hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god
Summary: You have always been a touchy-feely person. Natasha on the other hand is not. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want your attention.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 1981
Natasha has always known you to be a touchy-feely person.
The first time she met you, you wrapped your arms around her before she even had the chance to blink. Her instincts flared immediately with her hand flying halfway to her weapon before her brain caught up to the fact that you weren’t a threat.
Her grip on the concealed weapon relaxed, but her arms had remained stiff at her sides, unsure where to put them, uncertain what to do with affection offered so freely.
It had startled her more than any ambush ever had. That feeling of not being feared. Of being a person worthy of the affection of another, despite everything.
But you never held back with giving yours.
Not then, and not after.
Over time, it became part of the rhythm between you. Your hand or arm slipped naturally into hers whenever you walked beside her. The lazy weight of your head leaning on her shoulder during briefings. The way you always pulled her into a hug when either of you returned from a mission, arms around her waist or shoulders, grounding her in something real.
She’d gotten used to that. Maybe even come to expect it.
So when the elevator doors slide open and she sees you standing there, her first instinct is to pause—her heart giving a quiet little stutter she doesn’t acknowledge.
Natasha steps out of the elevator, ready for that familiar warmth, that brief but steadying moment of contact she hadn’t let herself admit she was looking forward to.
You spot her a moment later.
“Hey, Natasha,” you say casually, offering her a quick wave.
No arms reaching out for her. Just a passing greeting as you walk by her without so much as the brush of your sleeve against hers, slipping into the elevator she just stepped out of.
Natasha turns, confused, mouth parting like she might call after you, but the elevator doors are already sliding shut, cutting off her view of you. She stares at the closed metal panels for a few lingering seconds, the silence pressing in.
That was…different.
Her brows knit faintly, but after a moment, she exhales through her nose and shakes her head.
You probably had somewhere to be. That had to be it.
Still, the absence of your usual warmth settles heavy in her chest. She folds her arms loosely across her torso and forces the tension out of her shoulders with a quiet sigh.
Then she turns on her heel and heads toward the debriefing room, pushing the disappointment down before it has the chance to root too deeply.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Now Natasha is even more confused.
Earlier, she’d told herself you were just in a rush—that missing the hug in the hallway wasn’t personal—just bad timing. But now, sitting beside you in the common room with the other Avengers, that excuse feels thinner by the second.
It’s one of those rare nights when everyone’s actually home. Laughter ripples through the group, drinks are passed around, and stories are shared freely. Typically, nights like this meant you’d be curled up next to her, shoulder pressed to hers, fingers idly toying with the hem of her sleeve or resting on her thigh without thinking.
Tonight, though, you’re still right beside her on the couch. And yet you might as well be a mile away.
It’s not that you’re ignoring her. You speak when spoken to. You laugh at the group’s jokes. You even chime in when Natasha makes a dry comment that earns a snort from Sam.
But there’s no contact. Not even the accidental kind.
Your posture is pulled in just enough to create a subtle space between your body and hers. And the longer it lingers, the more Natasha begins to feel it as a form of avoidance.
She tests it.
Casually, she stretches her arm along the back of the couch behind you, a gesture she’s done countless times before that usually ends with you unconsciously shifting closer into her side.
But this time, you lean forward, seeming suddenly interested in one of Thor’s increasingly embellished battle stories, your shoulders moving just out of reach.
Natasha’s gaze sharpens. She shifts again, this time subtly sliding closer, just enough that your thighs would brush if you moved towards her even if just by a little.
You don’t. Instead, you cross your legs in the opposite direction, slightly angling yourself away without a glance.
Her lips press into a thin line.
But what finally makes her frown is the way your body betrays your exhaustion.
Natasha knows your rhythms too well. At this hour, you always start to fade, no matter how hard you try to stay engaged. And usually, when that happened, your head would gradually drift until it came to rest on her shoulder.
Tonight, it tilts in the other direction. You rest your cheek against your hand, elbow on the armrest, turning completely away from her.
Like clockwork, your eyes begin to flutter closed.
Natasha catches the subtle slump of your posture and the way your breathing slows, soft and steady.
Her fingers twitch against her leg.
If you were leaning on her like usual, it would be easy, just a quiet nudge, a soft murmur of your name to guide you up to bed.
But now, there’s nothing—no point of contact.
Not unless she reaches for it herself.
But Natasha hesitates.
And someone else beats her to it.
Wanda leans forward from her spot in the other chair next to the two of you, her voice low and gentle.
“Hey,” she says, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder, giving it a soft shake. “I’m gonna turn in. Want to head up too?”
Your eyes blink open slowly. You nod, sleepy and half out of it, then reach up and take Wanda’s offered hand without hesitation.
You turn back toward Natasha, offering her a small, tired smile.
“Goodnight, Natasha,” you murmur.
