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.
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has always been trained to notice the smallest details—the ones that reveal what people want, what they fear, what they hide. But when it comes to you, there’s one detail she can’t seem to uncover.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 5338
You stab a piece of food with your fork and gesture casually toward the cafeteria line with your chin.
“What about Jenn from HR? She seems nice. Always says hi whenever she sees you.”
Beside you, Natasha doesn’t even glance up. She spears a bite neatly from her tray and answers flatly.
“She’s already seeing someone.”
You pause mid-chew, blinking at her in disbelief.
“Seriously? Who?”
Natasha lifts her fork, tilting it just enough to indicate across the room without drawing attention.
“Carmen. From the front desk. They’ve been dating since last month.”
You follow the direction of her gesture, eyebrows rising when you notice Carmen sitting in the corner. Tablet in hand, sure, but her eyes keep flicking upward—straight toward Jenn in the line. When their gazes meet, there’s a secret smile, a tiny wave, something almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
“…Huh,” you murmur, reluctantly impressed.
Natasha only nods, as if it’s obvious. She resumes eating, believing that the subject of this particular conversation is over after her words.
You notice a tiny smear of sauce clinging near her lip, and without thinking, you lean in and dab it away with a napkin.
“You got a little something,” you say softly.
Natasha doesn’t even react in surprise at your touch. She just takes the napkin from you with a distracted “Thanks,” eyes still on her plate.
You lean back, resting your chin on your hand, studying her with something between admiration and exasperation.
“So how’d you figure that out?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing, slicing into her food with precise care.
“Jenn’s lunch routine changed. She used to eat in her office, now she shows up whenever Carmen’s here. Plus, Jenn’s been wearing that silver bracelet Carmen wore every day until about three weeks ago. And whenever Carmen’s shift ends early, Jenn conveniently leaves a couple minutes later—even though she usually stays late.”
You blink, almost dropping your fork at the overload of detail.
“And you just happen to notice all of that?”
“It’s part of being a spy,” Natasha says, looking up with a faint smirk. “People tell you things without realizing it. All you have to do is watch.”
Before you can retort, a new group enters the cafeteria. You nudge her arm, pointing at someone in the middle.
“Okay, what about—”
“Crushing on Jeremy from IT,” she interrupts smoothly, not even bothering to turn her head.
Your jaw drops. “You didn’t even look.”
“I don’t need to,” she replies coolly, taking a sip of her drink. “She rearranged her gym schedule to match his. Switched brands to that chalky protein powder he drinks. And she nearly concussed herself last week trying to follow him around a corner.”
You gape, then narrow your eyes at her.
“You say you’re not into romance,” you accuse, jabbing your fork toward her, “but you’re basically tuned into everyone’s relationship at SHIELD.”
Her smirk deepens just enough to be infuriating.
“I don’t have to be into it to recognize it. Tells are tells. That’s all it is—patterns, shifts, little details.”
You hum, a grin tugging at your lips as something mischievous sparks in your chest. You lean forward, voice lowering with challenge.
“Alright then. Since you’re so confident…do me.”
Her brows rise. “Excuse me?”
You rest your chin in your palm, grinning excitedly.
“Figure out my crush.”
For the first time, Natasha falters. Just a flicker—but you catch it. Surprise. Maybe confusion. Definitely something unsettled before she schools her features back into cool indifference.
“You have someone you like?”
You shrug, your smile turning smug.
“Mmhmm. Guess you’re not as sharp with the little details as you thought.”
Her eyes narrow on you, and you don’t miss the way her grip tightens subtly on her fork.
“Give me until the end of the week,” she says finally, standing to gather her tray.
You smirk at her teasingly.
“You need that long?”
Her look turns flat.
“We leave on mission tomorrow. With actual gunfire and people trying to kill us. You want me to prioritize your love life over keeping us alive?”
You tip your head in mock consideration.
“Multitask, Romanoff.”
Her huff is half amusement, half irritation as she adjusts her tray and tablet before attempting to grab her bag.
“Fine,” she grunts, conceding the challenge.
You sweep the bag from her overloaded hands before she can manage it.
“End of the week,” you call as you stroll away, flashing her a playful grin. “Let’s see how good the Black Widow really is…at noticing the little details.”
Natasha watches you go, eyes narrowing just slightly.
You don’t spare a single glance toward anyone else in the room. No tells. No obvious trails. For someone she spends so much time with, she realizes she never noticed there was someone you liked.
That thought alone bothers her more than anything.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha’s boots click quietly against the floor as she moves down the long row of lockers, her mind already sorting through mission details. She slows when she spots you in the next row, bent over the middle bench, lacing your boots.
She stops short, retreating a step back around the corner when she realizes you’re not alone. A weapons support tech she recognizes stands beside you, chatting animatedly while you respond with the same bright energy.
Natasha’s eyes narrow when the other woman’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder before she departs with a smile. The touch is friendly, fleeting even, and yet irritating all the same.
“You know she’s still tangled up in that on-again, off-again thing with Tess from legal,” Natasha blurts as she finally approaches.
You turn, one brow raised, clearly amused.
“Even I know that tidbit,” you tease, tugging your boots tight and rising to your feet. Hands settle on your hips as you tilt your head at her. “What are you suggesting, that she’s my crush?”
Natasha considers, tilting her head. For a split second, she weighs the possibility before dismissing it, shaking her head as she strides to her locker.
“No. She’s not your type.”
You chuckle, leaning your shoulder against the lockers beside hers, arms folded loosely across your chest.
“And what exactly do you think my type is?”
Her hand freezes halfway into her locker. The question digs in deeper than she expected. For all her observation skills, she realizes she has no answer. You flirt often, but always lightly, never with any real heat. Not once could she recall you showing actual romantic interest in anyone.
Irritation stirs in her chest at the gap in her knowledge. Her lips press thin before she finally mutters, “Just…not her.”
You hum thoughtfully at her clipped tone, pushing off the locker.
“Well, you’re right again, Romanoff. She was just dropping something off for me.”
Natasha answers with a noncommittal noise, keeping her face buried in the depths of her locker as she gathers her gear. The sound of rummaging nearly masks your footsteps when, suddenly, a tug at her arm pulls her around.
“What—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat when you step into her space, close enough that she freezes.
For one breathless second, her pulse spikes as you lean in.
But at the last instant, you angle past her face, fingers working deftly at her waist. Natasha’s breath stills as she feels the brush of your hand close the clasp of her utility belt.
Then you lean back, patting the red hourglass buckle at her front.
“Got them to finish the repairs just in time,” you announce proudly, turning away toward your own locker.
Natasha releases the air she’d been holding in a slow rush, her hands curling at her sides as she fights to steady the pounding of her heart. The warmth on her cheek feels out of place and unexpected. She brushes at it with the back of her hand, annoyed with herself. Why did her body react like that?
Her gaze drifts back to you.
You hum absently while you pack your duffel, tossing items in without care. Same as always. Nothing new, nothing different.
Nothing to explain her reaction.
Something slips from your locker with the next careless toss.
Natasha stoops and picks it up—a photo, edges worn. It’s the group shot at the shawarma shop after the battle in New York. She remembers the moment, remembers the exhaustion in her bones as she sits between Steve and Clint.
But what catches her eye now is you. You aren’t looking at the camera. Your gaze is angled toward the three of them instead.
“Have you heard from any of them recently?” you ask casually, drawing her attention.
Natasha blinks, processing your question for a beat before handing the photo back.
“Uh, no. Clint’s on vacation. And last I heard Stark’s still rebuilding.”
You hum softly, sliding the picture back onto the inside of your locker door.
“What about Rogers?”
Her brows draw together. She glances at the photo again, as if she could trace the direction of your gaze, pinpoint whether it lingered on the Captain. Her tone cools.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, zipping up your duffel. “It must be tough, adjusting to the modern world all alone.”
The spark of irritation comes so suddenly that it makes her jaw clench. Natasha slams her locker closed harder than she means to.
“He’ll manage,” she says curtly before adding. “We should focus on our own jobs.”
You only laugh, throwing your duffel strap over one shoulder and—before she could react—snatching hers as well.
“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” you say, walking towards the hangar bay.
Natasha lingers for a moment longer, her gaze sliding back to your locker. The group photo sits just inside. She exhales through her nose, trying to banish the nagging thoughts.
Steve Rogers probably isn’t your type either.
So why does just the possibility of it leave such a bitter taste in her mouth?
With a sigh, she follows after you, irritation simmering low in her chest and growing harder to explain.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha lounges on the lush couch in the grand hotel lobby, ankle crossed neatly over her knee, a glossy magazine balanced in her lap.
To the casual eye, she’s absorbed in the pages, but in reality, her gaze darts over the rim of the paper—tracking staff as they carry trays of glassware into the ballroom, noting security placement, measuring the rhythm of movement in and out of the gilded doors.
The comm device crackles faintly in her ear, and your voice filters through, light and curious.
“Do you see our target yet?”
Natasha exhales a soft breath, flipping the page like she’s genuinely invested in the article.
“Still no,” she murmurs. “Nothing has changed since you asked me five minutes ago.”
Your sigh hums over the line, a note of boredom. Then your voice drops lower, the ghost of a teasing smile audible across the frequency.
“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Her hand stalls mid-turn, the page hanging half-folded in her fingers. Natasha blinks once, forcing herself to return to her sharp and focused composure, but her chest betrays her with the faintest hitch.
Usually, she has no trouble brushing off your teasing, filing it under friendly banter and harmless distraction.
But lately…lately the simple sound of your voice makes her pulse skip for some reason.
She clears her throat quietly, forcing her attention outward.
Across the marble floor, movement catches her eye. A cluster of security streams through the doors, and in the center, exactly as expected, is the target.
“I see him,” she says, her voice cracking slightly, which she quickly covers with a soft cough.
On the comms, you shift, the rustle of fabric telling her you’re straightening in your seat.
“And the package?”
Her eyes flick between the security bodies and spot a slim metal case in the target’s hand. One of the guards moves to the front desk, and the target’s grip on the case shifts into perfect view.
Natasha palms her phone and pretends to scroll before tilting it just enough to capture an image. She sends it over with a practiced ease.
“Nice work,” you say, approval warm in your tone. “It looks like that model requires a fingerprint scan to open.”
Natasha lifts her phone to her ear, feigning a call as she considers the problem.
Her gaze drifts toward the ballroom doors, where the staff are still bustling about.
At the threshold stands the event planner—clipboard hugged close, lips moving as she ticks off notes. When she glances up and her eyes catch sight of Natasha, her composure stumbles. She ducks her head, her cheeks flushing faintly as she pretends to fuss with her clipboard.
“So we lift the prints at the party,” Natasha says calmly, already slotting pieces of a plan into place.
Your soft laugh filters through with a hint of skepticism.
“And how exactly do you suppose we get inside?”
Natasha’s eyes flick back to the planner, who sneaks another look at her before quickly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Natasha feels the corner of her mouth curve. She tips her head, gifting the woman a small, disarming smile and a subtle wave. The shy grin she earns in return confirms it—an opening.
