
"I should make you pay me everytime you stare at me like that, I would be millionare," she smirks, sipping her iced coffee.
You roll your eyes and turn back to the stove. "You like being stared at, so I´m doing you a favor."
"I mean… yeah." She shrugs. "Especially when it’s you. I always aim to impress."
You stir the pot a little harder than necessary.
She walks up behind you, rests her chin on your shoulder, and lets out a deliberately dramatic sigh. "God, you smell good. Is that my body wash?"
You smirk, "no. It’s mine. The one you keep stealing."
"I have no idea what you’re talking about," she hums against your ear, way too close, way too casual. "But if you want to shower together to conserve it, I’m happy to be eco-friendly."
You bump her with your hip, and she laughs, stepping back just enough to avoid your spatula.
"Two can play this game, Romanoff."
"Oh?" She grins like the devil and perches on the counter, legs swinging. "I love when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Push back." Her gaze dips to your mouth and then back to your eyes, she´s once again cocky, teasing, "it’s hot."
You huff, "you’re ridiculous... as always."
"And you’re blushing."
The worst part is, you flirt back. You always do. With your smart comebacks. Your lingering looks. You like this banter, you live for it and you desperately wish it would lead to something more.
Later, she steals the last snack from you and winks at you with chocolate on her lip. You grab a napkin. She leans forward instead.
"You gonna wipe it off," she asks, voice low, "or kiss it?"
You deadpan, "I’m gonna throw you out the window."
Her smile stretches, slow and smug, but you don’t look away. Instead, you lean back against the counter, arms crossed, and lift your index finger. Curl it once.
"Come here."
Her brows lift, but she obeys. Because of course she does. Natasha Romanoff never says a no to you. She leans in closer, cocky and confident.
"You’re gonna wipe it off like a good girl?" she teases, tilting her head toward you, lips parted just enough to be dangerous.
You reach up slowly. Her breath stills.
Then you lean in and, instead of wiping, you press your lips to the corner of her mouth. Right where the chocolate is. A soft, deliberate kiss. You feel her breath catch against your skin.
When you pull back, you lick your bottom lip and smirk. "Like I´ve said two can play this game, Romanoff."
She blinks. Just once. Like her brain short-circuited for a second. Then she huffs out a laugh, low, flustered.
"Shit," she mutters, voice suddenly raspy. "That was good."
"Thank you," you grin, patting her cheek as you walk past her to grab your drink. "I aim to impress."
Behind you, she’s still in her place, stunned, eyebrows raised, and 100% whipped.
"You’re so evil," she says.
"And you like it," you call back.
"Oh, I love it."
Later that week you’re halfway through fixing your hair, when Natasha leans against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and gaze heavy.
"You’re going to a party," she says, not a question.
You smirk at her in the mirror, "sharp as ever, Romanoff."
She pulls a mock-wounded expression, lower lip jutting out, "without me? That’s cruel."
"Oh my god," you groan, "don’t pull your straight frat boy voice on me, it’s disturbing."
She grins, all teeth and danger, "but I´m so good at it."
You roll your eyes and brush past her, "I’m leaving in ten. You can come if you stop being annoying for five consecutive minutes."
That gets her moving fast, "give me three," she says, already peeling off her shirt as she rushes to her room.
You should look away. You really should.
But you don’t.
You never do.
You catch a glimpse of her back, smooth muscle shifting under pale skin and then she’s pulling on a black tank top, tugging it down over her abs like it’s nothing. Like it’s not killing you.
Then comes the jacket. Leather. Of course. And the hat ,a black cap, which she turns around and wears backwards like she’s trying to end you personally. You’re standing by the door, keys in hand, and zero thoughts in your head.
She throws you a wink, "ready?"
"I-" you clear your throat. "Yep. Uh-huh."
"You okay?" she asks, cocking her head with a smile that’s way too smug.
"I’m fine," you say, too quickly.
She steps closer, adjusting your jacket collar like she’s not absolutely toying with you. "You’re acting weird," she murmurs. "You like the hat, don’t you."
You scoff, "you wish."
"I know," she says, grinning, "that you were staring when I changed."
"I was not."
"You were."
"You stripped in the hallway! That’s public indecency."
"This is our apartment."
You glare, "technicalities."
She hums and reaches out like she might tuck your hair behind your ear, but doesn’t. Just lets her fingers hover there. And it’s stupid. It’s soft. It’s everything. It makes your chest tighten, because you know she’s playing. Probably. Mostly.