Your hand lifts slightly as if you’re about to pat her leg like you’ve done a dozen times before.
But at the last second, it shifts direction and lands instead on the cushion beside her, fingers pressing gently into fabric before retreating.
Natasha’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Goodnight,” she replies.
She watches as you stand, still holding onto Wanda’s hand. The two of you walk out together, your head tilted toward her in quiet laughter as you lean slightly into her side.
And Natasha is left sitting on the couch, surrounded by voices and laughter, and yet with a space beside her that feels colder than it should.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha stands at the counter, fingers wrapped around a warm mug, steam curling up into her face as she takes a slow sip of coffee.
She’s been up for a while now, trying to clear her head. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Not with questions buzzing around her thoughts.
You hadn’t touched her.
Not once.
And it was driving her insane.
Natasha exhales slowly, grounding herself in the weight of the mug and the quiet hum of the Compound just beginning to stir. Then she hears your footsteps approaching.
Her heart reacts before her mind does.
You enter the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes, dressed in the kind of clothes that suggest you only half pulled yourself together before wandering in search of caffeine. You spot her immediately, offering a small, friendly smile—not the sleepy, instinctive shoulder nudge or greeting she used to get.
Just a smile.
You head toward the cabinet, clearly aiming for a mug.
The only problem is she’s in the way.
“Hey, can I squeeze past?” you ask, voice gentle.
Natasha straightens instinctively, stepping just slightly to the side. Enough to let you through, but only barely, with the space between her and the counter still being narrow.
But it’s also close enough that brushing shoulders would be unavoidable.
Except it doesn’t happen.
Natasha watches in disbelief as you deliberately maneuver your body in the smallest ways, turning sideways, angling your arm, even lifting your hand to avoid grazing hers. It’s done with care, but it’s unmistakable.
You didn’t want to touch her.
Natasha’s patience snaps.
Before you can reach the mug, her arms suddenly come down on either side of you, palms flat against the counter. You’re trapped, caged in by her arms and presence.
You yelp, startled, immediately turning toward her with wide eyes. Your hands rise automatically as if to rest on her arms, but then hover awkwardly mid-air, uncertain, before you lean back into the counter in a clear effort to maintain distance.
Natasha frowns, eyes flicking to your hovering hands, then back to your face.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks bluntly.
You blink, caught off guard.
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
Natasha’s jaw clenches before sighing in frustration.
“Because ever since I got back, you haven’t touched me.”
Her words hang in the air, too raw and direct to mistake.
You part your lips in surprise, but before you can say anything, footsteps sound in the hall before you can get a word out.
Steve appears in the doorway. He pauses mid-step, clearly having heard just enough to register the tension in the air and the compromising proximity of Natasha’s arms caging you in.
A beat passes. Then Steve clears his throat, awkwardly.
“I’ll, uh…circle back.” He turns and disappears almost immediately.
Both of you stare at the space he left behind for a second before Natasha turns back to you, one brow raised. Her gaze drops meaningfully to your still-hovering hands.
You fidget, realizing you’ve been caught. Your fingers curl slightly in the air, unsure of where to go.
“I…uh..I read your file,” you admit quietly. “From your time in the Red Room. What they did to you…”
Natasha’s expression eases immediately in understanding.
But you still look away, ashamed.
“It just—after that, I realized how much I’ve always just…touched you without asking. And it’s your body, Natasha. You probably put up with it every time. And I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I thought I should give you some space for once.”
For a moment, Natasha just looks at you, stunned. Then she laughs. A quiet, surprised huff that escapes from her chest like she’s been holding it in for days.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” she says, voice fond with disbelief.
Your eyes widen in confusion. “What?”
Natasha doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she lowers her head until her forehead rests gently against your shoulder.
Your hands hover again at her arms, but they don’t land.
“I like when you touch me,” Natasha murmurs. “It makes me feel safe. Like I’m supposed to be here.”
You blink, slightly dumbfounded. Still registering her words.
“…Oh.”
Natasha lets out a soft, amused sound at your tone of stunned surprise.
“And I’m still waiting,” she adds quietly, “for my welcome back hug.”
That startles you out of your daze. You let out a breath—half laugh, half sigh—as your arms finally rise and wrap tightly around her waist, pulling her in until there’s no space between you.
“Welcome home, Natasha,” you whisper into her hair like you’ve done many times before.
The effect is instant. Her body melts into yours, all the tension draining from her shoulders.
Natasha sinks into the embrace like she’s been craving it for days. Then slowly her arms slide around you, steady and secure.
She closes her eyes, breathing you in, confirming what she already knew.
This is where she feels safest. Warmth from your arms and hands on her back. Your heartbeat against her body.
And that flutter in her chest? From just your touch?
Natasha decides, just for now, she’ll let it be.
That can be a different problem to confront for another day.
Right now, she’s content to be in your arms once again.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: thank you for reading!
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