Natasha lowers her magazine just enough to murmur, “I’m working on it.”
Before you can reply, she rises smoothly from the couch and crosses the lobby, her stride confident but unhurried. She stops just beside the planner, her posture easy and her smile warm.
“You’ve done a beautiful job with the room,” Natasha says, voice low and sincere.
The compliment lands instantly. The woman beams, shoulders straightening.
“Oh! Thank you—it’s been exhausting, but I think it’s finally coming together. Are you…a guest?”
Natasha shakes her head lightly.
“Helping a friend who is. Their luggage got lost during the flight, so I came to make sure they had what they needed.” She lets the pause linger a beat, then adds smoothly, “Though I may be pressing my luck asking if there’s any chance of being a plus-one.”
The planner’s brows lift, interest sparking exactly where Natasha expects it.
“We might have last-minute passes,” she says quickly, flipping through her clipboard. “I could add a note to add you if you’d still like to come.”
“That sounds lovely,” Natasha replies, resting a hand lightly on the woman’s arm, her smile just this side of intimate. “I hope that means I’ll see you there too.”
The woman chuckles, biting back a grin, before one of the staff calls her name. She starts to go, but glances back.
“What’s your name? For the list.”
Natasha gives the alias assigned to her mission. The woman scribbles it onto her notes, then flashes her a quick wave.
“It was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” Natasha answers smoothly, watching as she disappears into the organized chaos of final preparations.
Once she’s gone, Natasha raises her phone again, pretending to resume her call.
“And now we have a way in,” she says softly, satisfaction threading her tone.
Silence answers. The accomplished warmth in her chest cools into tight concern.
“Hello? Is everything okay?” she asks, turning toward the exit, ready to head back to you if needed.
Finally, your voice filters back through the comm.
“All good. Just some connection problems. I’m back now.”
Natasha frowns faintly. Something in your tone is off. It’s no longer playful, but clipped. Before she can press, you clear your throat, steering the moment away.
“Can you figure out what room he’s staying in? I’ll sneak in and take the case while you lift his prints at the party.”
The frown deepens. She doesn’t like the sharp pivot or the stiffness in your voice.
“Are you sure you’re—”
“Natasha.”
The curt way you say her name stills her instantly.
“Focus on our own jobs, remember?” you add with a teasing lilt, though the note rings hollow compared to earlier.
Natasha swallows, turning back into the lobby, her expression once again carefully neutral.
“…Yeah. Sure,” she mutters, though the word sits heavy in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha sits cross-legged on the narrow bed, eyes tracking you as you pace the length of the safehouse. The single room feels even smaller with your restless movement, your gaze fixed on the tablet in your hands as you scroll through hotel blueprints.
You mutter to yourself occasionally, weighing entry points and fallback routes, but when she tries to interject, all she gets are clipped one-word answers or noncommittal hums.
She narrows her eyes. Something is off—it has been off since the hotel lobby. She just can’t put her finger on what.
A sharp knock breaks the tense quiet. Both of you freeze for half a beat, instincts snapping in. You exchange a look, then move in a practiced tandem.
Natasha slips from the bed, gun in hand from beneath the nightstand, while you draw one hidden by the doorframe.
“Oi! Open up already! I haven’t got all day!”
Natasha exhales sharply at the familiar voice. You relax too, though your weapon stays in your hand until you swing the door open.
Mason leans casually against the frame, suitcase in hand. His brow arches at the sight of your guns.
“Always a warm welcome with the two of you,” he deadpans, brushing past you into the room.
Natasha huffs, tucking her weapon away.
“What are you doing here?”
“I called him,” you say, shutting the door and turning to Mason expectantly. “Did you get it?”
He presents the case with mock ceremony.
“Here you are. Now we’re square, yeah?”
You take the case and tilt your head in consideration.
“Is one favor really enough after what you put me through at that last safehouse?”
“Hey,” Mason protests with a hand raised, grinning, “I was trapped there with you, too.”
Natasha frowns, her gaze darting between you and him. There’s an ease in your banter with Mason—inside jokes, stories she isn’t part of. The space between you two is minimal also, too casual for her liking. She tells herself it’s nothing, but irritation prickles anyway.
The irritation grows as she realizes you’ve spoken more words to Mason in these few minutes than you have to her in the past hours. Before she can think better of it, she’s already stepping forward, pressing Mason back toward the door with a polite but firm hand.
“Alright, we need to prep for tonight,” she says briskly, ushering him over the threshold. “Thanks for the delivery. Until next time.”
His brows lift, but before he can argue, the door clicks shut and locks.
She turns to find you perched on the bed with the case, already working the clasps.
“That was a little rude,” you comment, a grin tugging at your lips when you glance at her. The teasing tone doesn’t match the way you immediately look back down, shutting her out again.
Natasha’s patience snaps.
“Alright, what’s up with you?” she demands, folding her arms as she steps closer.
You stop fiddling with the lock, lift your eyes, and fix her with a steady look.
“That woman at the hotel,” you say flatly.
Natasha blinks in confusion.
“What about her?”
“How did you know she was interested in you?” Your shrug is casual, but the words are sharp. “That’s why you went over, right? Because you already knew she’d say yes.”
The question hangs heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates, suddenly cautious. She could give you a dozen technical answers, but instinct tells her the wrong one might make things worse. She taps her fingers against her arm, searching.
“I just…noticed,” she admits finally. “The little details. How someone looks, shifts, reacts. I can always tell when they like something—or someone.”
Your expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the slight clench of your jaw tells her she’s only made it worse. You hum, noncommittal, and turn back to the case.
Frustration knots in Natasha’s chest. She can feel you slipping back into silence, shutting her out again.
The locks pop open.
She leans forward instinctively, expecting some weapon or device.
Instead, you pull out a long red dress. Without a word, you rise and step in front of her, holding it up against her body.
“I knew it would look good on you,” you murmur, appraising her with softened eyes for a brief second. Then you drape the dress onto the bed and brush past her, back to your tablet. “Now you can notice all the people interested in you later at the party.”
This time, the edge in your voice is unmistakable.
Natasha’s mouth opens to respond, but she falters. She doesn’t actually know what the issue is, only that she’s missing something, and the fact that she can’t see it bothers her more than she wants to admit.
You curl up on the sofa, tablet balanced on your knee, already scanning blueprints as if she’s no longer in the room.
Natasha sighs, staring at the red dress lying stark against the drab blanket, before dragging a hand down her face. Confusion and annoyance churn together, and for once she has no read. No clear tells.
Just the unsettling certainty that she’s failed to notice some detail that matters most.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha smooths her palms down the dress, the fabric gliding beneath her fingers. You were right—it fits perfectly. Too perfectly. She wonders, fleetingly, if Mason guessed her measurements or if you had given them.
When she finally exits the bathroom, she finds you already geared up in your black tactical suit, adjusting the straps across your shoulders, with your focus tight on your equipment.
“Can you help me with this?” Natasha asks quietly, turning her back to you and gathering her hair into one hand to bare the zipper.
“Sure,” you reply. The nonchalance of your tone makes her want to sigh, but she keeps still, bowing her head slightly so you have easier access.
Your palm steadies her lower back as your other hand finds the zipper and tugs it slowly upward. The soft scrape of metal teeth closing echoes in her ears. At the top, your breath ghost against the nape of her neck.
“You look beautiful, Natasha,” you whisper faintly, almost as if you didn’t mean to say it aloud. Then, just as quickly, your touch and presence vanish as you step away.
Natasha stays rooted to the spot. She releases her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and lifts her gaze to the mirror across the room. Her eyes widen at the sight of her reflection.
A flush blooms across her cheeks, one she can’t write off as heat or adrenaline. She knows this expression. The flicker of awareness, the telltale glow in the eyes, the way her pulse jumps—details she’s read a hundred times in others, but never noticed in herself.
Her head snaps over her shoulder.
You’re focused on your gear again, oblivious to the rush of thoughts in her mind as the memory of your whisper hums in her ears.
Unconsciously, her heart beats faster, and the urge to step back into your space nearly overwhelms her. Her hand flexes at her side, restless.
But then she remembers.
You already told her you like someone. The reminder settles like a stone in her chest. Natasha breathes deeply, pressing her feelings down beneath years of training.
As if sensing her stare, you glance up and offer her a small, reassuring smile.
“Ready, Romanoff?”
Her throat tightens, and she forces herself to nod.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
The party is bright and loud, chandeliers scattering light across polished floors and velvet drapes.
Natasha slips through with ease, greeted warmly by the planner who ushers her inside. A few pleasantries exchanged, and the woman is called away, leaving Natasha free to focus on the mission.
The target is easy to find, seated with his cluster of guards.
Natasha approaches, glass of wine in hand.
One guard steps in her path, his palm pressing firmly against her shoulder. Natasha knocks his hand away, cold irritation flashing in her eyes, until the target waves him aside.
His leer is obvious, his gaze shameless.
Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes, pasting on a coy smile instead as she takes the offered seat beside him. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit of the dress shifting to bare a line of skin. Predictably, his attention locks there.
A few flirtatious remarks and practiced laughs later, he’s pliant in her hands. She passes him her glass under the guise of sharing. When she takes it back, her “slip” sends the last drops spilling onto him. Her apologies tumble out sweet and flustered, and he waves her off with a smile, completely unaware that his fingerprints are now captured on her scanner after she leaves his side.
“I got the prints,” she murmurs into the comm, moving swiftly toward the exit.
Static crackles before your voice cuts through, strained and layered with the sounds of impact and shattering glass.
“That’s… great.” A grunt follows, then the crash of something breaking.
Natasha freezes, then picks up her pace.
“What’s happening?”
More noise filters in—grunts, a muffled curse, the slam of bodies colliding. Your voice returns, breathless but firm.
“I’ve got the case too. Just…finishing up here.”
Natasha presses the elevator button repeatedly, muttering under her breath.
“You could just admit you need help.”
Your laugh comes, dramatic and almost mocking, despite the strain.
“What? Everything’s fine.” Another grunt follows, less convincing this time.
When the elevator doors slide open, she bolts down the hall toward the sound of chaos. One door hangs ajar.
Natasha bursts in, gun raised—only to see you drop the last guard with a final, clean strike.
You straighten, sweat-damp hair sticking to your forehead, chest rising and falling. Spotting her, you flash a crooked grin.
“See? All good.”
You stoop to pick up the case and head past her, but Natasha steps into your path, hand pressing firmly to your shoulder. She tilts your chin with practiced precision, inspecting your face.
The moment her fingers brush your temple, you flinch. Her hand comes away slick with red. Natasha’s jaw tightens. She grips your chin again, forcing your eyes to hers.
“Next time, just ask for help.” Her tone is sharp and low.
You only stare back, wide-eyed, lips parting without words.
That’s when Natasha realizes just how close she is, her body angled into yours, her grip still holding you there.
Heat climbs her cheeks before she notices something else.
Your gaze flickers—downward, just for a breath, to her mouth—before darting away, and the color deepening on your face clearly isn’t just from exertion.
Her heart stutters. She recognizes this detail, too.