You head for the door before you say something dumb like I wish you’d kiss me already.
The party is packed, heat clinging to your skin the second you step in. Music’s too loud, someone spilled something sticky near the door, and you already lost Natasha in the crowd twice. But her hand kept finding yours again, fingers brushing, tugging, like muscle memory.
You’re halfway through your drink, leaning against a kitchen counter and making small talk with some guy in a denim jacket who’s trying to flirt but can’t quite land it.
He says something like, "so, are you seeing anyone?"
You raise your brow, "I live with someone."
"Oh," he grins, leaning in like that’s a challenge, "roommate situation?"
You look over his shoulder and there she is. Natasha.
She’s talking to some girl near the window, all dimples and charm, arms crossed and stance wide. The girl is clearly very interested, laughing too hard, touching Natasha’s arm with a little too much intention.
You barely hear denim guy say something else before you shake your head, "not interested. Sorry."
He backs off, surprisingly polite, but you’re already moving. Already threading through the crowd like a storm brewing. You find her still talking. Still smirking. Still looking way too good.
And something in you snaps.
You walk to her and reach out, grab her gently by the front loop of her jeans, and tug.
She turns, eyebrows raised in surprise, but her mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile, "well, hello."
"We’re dancing now," you say, louder than you meant to, but the music is thumping too loud to care.
She steps closer, her breath brushing your cheek. "Bossy," she hums, eyes gleaming. "I like it."
You don’t answer. You just drag her toward the crowd, into the flashing lights, into the sea of people and when she spins to face you, she’s still laughing softly.
"I was having a nice conversation," she teases, hands settling on your waist like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
You slide your arms around her neck, closing the gap, "she was annoying."
"She was complimenting my tattoos," Natasha says, clearly enjoying herself.
"She was touching you."
Her brows lift, "oh?"
You lean in just enough to smell her perfume, something clean and sharp and distracting as hell. "And only I get to do that."
Natasha stills for half a second. Then she grins, low and slow, like you just made her whole week, "you jealous?"
You smirk, there is no way of denying this, "maybe."
She leans in like a secret, "good."
The song shifts into something bass-heavy and fast, but you stay close, pressed together in a way that’s not quite dancing and not quite anything else. Her fingers flex against your waist, your nose brushes her jaw, and neither of you says a word.
You barely remember the Uber ride home.
Just the blur of headlights, the warmth of her thigh pressed against yours, the low thrum of bass still buzzing in your veins. Natasha had her arm slung over the back of the seat, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder, like she needed to stay touching you.
You didn't say a word.
Now you're both inside your apartment. Kicked off shoes. Left jackets somewhere on the floor. The silence is thick and humming.
The door clicks shut behind you.
You barely make it five steps before Natasha grabs your wrist, not hard, just enough for your breath to hitch and spins you gently so your back hits the wall.
Her hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing exposed skin under your top. You lean into the touch instinctively, your body already buzzing from the leftover adrenaline, the dancing, the way her eyes haven’t left your lips since you stepped inside.
She presses closer, slow and sure, her thigh sliding between yours like it belongs there. The air between you practically sparks. Your hands fist lightly in the fabric of her tank top. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly your foreheads are touching, breaths shallow.
Her voice drops even lower, "can I- ?"
"I need water," you interrupt, dizzy, breathless.
Natasha pulls back, blinking, "what?"
You duck under her arm, making your way to the kitchen, avoiding eye contact like your life depends on it. "If I don’t drink something, I’m gonna wake up with a migraine and hate myself."
Behind you, she scoffs, "we were about to have a moment and you pull hydration?"
You grab a glass, filling it quickly, "I’m being responsible." Natasha stalks over slowly, voice rough and amused. "You should drink too," you say, trying to keep it light.
"I want to do a way different thing right now," she says, unapologetically.
You turn, and she’s right there, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you, caging you in. Her eyes are darker now. Heated. Focused. You take a sip just to ground yourself. She watches your throat move.
"You’re killing me," she says softly, half-laughing, like she’s not even sure what to do with herself. Her knuckles brush your hip. "You always do this."
You set the glass down slowly, "do what?"
"Make me want you. And then walk away."
Your pulse stutters, "I never walk far."
She leans in, "then come closer."
"Why don´t you get closer yourself, hm?"
Oh, and she does.
She presses you back into the counter, your breath hitching as her mouth finds the curve of your jaw, your neck, not quite kissing, just breathing you in. Her lips brush your skin like a dare, soft one second, commanding the next.