You pull back abruptly, her hand falling from your jaw.
“Let’s get moving before reinforcements show,” you mutter, brushing past without meeting her eyes.
Natasha turns and watches you go, pulse still racing, and suspicion coiling in her chest. Of all people, she knows these kinds of tells the best, and she knows exactly what they mean.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha drops the last strip of gauze into the first-aid box and snaps the lid shut, but she doesn’t move away from you. She stays planted in front of the bed, her knees brushing yours as you sit at the edge, head still tilted slightly from where she bandaged you.
You squirm under her gaze, eyes fixed anywhere but her face—the window, the wall, the worn carpet. She notices every flick of your eyes, every shift of your shoulders. It’s not discomfort. It’s just nerves.
You sigh finally, rubbing at your palms.
“Alright, I’ll call for back-up next time,” you mutter. “Just…stop whatever intimidation tactic this is.”
Natasha huffs, a low, amused sound.
“This isn’t intimidation.”
Before you can retreat further, she lifts her hand and cups your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. She tilts your face up toward hers, and the moment your eyes meet, she catches it—the sudden flush rising under your skin, the slight hitch of your breath.
Her own lips curve, triumphant and almost disbelieving.
“I knew it,” she whispers, more to herself than to you.
Your brows furrow. “Knew what?”
Her smile deepens. She kneels onto the bed, closing the distance, until she’s almost straddling your thighs.
You lean back instinctively, bracing yourself on your elbows as she hovers above you.
“The person you like,” Natasha murmurs, voice low, teasing yet fragile at the edges. “Is it me?”
You blink in surprise, startled, your words stuttering in your throat.
“How…?”
Natasha’s grin softens into something warmer. Her fingers slide up from your jaw to cradle your face fully, thumbs resting at the corners of your mouth. She leans in until your noses brush, her breath fanning over your lips.
“I notice things. Always have,” she murmurs. “But somehow I missed the one right in front of me.”
Before you can answer, she tilts your chin up and presses her mouth to yours in a soft, tentative kiss—testing, tasting, a question asked with her lips.
For a heartbeat, you’re frozen, caught between disbelief and the flood of warmth crashing through you. Then instinct takes over. Your hands rise almost on their own, sliding over the curve of her waist until your palms spread firmly against her hips, grounding both of you in the moment.
You kiss her back, slow at first, savoring the softness of her lips against yours. The tentative edge fades as you angle your head slightly, deepening the kiss, letting her feel in the press of your mouth what words never managed to say.
Natasha exhales against you, a shiver running through her that you feel in the flex of her body beneath your touch. The hand cradling your face tightens just a fraction, as though she’s afraid you’ll pull away.
Instead, you slip one hand up from her hip to her lower back, drawing her closer until there’s no space left between you.
When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s only because she needs to breathe. She stays close, resting her forehead against yours, her lips brushing yours with every shallow inhale.
You can feel the rapid beat of her heart in the way her chest rises against yours.
Her eyes open, and this time, you don’t look away. You keep her close, thumbs brushing soft circles over her waist, silently telling her the answer she already suspects.
“Sorry it took me so long to notice that little detail,” she breathes, her voice breaking faintly on the words.
A laugh escapes you, shaky but relieved.
“What I feel for you is nothing little, Natasha Romanoff,” you murmur, brushing your lips against hers again.
This time, she doesn’t hesitate. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier—no longer testing but answering.
Natasha shifts forward, pressing you back against the mattress, her hands sliding to your shoulders, anchoring herself as she kisses you harder.
Your fingers tighten on her waist, tracing the outline of her dress, feeling her shiver under your touch.
She parts her lips under yours, a soft sound escaping her throat, equal parts relief and want.
The safehouse fades—the hum of the heater, the smell of antiseptic, the muffled city sounds outside—until there’s only the warmth of her body and the weight of the moment, long overdue.
Natasha breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, her forehead still against yours, her lips grazing your mouth with each word.
“Tell me if this is too much.”
You shake your head slightly, eyes locked with hers.
“Not even close.”
She smiles, a real, unguarded smile, before capturing your lips again—this time slower, deeper, her hands sliding behind your neck as yours explore the curve of her back, both of you surrendering to this little detail that the two of you share.
pairing: academic rival! natasha romanoff x academic rival! reader
synopsis: you’ve always been top of your class—sharp, confident, and unbeatable. in your world, there’s no such thing as a worthy rival. that is, until natasha romanoff strides into your class with a smirk and a sharper argument that throws your entire carefully controlled world into chaos.
note: posting a lot 'cause i'm bored as hell. someone pls give me a hobby or a thesis deadline or smth. 🥲
also, to the anon who asked if i have a masterlist—i do now. yay !! here it is: bleu's intro & masterlist !! ♡
You’d always believed in one thing: there is no such thing as a worthy rival.
People either got in your way or trailed behind. You were always two steps ahead, first in every list, most respected, and most feared. That is, until Natasha Romanoff walked into your sophomore political theory class like she owned the world and immediately raised her hand with a better argument than yours.
You’d never hated someone faster.
And you’d never thought about anyone more.
For two years, the two of you danced through every class, every competition, every student council election like twin flames destined to clash. Professors took bets. Students whispered. Even the president of the university made a comment about how you two should “either get a room or co-author a research paper.”
You had no plans to do either.
That is, until your university’s elite debate championship dropped the bomb: final round—1 vs 1 debate: Natasha Romanoff vs Y/N L/N.
Of course. Who else would it be?
You were doomed.
Not because you thought you’d lose. No. You were doomed because last week, Natasha Romanoff looked you dead in the eye after a mock trial and said, “You blinked. I win.”
You did blink.
Because she smiled.
And your brain short-circuited.
—
You arrived at the auditorium ready for war—blazer ironed, cards memorized, hair sleek, lipstick perfectly placed. The student auditorium was packed, buzzing. Wanda, your roommate, waved at you with both hands from the front row while mouthing KILL HER.
Across the stage, Natasha adjusted her sleeves like she was getting ready for a date, not war. She wore her signature dark-red lipstick and a subtle smirk like it was custom-made. Her black turtleneck somehow made her look smarter. Infuriating.
The moderator explained the rules. Each of you got five minutes to open, followed by three rounds of rebuttals.
The topic: “Surveillance in modern democracy—boon or bane?”
You took the negative. Natasha took the affirmative.
Game on.
You were flawless. Your opening statement was clear, concise, cutting. The audience nodded, impressed.
But Natasha?
She spoke like every word was silk dipped in poison.
She paced slowly, making eye contact with the audience, then you, then the panel. Her hands moved just enough to make her point but never enough to be dramatic. And she had the audacity to say, “My opponent makes an excellent point—hypothetically.”
The crowd gasped.
You wanted to scream.
But you rallied.
The third round came fast. You delivered your argument with surgical precision—facts sharpened like blades, your voice unwavering, confident, borderline smug.
And then she took the mic.
Natasha leaned forward, lips brushing the foam cover like it was an invitation. Her tone? Silky and laced with that Romanoff mischief that made half the room forget how to breathe.
"L/N," she said smoothly, eyes gleaming with something dangerous, "you’re making this almost too easy. You always do."
You narrowed your eyes, unsure if she was insulting you or complimenting you—or both.
She continued, "But don’t worry. I’ll let you explain your logic to me again... over coffee, maybe? My treat. Winner buys."
A ripple of laughter tore through the audience. You blinked, thrown off for half a second.
Did she just—
You slapped your hand over your mic and hissed, “Romanoff. Are you flirting with me right now?”
She tilted her head, all smug and no shame. “No,” she whispered back. “I’m distracting you.”
The moderator cleared their throat.
You turned back to the mic, mind rattled.
The final bell rang.
The debate ended.
And the audience? Lost their minds.
—
You stormed out of the auditorium with heels echoing your fury. Behind you, Natasha followed, calm as ever.
“You cheated,” you snapped, whirling around.
She looked amused. “By being charming?”
“By distracting me.”
“I only distract you because you like me.”
You froze. “Excuse me?”
She stepped closer, the hallway quiet and dim. “Come on, Y/N. You only argue with me like that because you want to see if I’ll push back.”
“I argue with everyone.”
“But you only blush with me.”
You touched your cheek instinctively.
Damn it.
“This is why you’re still single,” you said, crossing your arms.
She tilted her head.
“No,” she said, smile softening into something dangerous. “I’m still single because you haven’t confessed to me yet, Y/N.”
Your mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Your heart forgot how to beat.
And for the first time in your entire academic life—you had no rebuttal.
—
Back in your dorm, you paced while Wanda watched from the bed, popcorn in hand.
“Say it again?” she asked.
“She said—she’s still single because I haven’t confessed yet.” You paused. “Like, what even—what was I supposed to say?!”
“I don’t know, ‘yes, Natasha, I’ve secretly wanted to kiss you since Intro to Gov.’ Maybe that?”
“I’m not falling for her.”
Wanda gave you a look.
You fell back onto the bed. “This is bad. I can’t be falling for my rival.”
“You’re already gone, babe.”
You groaned and fell face-first into your pillows.
—
Fate, or some chaotic god, had a sense of humor. The next class project? Partnered research. Your professor announced the pairings with casual indifference.
Of course, the professor paired you with Natasha.
“She requested you,” your prof said casually.
“Sorry?”
“She said no one else could match her.”
Great.
Just great.
You met her at the library the next day, heart pounding.
“You look like you’re about to fight me,” Natasha said, sliding into the seat across from you.
“I am.”
She chuckled. “Good. I like it when you fight.”
You glared, opening your laptop. “Let’s just get this done.”
Hours passed in chaos. You bickered about citations, rewrote the thesis four times, and debated tone until your heads hurt. But each time her fingers brushed yours, your pulse jumped. When she leaned over to point at your screen and her hair brushed your cheek, you froze.
Once, she leaned over you to point at your screen, her hair brushing your cheek.
You froze.
“You smell good,” she murmured.
“Shut up,” you muttered, ears burning.
She grinned. “Make me.”
You stared at her.
“I will.”
“Do it.”
And just like that, the library air turned electric.
You broke the tension by knocking her water bottle over.
Twice.
—
It happened again at the library—but this time, it wasn’t her. It was Enzo—the third-year International Studies major who always managed to appear when Natasha wasn’t around.
Today, he came bearing coffee. Your favorite.
“You look stressed,” Enzo said, placing the drink beside your laptop. “Thought you could use this.”
You blinked. “I—uh. Thanks. That’s… really sweet.”
He grinned, leaning against the table a little too casually. “I was wondering if you’d want to co-present for Model UN next month. You’re kind of amazing, and it’d be an honor.”
Before you could even respond, a shadow fell across your table.
“She already has a partner,” Natasha said coolly, appearing out of nowhere.
Your heart stuttered.
Enzo straightened. “Oh. Hey, Natasha. Didn’t see you there.”
“I know,” she said. “Maybe next time, announce yourself with a trumpet.”
You choked on your coffee.
Enzo blinked, confused. “It’s just a coffee. No need to be—”
“Possessive?” she cut in smoothly, slipping into the seat beside you. Her arm brushed yours. She didn’t move away. “Good. Just clarifying.”
Enzo left shortly after, citing “a class,” but he looked like he might transfer universities.
You turned to her. “What was that?”
“Coffee makes me territorial.”
“That wasn’t your coffee.”
“No,” she said, voice lower now, “but you’re mine.”
You stared. “Excuse me?”
She smiled sweetly, pulling your laptop toward her. “Now. About that conclusion paragraph.”
You spent the next twenty minutes typing in silence while your brain combusted.
—
The moment it all came to a head happened on the rooftop.
You’d just submitted your joint paper—the professor emailed to say it was “the best submission of the semester.”
The sun was setting, city lights flickering awake one by one beneath your feet. You held a cup of coffee in one hand, a slice of banana bread in the other. Natasha leaned on the railing beside you, hair tousled by the breeze.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
“It’s kind of annoying,” you said finally.
“What is?”
“That we’re good at everything.”
She laughed, brushing a crumb off your blazer. “We are.”
You turned to her. “I didn’t think we’d work well together.”
“I knew we would,” she said.
“Why?”
She met your gaze.
“Because you’re the only person who scares me,” she said. “And excites me. At the same time.”
You blinked. “Is this your way of flirting again?”
“It’s my way of confessing.”
You froze.
“Y/N,” she continued, voice quieter, “I’ve liked you since you corrected Professor Ross on a constitutional clause in front of the whole class."
“That was two years ago.”
“I’m very patient.”
You didn’t know what to say. You tried to say something witty. Clever. Deflect.
“This is bad. I can’t be falling...”
“…for you,” you finished, barely audible.
You expected her to tease you. Maybe crack a smug grin or say something borderline insufferable.
Instead, Natasha just looked at you like she already knew. Like she’d always known.
“I know,” she said softly, stepping closer. “But it doesn’t have to be.”
You laughed, breathless. “We’re rivals.”
“Rivals don’t stay up editing each other’s citations,” she countered. “They don’t memorize each other’s coffee orders or steal pens just to watch you pout and roll your eyes.”
She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“And they definitely don’t make each other blush this much.”
You hated that she was right. And loved it, too.
Your lips parted to respond—but the rooftop door creaked open.
Wanda.
Of course.
She squinted at you both, eyes darting between your flushed face and Natasha’s proximity.
“I KNEW IT,” she screamed. “I KNEW YOU WERE FLIRTING DURING THE DEBATE.”
You groaned. “Wanda—”
“I’m telling the group chat.”
“You are not telling the group chat—”
But it was too late. She was already running back inside, shrieking something about ‘endgame lesbians’ and ‘slow burn finally burning.’
You turned back to Natasha, exasperated. “You’ve doomed me.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” she said, grinning. “Want me to draft a public statement?”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re in love with me.”
You didn’t deny it.
—
You and Natasha showed up to your next class five minutes late.
Everyone stared.
You were glowing.
Natasha’s lipstick was smudged.
Wanda fist-pumped like she’d won the lottery. The professor didn’t even blink.
Later that week, your university released the final overall academic rankings.
You and Natasha?
Tied for first.
For the fourth time in a row.
She leaned over and whispered, “We’re good at sharing, huh?”
You smirked. “We’ll see about that.”
—
You didn’t sleep that night.
Part of it was the caffeine, but most of it was her.
You lay in bed staring at your ceiling, replaying the rooftop, the smile she gave you, the way she said “you’re mine” like it was a truth she never doubted.
At 2:41 a.m., your phone buzzed.
You stared at the message.
—
You met her outside your dorm, both in hoodies and sneakers, the city quiet and glimmering.
“I was hoping you’d say yes,” she said, falling into step beside you.
You rolled your eyes. “You’re lucky I’m already in too deep.”
You walked aimlessly, passing quiet cafés and flickering lamp posts, your shoulders brushing now and then like it meant nothing. But it meant everything.
“You know,” you said, hands stuffed in your hoodie pocket, “when I first met you, I wanted to push you down a flight of stairs.”
She snorted. “I thought you were a robot. Like, no emotion, just pure ambition.”
You smiled. “You were the first person who made me feel… nervous.”
She glanced at you, eyes soft. “You made me want to be better. And I hated you for it.”
You stopped walking.
“So what now?” you asked. “Are we... a thing?”
“I hope so,” she said, then leaned down, pressing her forehead to yours. “Unless you’d rather we keep flirting through footnotes and rebuttals.”
You grinned. “Maybe both.”
She kissed you.
And it felt less like the end of a rivalry—and more like the start of something real.
—
Your friends started asking questions. The professors started smiling when you bickered in class. You still debated her over everything—lunch menus, political philosophies, even what the best seat was in the student lounge.
But now, when you won, she kissed you.
When she won, you let her.
She still brought up the Enzo moment sometimes.
“Would’ve punched him if he asked you out,” she muttered once.
“You can’t punch diplomacy majors.”
“I can try.”
—
You lost your next debate to her.
On purpose.
She kissed you right after.
You decided maybe losing wasn’t so bad.
Not when it was to Natasha Romanoff.
And especially not when she pulled you aside after the crowd cleared and whispered, “Still rivals?”
after a hard mission, all she wants to do is talk to her girlfriend
“Did I wake you up?” The hoarse voice of Natasha Romanoff is the first thing you hear in your bleary haze, as you blink, willing yourself to wake up. You stare at the unknown number on your screen – burner phone. She wasn’t supposed to communicate with you during missions.
“. . . Huh?” you mumble. Your eyes glance over to the clock; 2:14 A.M. glares back at you, as you focus back on the voice crackling through your phone. You shake your head, before seeming to remember that she can’t see you on the other side of the line. “No,” you correct, perhaps a little too delayed. “You didn’t wake me. Been up. For a while,” you lie. She snorts. She still didn’t understand why you tried to lie to her– she was a professional spy, for god's sake. She was always going to know. Still you liked to try.
She doesn’t comment, instead admitting, “I needed to hear your voice.” She pauses. Was that too vulnerable? Sometimes Natasha worries that you may be in love with the Black Widow the world sees, and not the broken-down, morally gray Natasha Romanoff. She was a fragmented soul, and she dreaded the day that you would gain clarity of that and take your leave. Being with an Avenger already wasn’t easy work – hell, the title had at least a decade of trauma attached to it. It probably was in the contract. Being with the Black Widow? That was more trouble than she was worth.
“I missed you too,” you responded simply, and she was thankful that you were able to read in between the lines of what she was not brave enough to say.
“I’m sorry for waking you up,” she starts, and before you can reassure her, she continues, words flowing now that she had begun, “I had to exterminate a target today. He was a HYDRA agent. He had a picture of his kids in his wallet,” she confesses, voice cracking as she tries to recompose herself. “You probably think I’m being ridiculous. Having more empathy for this random man than he had for everything I stand in,” she mutters.
“I don’t think you’re ridiculous, Natasha. I’ve never thought that,” and you can picture the way her shoulders relax at your words. She had always worried that her flaws were too varied – and her strengths too lacking. “I think you’re incredibly strong, especially to feel so much empathy over someone who was not on your side. I love you,” you tack on, almost like a reminder that she's allowed to feel with you – she’s allowed to admit things and be vulnerable and it's okay.
She clears her throat, and your heart aches for her. Long distance truly never got easier, but absence did make the heart fonder. “When do you come home?” you offer. Natashas' window of vulnerability had closed by now. But every time, that window got a little longer (for you. The S.H.I.E.L.D. appointed therapist still didn’t even have a window).
She hums at that, and you can hear ruffling on the other line – she liked to talk to you before bed. It was her version of long distance pillowtalk. “Should be home tomorrow night.” she answers, as a yawn escapes your lips. “You’re tired,” she notes, and there's a hint of apology in her words.
“‘M not even tired,” you mutter in protest, “I have never yawned in my life. Swear,” you grouse, and she lets out a soft laugh at your words. Your lips curve up at that. You always liked being able to make her laugh; she didn’t laugh unless it was genuinely funny. She laughed with you quite a lot.
“You’re a liar,” she chides. “And you snore. I miss your snoring,” she admits.
“That's gay,” you mumble, head lolling against the pillow.
“So was the phone sex we had last night?” she counters, and you both delve into giggles. Even though the two of you were apart, you can tell that she muffled her laughs in her pillow – just like you did.
“Shut up. I need to go to bed,” you mutter, trying to change the topic. You would probably never get used to how easy it was to talk to her. “Stay on the phone. Don’t hang up”
“Needy. Have I ever hung up on you?” she asks, the indulgence in her voice ridiculously evident.
“One time your phone died,” you retort, before letting out a big yawn. “Tell me about the rest of your day”
Mid-way through her story, she hears a soft snore crackle through the line. “Are you asleep right now?”
“. . .”
If you were awake, you’d be able to visualize the fond look on her face. “Goodnight. I love you. Sleep well,” she whispers.
the natasha ambience i made originally posted on youtube is now in a google drive which you can download and listen to freely whenever you want (i hope)
the one on youtube got blocked, more songs got copyrighted and since i got asks about how they loved it n how it helped them, i knew i had to get it back up again
here's the link!
(list of songs used)
please lmk if there's any errors etc, i appreciate everyone who enjoys listening to it and leaving nice things about it :)
a reblog would be nice too! hehe
the video doesn't have any sort of watermark. please know that i made this from scratch (except for the music and the sound effects) i put this all together myself, edited nat's dialogues to be more clear, everything
what i'm trying to say is don't repost this anywhere and don't go around claiming it's yours :) thanks!
four years after making this, i just noticed the copyright restrictions are lifted on youtube :) it's now visible again when you search for "natasha romanoff ambience". neat!
if anyone's still around here, let me know if you can see the video on your end as well! here's the link
She doesn't care about the delulu shit Agatha's head made up, she just sits there and listens and enjoys the time because this is the first time in centuries where she's able to look at her without Agatha showing her how much she hates her. No fighting, no spells, no throwing something at eachother. They're just sitting there eating pizza and drink beer while Rio has the chance to admiring her.
Because this is literally what she does. Like
She never looked away, not even when she takes a sip of her beer. Never.
And the fact she didn't wanted to push Agatha too far after that. She immediately slow down when she saw how Agatha got nervous after her question where Agatha already has been. She stopped Agatha overthinking it and asks her again about the "case" so she could focus on something else. She could've just pushs it as far as she wanted but she didn't. Instead she was just sitting there and making sure Agatha felt as comfortable as possible while she's just admiring her.
oh you get it. you totally get it. i have not been able to put into words how much i love the detective scenes. but this is it
"She immediately slow down when she saw how Agatha got nervous after her question where Agatha already has been. She stopped Agatha overthinking it and asks her again about the "case" so she could focus on something else"
Summary: Natasha is confronted by someone from your past and faces a new troubling situation that requires her to find you.
Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
Part 5 | Part 6
Warnings: angst, violence, hurt/comfort, toxic relationship/emotional manipulation (not from Natasha)
Words: 4905
Natasha carefully rewraps the bandage around her bruised knuckles, her gaze drifting toward the night sky outside your apartment window.