You don’t back down. You grip the front of her tank again, dragging her closer like you're in charge, but she just lets you think that. Her muscles ripple under your hands as she moves, slow and sure, chest to chest.
"You’re so full of attitude," she mutters, smirking against your collarbone. "Always mouthing off."
"Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes."
Her hands slide under your thighs and you barely have time to yelp before she lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing, her biceps flexing, making your head spin. You blink up at her, wide-eyed.
"You gonna behave now?" she asks, voice low and dangerous and so fucking hot.
You grin, "not a chance."
Her eyes darken, "you really want to play this game, baby?"
You tilt your head, "afraid I’ll win?"
That’s all it takes.
She kisses you hard, none of the slow teasing anymore, just lips crashing into yours with heat and hunger and control. Her hands grip your thighs tighter, spreading them open as she steps between them. Her tongue slides against yours, confident, dominant. She’s tasting you like she earned it.
You moan into her mouth and then laugh, breathless, because she groans in frustration. "You think this is funny?"
"I think you like when I get under your skin."
She breaks the kiss to look at you, her smirk curling dangerously, "And I like putting you in your place."
Your stomach flips.
Her hands trail up under your shirt, palms hot and greedy, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” she says, dipping her head to suck a mark just beneath your jaw. "Fuck... you´ve been teasing me the whole time I know you."
"I didn’t do anything," you whisper, barely able to think.
"Oh? So princess over here is all innocent, hm?" she growls. "You’re gonna take what you were begging for."
You try to sass her, some quip, some pushback, but she shuts you up with her mouth, biting gently at your lower lip, pulling a gasp from you that has your whole body arching into hers.
One hand grips your throat, not tight, just there, while the other slides lower, tugging your hips forward until you’re pressed to her. You’re soaked. She knows it.
"Say please," she whispers against your mouth, smug, cruel, playful.
You swallow hard, "make me."
She laughs, low and lethal, "fucking brat."
You don’t get to speak after that, because suddenly she’s dragging your panties down, kissing every inch she uncovers like she’s been waiting forever. And when her fingers slide in, when her mouth finally moves lower, you forget your own name.
“So fucking wet,” she smirks even more, “cute.”
She ruins you. Slowly. Beautifully. Like she owns the privilege.
And she knows it, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs, every sound that slips past your parted lips just makes her smirk.
Her fingers move just slow enough to drive you mad. Her mouth hovers, teasing, tasting, but never quite giving you what you want. It’s deliberate. Torturous. Perfect.
"Still so mouthy now?" she mutters, her voice low and velvet-dark as she presses a kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh. "Didn’t think so."
You moan, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers slide deeper, curling just right. You try to grind against her palm for more pressure and she pulls away immediately.
"Ah ah." Her voice sharpens, commanding. "You don’t get to take what you want, baby. You earn it."
You whine, breathless, trying to chase her again.
"Oh, you’re so needy now." She laughs, rough and soft at the same time. "Where’d all that attitude go, huh? You were so brave a minute ago."
Her fingers return, even slower this time, her thumb circling just shy of where you need it most. You arch. Squirm. Cry out.
But she doesn’t let up. Just keeps you right on that edge, dancing there, trembling.
"Tell me when you’re close."
You nod frantically, gripping the sheets, thighs quivering. "N- now. I’m close. Fuck, Natasha-"
Her breath hits your skin like a brand as she murmurs, "Ask me if you can come."
You choke out the words, "can I come, please? Please, I need it-"
"No." Her voice is honey-sweet and cruel, "not yet."
Your whole body jerks like she slapped you with that word. The tension rips through you, you ache.
"Oh, baby," she coos, her mouth brushing your ear, "that was mean, hm?"
She kisses you hard, biting your lip as your whimper gets swallowed by her mouth.
"But you love it", she whispers, tongue grazing your lower lip. "Say it. Say you love it." Her fingers keep moving, building again, slow and maddening.
"I love- fuck- I love it!" You can’t think. Can’t breathe.
Every second she doesn’t let you come is fire under your skin. Your hands claw at her arms, at her tank, at anything you can touch. You’re begging again without meaning to, raw and desperate.
And she just eats it up.
"Look at you," she groans. "So fucked out and pretty, just for me. You gonna be good now? Do what I say?"
You nod wildly, gasping, "yes. Yes. Anything, please, just-"
She pushes in deep. Her mouth finds your pulse point, sucking a bruise into your neck. "Then beg again."