The faint glow of distant city lights only emphasizes the darkness around her, leaving her alone in the dim room.
She flexes her hand experimentally, wincing at the ache, but the pain is almost welcomed—a distraction from the raw, defeated feeling inside her.
Her phone beeps in her pocket, and for a fleeting second, a hope flares within her.
Hope that it was you.
But when she pulls out her phone, the screen immediately dashes away that spark.
Her heart sinks slightly, but she still answers the call as she makes her way to the kitchen.
“Did you find anything?” Her voice still carries a thread of hope she can’t entirely hide.
There’s a pause before Tony’s voice comes through, his tone uncharacteristically serious.
“Sorry, Nat, the kid and I searched everywhere. There’s nothing left. The place has been stripped clean—completely abandoned. Same as last night.”
Natasha closes her eyes, inhaling deeply as she absorbs his words.
After being forced out, she had to regroup and call for backup. But by the time they returned to the site, it was as if the place had never been occupied.
No trace of guards, no equipment, and worst of all—no sign of you.
“How are you holding up?” Tony asks, his tone softer, catching the weight in her silence.
Natasha clenches her fists, testing the tightness of her grip. Her knuckles ache, a dull, persistent pain, but it barely scratches the surface of what she feels inside.
“I’m fine,” she replies, her voice steady but carrying a tired edge. “Just some bruises.”
Natasha sighs, her frustration and concern bleeding into her tone as she continues.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
Natasha glances toward the front door, where Widow sits, her little black form almost statue-like, staring intently at the door as if willing it to open.
Her tail swishes softly, but her gaze remains fixed, waiting.
“I’m going to stay here for now,” Natasha declares, her resolve solidifying. She reaches for a small bowl and fills it with water, setting it on the kitchen counter.
There’s a pause on the other end, then Tony’s voice, understanding and resigned.
“Alright. Take care of yourself, Romanoff. Call us if you need anything.”
“I will,” she murmurs, ending the call as she heads toward the cat by the door.
“Widow,” she calls softly with a gentleness reserved for only a few.
The cat’s ear twitches in acknowledgment, but she doesn’t turn, her entire focus still on the door.
Natasha watches her for a moment, a pang of sympathy tightening her chest.
She crouches down, setting the bowl beside her as she tries again to coax her.
“If you’re not going to eat, at least drink something,” she urges, hoping the cat will respond.
But Widow doesn’t move, her tiny body tense, her gaze unwavering as she guards the USB drive tucked protectively beneath her paw.
Natasha reaches a tentative hand toward her, but Widow’s yellow eyes narrow, and a low, warning warning sound escapes from her.
Sighing, Natasha withdraws her hand, understanding that the cat won’t easily surrender what you entrusted her.
She glances at the USB, reflecting on the mysterious mission you had given to the little animal, who seemed so intent on completing it.
The cat’s dedication and loyalty is admirable, but Natasha knows that this kind of behavior will only become more harmful to her the longer she waits.
Still, she hesitates, feeling the weight of what she needs to say.
Widow had held her stance for a full day now, refusing anything Natasha had offered.
And as much as Natasha respects her determination, she can’t let the little cat continue like this, clinging to a promise that may never be fulfilled.
Steeling herself, she leans closer, her voice soft but steady with reluctant honesty.
“She’s not coming, Widow,” Natasha murmurs, her tone carrying the painful truth.
The reaction is immediate.
Widow’s body stiffens and tenses, her eyes flashing with defiance as she finally meets Natasha’s gaze.
A small, angry growl escapes her as she clutches the USB tighter, then pointedly turns her back to Natasha, ignoring her completely.
Natasha sighs softly, feeling the sting of the cat’s rejection.
She leaves the bowl close by, in case Widow changes her mind, then moves wearily to the couch.
Lying down, she keeps her eyes on the cat, watching as the minutes drag into hours, the room settling into a quiet stillness.
Eventually, exhaustion overtakes her, and she drifts into a dreamless sleep.
It’s a soft nudge on her hand that wakes her.
Natasha blinks, momentarily disoriented, and glances down to find Widow on the couch beside her.
The cat's head is lowered as she lets out a sad, mournful meow.
With a gentle motion, she pushes the USB toward Natasha, nudging it forward with a paw, her posture dejected.
Ignoring the device, Natasha opens her arms in a silent invitation.
Widow hesitates, then pads into her embrace, curling up tightly against Natasha’s chest.
Natasha pulls her close, one hand resting gently on the small, trembling body, the other stroking her soft fur in an effort to soothe her.
Widow had offered her comfort in countless moments since she had met the small animal, so Natasha’s grip tightens protectively, offering what little comfort she can in return.
She can feel the cat’s sorrow in the small, heartbreaking whimpers that escape her.
The sad sounds eventually fade as Widow drifts into an uneasy sleep, her small body occasionally twitching, as if the dreams that find her are anything but restful.
A pang of sympathy tightens in her chest, understanding the feeling the cat must be going through.
After a moment, Natasha’s gaze on the sleeping cat is pulled away when her phone on the table lights up, vibrating softly with an incoming call.
Her heart skips a beat when she sees your name flash across the screen.
Moving carefully to avoid disturbing the little creature, Natasha grabs and answers the phone, pressing it to her ear with barely contained urgency.
“Hey, where are you? Are you okay?” she blurts out, her voice low but charged with concern.
Silence greets her, stretching unbearably long, and Natasha’s unease grows. She’s just about to call your name when a low, mocking chuckle crackles through the line.
“You know, she had you saved under an hourglass icon,” an unfamiliar voice drawls.
Natasha’s brows knit in confusion, a cold sensation settling over her as she realized this wasn’t you.
“Who is this?” she demands, her tone sharp and dangerous. “Why do you have her phone?”
The voice lets out a thoughtful hum as if savoring her reaction.
“Let’s talk,” the voice taunts. “One on one. Come to the address I sent you—if you really want to know.”
The line goes dead, leaving Natasha staring at the phone, a notification already lighting up the screen with a set of coordinates.
She exhales, steeling herself as her gaze drifts back to Widow, still curled beside her, her tiny body twitching restlessly in her sleep.
Determined, Natasha slips from the couch, pulling on her jacket as she glances back one last time.
The sight of Widow sleeping restlessly stirs her resolve.
This stumbling in the dark can’t go on—not for her and certainly not for the cat.
She leaves quietly, heading to confront whoever this mysterious stranger is.
The coordinates bring her to the entrance of an unmarked underground bar.
A brawny guard stands watch by the door, his gaze impassive but sharp. He sizes her up briefly, then steps aside without a word, opening the door and allowing her in.
The door closes behind her with a definitive slam, trapping her in the dim, smoky atmosphere of the room.
The bar is quiet, empty save for a single figure sitting casually at the counter, her back turned to her.
Natasha’s gaze sharpens, taking in the woman’s straight posture and the aura of confidence that radiates from her.
Jet-black hair cascades down her back, and a strange glint of metal catches Natasha’s attention—the unmistakable shimmer of a gold mask covering her upper face.
Natasha moves forward, her steps soundless as she approaches the counter. She sits two stools away, close enough to talk but keeping a cautious distance.
The woman remains silent, seemingly content with the space between them, focusing on the glass before her.
Another shot glass slides across the counter toward Natasha.
She catches it mid-slide but doesn’t raise it to her lips, choosing instead to study the stranger beside her.
The woman’s casual, almost indifferent demeanor betrays an underlying edge, a danger that Natasha can feel.
The woman lifts her own glass, taking a slow sip, before finally breaking the silence without so much a glance in Natasha’s direction.
“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, a smirk lacing her words. “Afraid I poisoned it?”
Natasha furrows her brows, coolly setting the glass back on the counter as her response.
The woman glances at her before shrugging and pouring herself another glass. The lightness in the air feels false, loaded with an unspoken tension.
Finally, Natasha breaks the silence.
“You already know who I am,” she says evenly. “So who are you?”
The woman turns, the gold mask covering her upper face catches the dim light, casting her in a half-shadow that only sharpens the piercing gray eyes staring back at her.
A smirk plays at her lips, and she leans in, resting her elbow on the counter with a relaxed yet predatory air.
“Straight to business. I respect that,” she says, chuckling softly as she swirls the liquid in her glass.
“My friends call me Whitney,” she continues, pausing to take a slow, deliberate sip before setting it down on the counter with a soft clink.
“My enemies? They know me as Madame Masque.”
Her voice drops as she tilts her head, gray eyes narrowing.
“So…which do you believe you are, Miss Black Widow?”
Natasha catches the faint edge in her words when she says her title, half-mocking with a hint of hostility that’s barely disguised.
It’s clear this woman has her own thoughts about who Natasha is.
“Seems you’ve already made that decision yourself,” Natasha says pointedly.
Whitney lets out a short chuckle as her fingers tap against the counter as if contemplating whether her statement is true or not.
Natasha’s gaze flicks down to the counter at her action before drifting to where a familiar device rests.
Your phone.
Whitney’s eyes follow Natasha’s line of sight, her hand reaching over to take the phone. She handles it with a casual, almost mocking nonchalance that makes Natasha’s blood simmer as she’s reminded of how she doesn’t know your whereabouts.
As if reading Natasha’s thoughts, Whitney’s lips curve into a taunting smile.
“Don’t worry, she’s safe,” she says smoothly, raising the phone and pointing it toward Natasha. Her eyes glint with dark amusement. “But tell me, how much do you really know about her to care?”
Natasha’s eyes narrow, her jaw clenching slightly as she meets Whitney’s gaze, holding back the irritation clawing at her composure.
“I know enough.”
Whitney’s laugh is soft, laced with an air of superiority.
“Enough?” she echoes, as if savoring the word, rolling it around in her mouth with condescension.
She brings the phone up to her lips, brushing them lightly on the edge as if placing a delicate kiss.
“That’s nothing compared to who I am to her,” she purrs, her gaze locked onto Natasha’s, a challenge in her expression.
Natasha frowns slightly at the implication, piecing together the hints of what sort of relationship you and this woman may have shared. Though, she doesn’t let the idea shake her composure.
“Funny,” Natasha counters, her tone ice-cold. “You say you’re so important, yet she’s never mentioned you. Not even once.”
The barb hits its mark.
Whitney’s smirk falters, just for a split second, before her expression hardens, her grip tightening on the phone.
Her gaze sharpens with a flash of anger, but she recovers, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low murmur.
“Careful,” she warns, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “People have disappeared for less.”
Natasha meets her gaze head-on, the threat passing over her like a breeze.
The silence stretches between them, tense and unyielding.
Then, as if suddenly bored of the exchange, Whitney tosses the phone across the counter.
Natasha catches it effortlessly, not breaking eye contact.
“However,” Whitney says, standing up smoothly and tossing her hair back over her shoulder, “That is not the purpose of this meeting.”
Her posture shifts, deliberate and commanding, as she steps closer.
Whitney’s presence fills the space between them, a wall of cold authority. Her gaze bears down on Natasha, sharp and assessing.
“This is your only warning—a courtesy if you will,” she continues, her tone chilling in its calculated calm. “In recognition of the…friendship you shared with her during her time away from my side.”
Her words are laced with a venomous undertone, and her eyes narrow, each syllable cutting with a precision that makes her intentions painfully clear.
“Stay away from my business,” Whitney demands, her voice dropping into a steely edge. “And stay away from her.”
The threat hangs heavy in the air, but Natasha remains calm, her expression steadfast. Underneath, though, a flicker irritation stirs in her chest.
It’s not the words themselves that bother her—it’s the way Whitney carries herself, the way she exudes control, as if she owns you. That smug arrogance, that predatory assumption of power over someone else’s life, is something Natasha knows all too well.
She’s spent her entire early life under the thumb of people like Whitney, people who believed they had the right to decide her fate.
Natasha recognizes the pattern instantly, and the familiarity sets her teeth on edge.
“She can make her own choices,” Natasha counters, her tone calm but firm, a subtle steel threading through her words.
Whitney’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. There’s something predatory in the way her gaze lingers like she’s savoring an unseen advantage.
She arches a brow, her response almost mocking.
“Yes,” she says smoothly, “and tell me, whose bed did she choose to sleep in tonight?”
Even though Natasha sees through the obvious attempt to provoke her, her fingers still tighten instinctively around the sleek metal of the phone, the only outward sign of her restraint. Her jaw sets, the tension visible in the small but deliberate motion.
Whitney catches the reaction, and the satisfaction in her expression is unmistakable. Her smirk widens as though confirming a victory.
Without waiting for a response, she pivots on her heel and strides confidently toward the door, her heels clicking in the silence.
At the threshold, she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. Her voice drops to a whisper, low and laced with a chilling sweetness.
“You should forget about her,” Whitney murmurs, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Or else…she’ll hurt you even more than she already has.”
The words twist in the air, lingering like smoke long after Whitney disappears into the night.
Natasha remains seated in the dimly lit bar, the emptiness pressing in around her.
As much as she tries to brush it off, Whitney’s parting shot reverberates in her mind, a shadow that clings to her thoughts, refusing to disappear.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
It’s early morning by the time Natasha finally makes it back to your apartment. She slips in through the front door, her steps weary, her mind weighed down by the revelations of the night.
As she enters, her boot bumps into the bowl she’d left for Widow, the water still untouched and the food uneaten.
Natasha’s frown deepens as her concern shifts to the little cat.
The absence of any sound or movement from Widow sends a flicker of unease through her.
Moving quickly to the couch where she left her, Natasha feels her stomach twist as she sees Widow, lying in the same spot, seemingly untouched by the passing hours.
But as Natasha leans in closer, worry edges into panic. She notices how shallow the little cat’s breathing has become, her tiny body rising and falling with only the faintest of movements.
Natasha kneels beside the couch, reaching a hand to gently stroke Widow’s back, calling her name softly.
“Widow?” Her voice is tentative, hoping for any sign of life, any flicker of response.
But there’s nothing.
Widow doesn’t stir or twitch, only the faintest breaths giving away the fact that she’s even alive.
Panic surges in Natasha’s chest, and without hesitation, she carefully lifts Widow into her arms.
The cat remains limp, her tiny body almost weightless, as Natasha cradles her close, rushing toward the door and heading straight for the nearest emergency vet clinic.
In the waiting area, Natasha’s leg bounces with anxious energy, her fingers wringing together as she stares at the clinic doors.
Every time a nurse or doctor passes by, she looks up, her heart in her throat, hoping for news about Widow’s condition.
The minutes crawl by, and then hours, the feeling of helplessness pressing down on her with each passing second.
Finally, a voice calls out. “Ms. Romanoff?”
Natasha stands instantly, her gaze meeting the veterinarian’s.
The vet’s eyes widen for a moment, recognizing her.
“Oh, wow, it really is you,” the vet mutters, then clears her throat, refocusing and offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry—I meant to say, your cat is stable now.”
“She’s not actually my…” Natasha begins to clarify, but then thinks better of it, shaking her head. “What was wrong with her?”
The vet gives her a curious look but remains professional as she continues.
“We gave her some fluids for the dehydration. Other than that, there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong. Her lack of movement was likely due to severe exhaustion and lack of energy.” She pauses and studies Natasha for a moment. “Has she shown any changes in eating habits recently? A loss of appetite?”
Natasha nods, the previous day playing back in her mind.
“She wouldn’t eat or drink anything yesterday,” she admits, her voice tinged with guilt.
The vet shakes her head.
“That’s not good for cats, especially one her size. Going without food or water for even a day can lead to complications—some of them severe—if it continues. Has there been anything recently that might have caused her stress? Emotional factors can have a significant impact on animals.”
Natasha exhales deeply, her chest tightening.
“I might have an idea,” she says, her voice quieter.
The vet nods, offering a small, reassuring smile.
“That’s good. Addressing the source of her stress is key. Cats are incredibly resilient, but the sooner she feels safe and secure again, the faster she’ll recover. She’s stable now, but we’ll keep monitoring her for the next few hours. After that, she’ll be ready to go home.”
“Okay,” Natasha murmurs, her voice tight with relief.
Sitting back down, Natasha releases a deep breath, a mixture of relief and lingering worry filling her chest.
The most likely reason for Widow’s condition would be your sudden absence and the overwhelming sense of abandonment the little cat must be feeling.
If Natasha wants to truly help her, she knows she’ll have to find you—and fast.
But that’s already a difficult task. She doesn’t even know where to start, especially now that she can no longer reach you.
She pulls out your phone, the screen lighting up with a photo of you and Widow, a rare moment captured in happier times.
A soft, sad smile tugs at her lips as she studies the image, but it quickly fades as determination takes over.
Natasha swipes through the phone, scrolling through messages, contacts, and any notes that might give her a lead.
As her focus sharpens, a small notification banner suddenly drops from the top of the screen—a reminder.
Natasha’s brow furrows as she reads it, her instincts and training automatically kicking in. Her eyes narrow as she considers the information.
It’s a long shot, but it’s her only lead.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha remains hidden in the shadows, her eyes fixed on the building across the street. The crisp night air chills her skin, but she doesn’t waver.
Hours of waiting finally pay off as she spots a figure emerging from a rooftop window, their movements precise and practiced.
Natasha’s breath catches as she recognizes the silhouette.
You move with fluid grace, scaling down the side of the building as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. Blending seamlessly into the night, you pause briefly on the ground, scanning your surroundings.
Natasha watches and follows intently, her heartbeat quickening. She takes a steadying breath and steps out of the shadows.
“Hey, can we talk?” she calls, her voice low but firm.
You whip around, your body immediately tensing as your eyes meet hers.
Surprise flickers across your face for a split second, but it’s quickly replaced by a guarded, hardened expression.
Without a word, you turn on your heel and dart into a nearby alley.
“Damn it,” Natasha mutters, breaking into a sprint after you. Her boots hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, her heart pounding as she pushes herself to keep up.
She can’t lose you—not again.
“Wait!” she yells, her voice echoing through the narrow streets.
But you don’t stop.
You dart through the labyrinth of the city’s back alleys, vaulting over debris, slipping into tight corners, and using every trick in your arsenal to stay ahead.
Natasha grits her teeth, frustration mounting as the gap between you grows.
Just when it seems like you might disappear into the night again, Natasha yells, desperation seeping into her voice.
“It’s Widow! She’s sick!”
The words stop you dead in your tracks. You skid to a halt, spinning around to face her. Disbelief and fury war on your face as you close the distance in a blur of motion.
Before Natasha can react, you slam into her, knocking her off her feet. The impact sends her sprawling onto the pavement, the air forced from her lungs.
You’re on top of her in an instant, pinning her down with your weight. Your knees trap her legs, and your hands grip her wrists, holding her firmly against the cold ground.
“What did you do to her?” you demand, your voice low and intense. Your face hovers inches above hers, anger radiating from you. Your eyes bore into hers, alight with fury and something deeper—fear.
Natasha’s breath catches as she processes the sudden shift, but her calm never wavers.
“I didn’t—”
“I can’t believe you’d do something like this!” you snap, cutting her off. “Hurting her just to get to me!” Your voice rises with each word, the accusation stinging like venom, your emotions boiling over into your words.
Natasha struggles against your hold, her frustration mounting.
“Listen to me!” she bites back, her tone firm despite the compromising position. “I didn’t hurt her! She’s sick because she won’t eat or drink anything since you disappeared!”
Your grip falters slightly, confusion flickering across your face. Natasha seizes the moment, her voice softening but retaining its urgency.
“She thinks you abandoned her,” Natasha says before continuing, her tone quieter but no less resolute. “She misses you.”
Your fingers loosen their hold on her wrists, the anger in your eyes giving way to guilt and vulnerability.
Slowly, you push yourself back, but instead of moving off her entirely, you remain seated atop her, your posture easing into something less confrontational as the tension between you softens.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. The bitterness in your voice is evident as a hollow chuckle escapes your lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I forgot…you’re not the kind of person who would do something like that.”
Natasha props herself up on her elbows, her sharp gaze still studying you, though the edge in her eyes has softened.
“But Whitney is,” she says evenly, her words carrying a pointed weight.
Your eyes snap to hers, widening slightly.
“How do you know about her?” you ask, your tone shifting to one of shock and apprehension.
Natasha sighs at the memory of her encounter with Whitney, slightly regretting bringing the woman into the conversation.
She hesitates, but before she can answer, her gaze flickers to where you’re still straddling her, pinning her in place.
A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, a spark of mischief breaking through the lingering tension.
“You know,” she drawls, her voice teasing as she tries to lighten the mood, “if you’re planning to keep me in this position much longer, at least buy me dinner first.”
The unexpected quip catches you off guard. For a moment, her words hang in the air before a soft laugh escapes you, easing the remaining tension.
Natasha feels her heart quicken at the sound and the shift in your expression, relieved to see the shadow of a smile on your face, even if it might be fleeting.
But then your smirk returns, playful and familiar, as you lean down slightly, closing the space between you, your face hovering just above hers.
“Does this affect you that much, Miss Black Widow?” you ask, your voice lowering as you draw out her title, teasing her the way you often do.
Natasha’s breath catches, her heart practically pounding now.
Unconsciously, she leans closer, her lips parting slightly. Her gaze flickers to your mouth, lingering for just a fraction of a second too long as she remembers the last time those lips had touched hers.
Something in her gaze must have surprised you as your eyes widen slightly, as if just noticing the intensity of how she looks at you and seeing the possible depth and truth of her feelings for you.
The realization shakes you, bringing you out of the moment. Blinking, you pull back quickly, the teasing edge in your expression vanishing as the weight of the realization sinks in.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, though even you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for—crossing a line, or simply acknowledging what you cannot reciprocate right now.
You lean back and plant your hands on the ground behind you to give her space.
Natasha blinks, as though snapping out of her own thoughts, and shifts slightly, reclaiming her composure as she remembers the boundaries you’ve placed between yourself and her.