You do. And you do it so well, so Natasha lets you cum. Your climax hits like a wave crashing over your whole body, shaking, blinding, unraveling you completely in her hands. You cry out her name, broken and breathless, as everything inside you burns and then melts into trembling stillness.
Natasha doesn’t let go. Not even for a second.
She slows her pace but stays close, grounding you with her touch. Gentle now. Worshipful. Her mouth brushes against your skin, your shoulder, your jaw, your temple, like she’s memorizing you again now that you’ve fallen apart.
"Good girl," she whispers, voice hoarse and unbelievably soft. "That’s it. You did so good for me."
You can’t even speak. Just cling to her, legs still twitching, chest rising and falling too fast. She leans in, kisses your cheek, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. Kissing you like you´re hers.
Which maybe you are.
You don’t even realize she’s picked you up until your bare skin is cradled in the softness of her sheets, your body gently placed in her bed like it’s something fragile.
Her bed smells like her, clean linen, amber, a hint of something warm and woodsy and faintly spiced.
She’s hovering over you, brushing your hair back from your face, "still with me?"
You manage a nod, dazed and ruined and so in love with the way she’s looking at you right now.
She smiles. It’s lazy, warm, a little cocky.
"What about you?" you whisper, blinking up at her. "You didn’t…"
Natasha smirks, leaning in to press her forehead against yours. "I had a great time," she murmurs. "Such a fucking great time."
You let out a breathless laugh, swatting weakly at her bicep. "That’s not what I meant."
She hums, clearly unbothered, sliding under the covers with you and tucking your body into her chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re basically lying on her now, legs tangled, your cheek pressed over her heartbeat.
Natasha runs her hand over your back slowly, soothing. "What, you worried about me now, brat?"
You nuzzle into her neck, "mhm. Brats have hearts too, you know."
She snorts and kisses your hairline. "Yeah, well… mine belongs to one."
You freeze. She stiffens too, barely.
And then she just keeps stroking your back. "That was… not supposed to come out. Forget I said it."
"No," you whisper. "Say it again."
She exhales, chest rising beneath you. "Mine belongs to you," she says, lower this time. "If you want it."
You look up at her. She’s flushed. A little nervous. Still impossibly attractive in her half-on tank top and messy hair and ruined voice. "I do," you say softly.
Natasha exhales a shaky, quiet little sound like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Relief pours from her like warm rain, her hand curling protectively around your waist as she presses a kiss into your hair again.
"Good," she murmurs, her voice still low, husky with post-bliss honesty. "Because the moment you said: ´only I get to touch you´ on the dance floor? Yeah… that’s when I was almost one hundred percent sure you’re into me."
You lift your head just enough to give her a look, "oh, that was the moment? Not when I kissed chocolate off the corner of your mouth? Or, I don’t know, when I kept stealing your hoodies for months?"
Natasha smirks, clearly enjoying herself. "Mmm, those were cute. But those could’ve been, you know…" she shrugs, tilting her head smugly. "Affectionate roommate things. But getting all jealous and bossy over some girl I didn’t even know?" Her hand drifts down, playful. "Now that was intimate."
You scoff, rolling your eyes, "so you’re saying I could kiss you, share your bed, steal your clothes, and fall asleep in your arms, but jealousy is what gave it away?"
"Mhm," she says, grinning. "You could be affectionate, but not this jelly over some random girl asking about my tattoos."
Your cheeks heat, "okay, first of all-"
Natasha cuts you off with a lazy kiss to your jaw, hand slipping under the blanket, warm and unhurried. "Careful," she murmurs against your skin, "brats don’t get rewarded."
You give her a mock innocent look, "who’s being a brat now?"
"You." Her hand slides lower, fingertips ghosting down your sensitive skin until she cups you fully, not moving, just holding, teasing. "You’re being mouthy, baby."
Your breath catches, heart thudding as you press into her touch just slightly, "mouthy?" you echo, tilting your head. "I’d say...honest."
Natasha smiles wickedly, eyes dark and gleaming, "honest is cute," she whispers, brushing her lips against yours. "But you better behave."
You tilt your head, biting your bottom lip like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. "Yes, daddy," you say, all sass and defiance.
It’s bratty. It’s on purpose.
And it works.
Her breath catches for a second, eyes narrowing in that dangerous, hungry way that makes your stomach flip.
She leans in so close her lips nearly brush your ear. "If you’re not ready for round two," she murmurs, voice low and sinful, "don’t tempt me."
Your heart stutters. Yeah. Another round doesn’t sound so bad.
Thank you for reading!!:)