Her expression flickers briefly, something unreadable passing over her face, before she clears her throat.
She sits up smoothly, brushing off her arms and legs as if the act might rid her of any lingering emotions.
“It’s okay,” she says quietly, her voice steady, though there’s a faint undercurrent of something unsaid, something painful.
You shift back further, leaning on your hands for support, as you exhale deeply, rubbing the back of your neck.
“How do you know about Whitney?” you ask again, this time quieter, more cautious.
“We talked,” Natasha says, her tone neutral but pointed. “She made it pretty clear how much she doesn’t like me meddling in her business…or with you.”
A shadow crosses your expression, and you let out a low sigh, your gaze flickering between her and the ground.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” you mutter.
Natasha tilts her head, studying you carefully as she wonders about your relationship with the woman. She pushes herself to her feet and steps closer, her gaze locking with yours as she reaches her hand out to you.
“Come back with me, please,” she says after a moment. “Widow needs you.”
You hesitate, the conflicting emotions playing out on your face, but Natasha holds your gaze, steady and unwavering.
Finally, your hand raises tentatively toward hers.
But before you can close the gap, a sharp kick slams into Natasha’s side, sending her stumbling back. She rolls to her feet smoothly, her sharp gaze snapping at her attacker.
“I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself,” a voice warns coolly.
Natasha straightens, brushing herself off as she locks eyes with Whitney.
The woman strides forward with predatory grace, pulling you to your feet.
You avoid Natasha’s gaze as Whitney wraps her arms around you from behind, her chin resting possessively on your shoulder.
“She’s mine,” Whitney finishes, her tone dangerously low, laced with a chilling confidence.
Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, her green eyes narrowing.
“For someone so confident in that fact, you seem awfully insecure whenever I’m near,” she says, her words meant to provoke the woman.
Whitney’s expression hardens, her gray eyes flashing with anger. She makes a move toward Natasha, but you turn in her arms, placing a firm hand on her shoulder to stop her.
Your other hand gently tilts her face toward yours, redirecting her attention.
“You promised you wouldn’t,” you whisper, your tone calm but firm. You lean in, pressing your forehead lightly against hers, as if grounding her.
Natasha’s chest tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar sting of pain settling in her heart. Her hands clench at her sides as she watches the exchange, feeling both helpless and infuriated.
Whitney holds your gaze for a long moment. Finally, she sighs, her lips curving into a slight smirk as her eyes flick toward Natasha. She seems to notice Natasha’s clenched fists, her smirk deepening.
“See?” Whitney says lightly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “I told you she’d only hurt you.”
Your eyes flash with a pained expression at her words. Still, you refuse to meet Natasha’s gaze.
With that, Whitney pulls you closer, turning to lead you away, leaving Natasha standing in the shadows.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
Part 5 | Part 6
a/n: I know, updates on both series in the same week surprises me too, it probably won’t happen too often but we’ll see. Again, thanks for reading!
If you asked to be tagged and I missed it or if the tag did not work for you, please let me know.
Summary: The Black Widow does not get flustered. So why is it that Natasha can’t seem to stop embarrassing herself in front of you?
Warnings: fluff
Words: 2795
At the edge of the bustling hangar bay, Natasha leans against the cold, metallic wall, her arms folded tightly, a faint frown etched across her brow as her sharp gaze observes the scene unfolding before her.
Near the base of the Quinjet’s ramp, you are engaged in animated conversation with Carol Danvers, who happened to arrive at the compound for a quick visit precisely when you returned from your mission.
You've been with the Avengers for a few months now, a former SHIELD agent seamlessly adjusting to the team dynamics.
Over time, you've connected with everyone—including her.
So, Natasha’s made an extra effort to help you feel welcome.
Clint often teases her about her behavior, insisting her attentiveness borders on something more personal, something like a…crush.
Natasha dismisses his comments each time with a roll of her eyes.
She’s just being nice.
After all, it's only natural to want a solid, dependable relationship with a new teammate, especially someone she'll be working closely with.
That’s the only reason why she came to greet you when you return from your mission.
At least, that’s what she tells herself as she stands there, alone, on the sidelines…not with you.
Natasha watches Carol say something that makes you laugh, causing her faint frown to deepen.
The flash of amusement in your eyes as Carol grins back makes Natasha roll her eyes and look away, unable to take the sight anymore as a pang of irritation tightens in her chest.
She tries to shake it off, but it doesn’t disappear.
After all, it’s not like she got here an hour before your scheduled return and waited to see you…just to end up watching as the blonde space beauty swoop in, effortlessly captivating your attention.
Deciding she’s had enough, Natasha pushes herself off the wall, preparing to leave.
However, her abrupt movement catches others around her off guard, and she ends up bumping into a passing cart loaded with tools and equipment.
A clattering sound echoes across the hangar as wrenches and bolts spill onto the floor.
Natasha curses softly under her breath, a mix of pain and embarrassment coloring her cheeks as she drops to gather the scattered items, apologizing hastily to the technician she collided with before quickly exiting the area.
In her haste, she doesn’t notice your gaze, the subtle smile tugging at your lips as you follow her with amused eyes, tracking her every flustered move across the hangar bay, even as she slips away without a backward glance.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
“So, how’s it going with your crush?” Clint asks, a playful glint in his eyes as he watches Natasha.
Natasha shoots him a warning look that would strike fear into the most fearsome of villains.
Without a word, she grabs the coffee pot, filling his mug before pouring some for herself. She replaces the pot with a decisive click.
“There is no crush,” she states firmly, taking a sip as though punctuating her denial.
“Are you sure about that?” Clint asks skeptically before continuing, “Whenever Y/n’s around, it’s like you lose all of your charm and coolness.”
Natasha gives him an unimpressed glare.
“Really? Coolness? That’s the best you’ve got?”
Clint smirks, raising his mug in mock salute.
“Ask me again after I finish this coffee.”
She rolls her eyes, holding her mug close, feeling the warm comfort seep into her hands.
Just as she brings it to her lips, the doors swing open, and Tony strolls into the kitchen, spotting them with their drinks.
“Oh, coffee! Pour me a cup, Romanoff.”
“Pour your own,” Natasha mutters, savoring her next sip.
Tony feigns hurt, pressing a hand to his chest in mock shock.
“FRIDAY, remind me, who owns this building?”
“You do, sir,” the AI replies smoothly.
Tony gestures upward triumphantly at her before pointing towards the kitchen.
“So, technically, that machine is mine, the beans are mine, and...oh, right, that pot of coffee is also mine.”
Natasha rolls her eyes but eventually reaches for the pot, lifting it begrudgingly.
Tony holds out his mug with a victorious grin.
But just as she hovers the pot above his cup, she stops short.
“A ‘please’ once in a while wouldn’t hurt.”
Tony’s eyes widen, and he gasps in exaggerated disbelief as Natasha raises a brow in expectation.
Huffing, he mutters, “Can I have some coffee, please?”
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Natasha quips with a smirk, preparing to pour him his coffee.
At that moment, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal you, fresh from your morning workout, dressed in your training gear.
You walk by the kitchen, spotting the other Avengers gathered around.
A delighted smile spreads across your face.
“Ooh, coffee! Can I have some, too?”
Natasha’s response is instant.
“Sure, I’ll make you a new pot.”
Her tone is warmer than usual, surprising even herself.
You beam at her, and Natasha feels herself pause, momentarily captivated by the sight. Distracted, she almost misses your following words.
“Thanks, Natasha! Let me change, and I’ll be right back.”
You slip through the doors, leaving Natasha blinking, still trying to regain her composure.
Tony watches with raised eyebrows.
“Wait a second—she didn’t even say ‘please,’ and you’re making her a whole new pot?”
Natasha’s eyes narrow as she holds the pot just out of reach of Tony’s mug.
“Do you want coffee or not?”
Tony grumbles before muttering a grudging “Yes, please.”
Satisfied, Natasha pours the coffee, keeping her focus steady.
“Natasha?” your voice catches her off guard, and she glances up to see you poking your head back into the room.
“Yes?” she replies a little too quickly, immediately focusing on you.
Both Clint and Tony fall silent, watching the two of you with curious eyes.
“Steve’s got a mission tomorrow,” you explain. “Would you mind if I train with you in the meantime?”
Natasha’s mind races for a moment before she steadies herself to answer.
“Uh—yeah, sure. Anytime you want.”
“Great!” you say enthusiastically before glancing worriedly at the counter. “I think that’s enough coffee.”
Natasha follows your gaze, eyes widening as she realizes Tony’s cup is overflowing, dark liquid pooling across the counter. She yanks the pot away with a muttered curse.
“Oh sh—!”
Tony steps back just in time, glaring down at his soaked countertop.
“Really, Romanoff? This is a new suit!”
Rolling her eyes, Natasha grabs paper towels, unruffled by his dramatics.
“Calm down, it barely even touched you.”
You let out a small laugh.
“I’ll be right back,” you say, shooting her a smile as you exit.
“Okay,” Natasha murmurs, her attention lingering on the door.
Clint chuckles as he takes another sip, eyeing her knowingly.
“You’re right, Nat. It’s not a crush,” he says, leaning back with a smirk. “It’s way worse.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha flashes one of her most charming smiles, leaning just slightly forward as the receptionist fumbles through her files, cheeks tinged with a rosy hue under Natasha’s intense gaze.
“Here you go!” the receptionist says, her voice soft as she hands over a key card. “I’m sorry again for the mix-up.”
Natasha’s fingers rest lightly over the receptionist’s hand as she accepts the card, her eyes warm and a playful smile tugging at her lips.
“No problem at all,” she replies, her tone smooth. “I don’t mind the delay with such lovely company.”
The receptionist blushes deeply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and giving Natasha a flustered smile.
Natasha’s confident smirk grows as she watches her charms take effect.
Quick and efficient, she slips the USB drive from the computer, seamlessly hiding it under her palm as it rests over the key card. For a moment, she feels pleased with herself, effortlessly pulling off her usual charisma.
See, she thinks to herself, Clint has no idea what he’s talking about—she’s got plenty of charm.
“Nice job, Natasha,” your voice suddenly crackles in her earpiece, startling her.
Her hand slips in surprise, almost knocking over the items on the counter. She turns it into a casual adjustment, but not before the receptionist gives her a curious look.
Natasha quickly smiles, grabbing the key card and offering a polite nod before walking away toward a secluded corner of the lobby.
Pressing a finger to her comms, she mutters, “Y/n? Where’s Clint?”
“He had to step out for a minute,” you answer. “He asked me to take over. Is that okay?”
“No–I mean—yes, of course,” Natasha says, the words tumbling out a bit too quickly.
She straightens, running a hand through her hair as she tries to regain her composure. It’s not like she hadn’t expected you to assist with missions, but the thought of you watching her…
She tamps down the sudden flutter in her chest and forces herself to stay focused.
“Your next target is on the same floor as the key card you just picked up,” you continue, your voice warm and steady in her ear.
“Got it.”
“I’ll explain what you’re looking for.”
Natasha nods and begins striding toward the elevators, hoping her sudden focus will drown out the distraction of your voice in her head.
She tells herself it’s just a mission—professional, routine.
But now, with you guiding her through the next steps, each word falling from your lips makes it harder for her to maintain her usually calm, steady demeanor.
Her heart beats a little faster, and her cheeks feel a bit warmer than they should. She brushes off the thoughts and keeps walking, determined to stay cool and collected.
“Um…Natasha?”
She stops mid-step. “Hmm?”
“You’re…going the wrong way.”
Natasha freezes, blinking in surprise. She glances around, realizing she’s heading in the opposite direction from the elevators.
A wave of embarrassment sweeps over her as she lets out a quiet curse under her breath.
“Right,” Natasha says, turning with as much dignity as she can muster, her face heating as she finally heads in the correct direction.
Oh, she thinks to herself, she’s definitely going to kill Clint.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha steps out of her room, her leather jacket slung over one arm as she adjusts the zipper.
Your voice calls her name from down the hall, catching her off guard and making her slam the door shut in a startled motion. She spins to face you, only to be tugged back by an unexpected resistance.
Natasha looks down with a sigh, spotting her jacket sleeve caught in the door. Tugging at it proves ineffective, as it stays firmly wedged in place.
Hearing your footsteps approaching, Natasha hastily shoves the jacket behind her back, trying to appear composed. She leans casually against the door, hoping the awkward moment has gone unnoticed.
“Hey,” you greet with a warm smile as you reach her.
“Hey, Y/n,” Natasha replies, attempting a relaxed tone.
You eye her with a hint of curiosity. “Are you…okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine!” Natasha says quickly, forcing a casual smile. “Just, um, examining the door. Thought it could use a closer look.”
Your brows raise in amused surprise at her peculiar explanation, but you let it go.
“Well, once you’re done with that,” you say, playing along, “I made a reservation at that new place downtown. I was wondering if you’d like to join me?”
“Just the two of us?” The words slip out before Natasha can stop herself.
A flicker of excitement and amusement crosses your face as you nod.
“Yeah, just us,” you say softly.
Natasha’s heart gives a small flutter, but she maintains her composure.
“I’d love to,” she says, a smile slipping through despite her best efforts to stay calm.
“Great, it’s a date,” you say, grinning. “I’ll meet you in the garage.” With a playful smirk, you add, “After you finish your ‘inspection,’ of course.”
As you walk toward the elevator, Natasha watches you with a lingering smile.
Once you’re out of sight, she finally frees her jacket and heads to the garage a few minutes later, finding you waiting by her motorcycle.
You hop on behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist in a snug embrace.
The warmth of your presence makes her feel a fluttering sensation in her chest she can’t shake. Distracted, Natasha blindly reaches for her helmet and slips it on—only to be met with complete darkness.
With a soft sigh, Natasha’s head drops to her chest, realizing she put it on backward.
The chuckle that escapes your lips behind her is quickly muffled as you clear your throat, your hands reaching to help her.
You gently remove the helmet, your fingers brushing her cheek as you pull it off.
When Natasha glances back, she catches the playful look in your eyes as you bite back a grin.
Seeing this, Natasha lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Can we just pretend the last few minutes didn’t happen and start over? I swear, this doesn’t usually happen to me.”
You laugh, unable to hold back anymore.
“Oh, I know all about the smooth and charming Black Widow,” you say, your gaze warm and teasing. “But I think this side of you is pretty cute too.”
A faint blush spreads across her cheeks at your words, and Natasha takes the helmet, this time slipping it on correctly, with a soft smile she can’t quite hide anymore.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
It’s another one of Tony’s famous parties, where glittering lights reflect off polished floors and music pulses softly through the spacious hall.
In the middle of the dance floor, beneath the warm glow, Natasha sways with you, her hands resting gently on your waist as you move together to the rhythm of the soft melody.
You wrap your arms around her neck, leaning in and drawing her closer until your lips meet hers in a tender, lingering kiss.
Natasha smiles softly against your lips, and as you pull back, she rests her forehead gently against yours, eyes half-closed in a moment of quiet contentment.
Even as the music fades into the background, her hands remain firm on your waist, as if she has no intention of letting go.
“Why don’t we get something to drink?” you suggest, glancing over at the bar lined with sparkling glasses.
Natasha only pulls you closer, her fingers brushing lightly along the small of your back as she murmurs, “Or…we could stay right here and have another dance.”
Her voice is a soft suggestion, and she leans in slightly, her green eyes filled with warmth and alluring charm.
You raise an eyebrow, a knowing smile spreading across your lips.
“It’s cute how you’re trying to be smooth.”
Natasha’s expression shifts, feigning innocence.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, though the faintest blush colors her cheeks.
With a playful glint in your eye, you tilt your head at her in challenge.
“How long has your bracelet been stuck to my dress?” you ask, giving her a teasing look.
Natasha glances away, the blush deepening as she realizes she’s been caught. She’s spent the past few moments subtly trying to free her wrist from your dress, but to no avail.
“In my defense,” she murmurs, attempting to deflect, “you distracted me with how beautiful you look tonight.”
You chuckle softly at her excuse, reaching up to pull her even closer. With a playful grin, you press a gentle kiss to her lips before leaning in to whisper against her ear.
“Think of the bright side—if you can’t get it loose, I’m sure you could just rip this dress off me.”
Natasha’s breath catches, and for a split second, she’s utterly still, her mind stalling at the suggestion.
You pull back just enough to watch her expression, and a delighted smile grows on your face as she stares at you, wide-eyed and flustered, clearly caught off guard.
It only takes her a moment to catch on, her eyes narrowing in realization as she shakes her head with a playful huff.
“You’re trying to embarrass me on purpose,” she accuses, a hint of a smile breaking through.
Unashamed, you bite back a laugh and nod.
“It’s nice to see the calm and collected Black Widow all flustered for once.”
Natasha’s lips curl into a smirk as she pulls you flush against her, her free hand sliding up your back, fingers grazing along your spine. She leans in, her lips just a breath away from yours, the warmth of her gaze intense.
“Only for you,” she murmurs, her voice a hushed promise before closing the distance, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that makes you forget the world around you, the room fading away as you melt into each other’s embrace.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: just a short fluff with a soft Natasha that I had finished some time ago. after everything that has happened yesterday and today, I wanted to give some kind of happier distraction, even if it may be only a temporary escape from everything. I’m still going between disbelief, sadness, and anger myself about the situation while also trying to be prepared to continue on. But hopefully, this was able to bring some of you some sort of break from everything else.
Did we get a Agathario origin story? No. Will we get one in the future? Maybe. Will we see them both again? Definitely (Rio hates the idea of ghosts and will definitely pursue Agatha). Did we get assurance that Agatha is going to be a bigger part of the MCU? Hell yeah. Did we all sob like babies at Nicky’s history? Yes.
WAS THAT ONE HELL OF A KISS?
FUCK YEAH.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn good. I am so excited to see these stories played out further.
I also have all the fuel I need for so much fanfiction.
Summary: You are forced to work with Secretary Ross to track down Natasha after she violated the Sokovia Accords and disappeared.
Warnings: slight angst, light fluff, contains scenes from Black Widow movie/deleted scenes
Words: 4120
Natasha and Yelena sit across from each other at a table, nursing their drinks after they escaped from Budapest. They had just decided to work together to stop Dreykov and his Red Room.
Natasha smiles at Yelena as she nods towards the open garage with the car. “I saw where he put the keys.”
Without hesitation, Yelena replies, “Top drawer, green cabinet.”
The two tilt their bottles towards each other in cheers, the clinking sound echoing in the quiet night as they both take a sip.
Yelena sets her bottle down and begins to lightly spin it around on its edge before tilting her head in question.
“So, when are we going to lose your friend?”
Natasha startles at her question, choking slightly on her drink. Coughing, she recovers her composure before replying.
“What friend?”
Yelena raises her eyebrows and points at Natasha accusingly.
“Really? She’s been following us since we left the city. And you’ve been sneaking glances at her ever since we sat down.”
Natasha scoffs and takes another sip, not commenting further on the accusation.
Yelena squints at Natasha’s nonresponse and attempts a different approach.
“Or we can let her follow us as we take on Dreykov and the other Widows in the Red Room.”
Natasha frowns at that statement and taps her finger against her bottle in thought. On one hand, she is a little nervous to talk with you after what she did, but the alternative is you following her into a dangerous mission that you didn’t sign up for. She already knows which choice she prefers.
Taking a deep breath, she stands from the table and heads toward your direction. Yelena gives her a smug wave before relaxing back into her chair.
Your back was facing her, but Natasha knew you were keeping an eye on her. She pulls out the empty seat next to you and sits down, giving you a flirty smile, “Is this seat taken?”
You don’t respond to her question. Instead, you take a drink, making sure not to look in her direction.
At your silence, Natasha places her arm on the table and rests her head against her hand as she looks at you. Undeterred by your lack of response, she decides to try again.
“So, what brings someone as pretty as you around here?”
You let out a soft laugh in disbelief at her words, shaking your head, before turning to face her, deciding to play along. “Work trip. I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh?” Natasha places her hand gently on yours, leaning closer. “Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help.”
In response, you lean in too, bringing your face close to hers until you are looking right into her eyes.
“Yeah?” Your words whisper against her lips.
You were so close. Natasha could almost feel the gentle brush of your lips against hers, tempting her. She’s about to close the distance between the two of you instinctively like she’s done many times before. But just when her lips were about to touch yours, you move away.
Your smile falls from your face as you pull your hand from under hers and cross your arms. You glare at Natasha accusingly.
“Well, I’m looking for my girlfriend who decided to become a global fugitive overnight and suddenly disappear without any warning.” You give her a pointed look. “And a note that just says ‘I’m sorry’ is not enough.”
Natasha winces at your words and looks away guiltily. Back at her old table, she sees that Yelena is now eating from a small pile of snacks in front of her as she waits. Yelena catches her looking at her and raises a thumb up in encouragement as she continues eating, blissfully unaware of the escalating tension.
Natasha takes a peek back at you. You were still glaring at her, waiting for her response. She attempts to ease the tension in the air.
“You know, I also added a little heart at the end—.”
“Natasha,” you interrupted, giving her a deadpanned look.
Taking a deep breath, she tries to explain.
“Okay, I didn’t want to force you to come with me. It was my choice. I knew what I was doing and the consequences. You shouldn’t have to leave your life behind because of me.”
You huffed at her explanation, annoyed.
“Except you didn’t give me a choice. Instead, I had to track you all the way to Norway, only to find an empty safe house and a car wreck in the middle of a bridge.”
Natasha widens her eyes at you, impressed at how close you were to finding her. Though, it’s not that surprising since you were the best tracker in Shield. In fact, you were the one who found her location back when she was still an assassin of the Red Room before she was recruited to Shield.
“So you’re working with Ross to arrest me?” Natasha asked cautiously.
You scoff at the suggestion, shaking your head in disbelief.
“No, this wasn’t my choice either. We ended up crossing paths in Norway, and then he forced me to join his little search team.”
You let out a huff as you pouted dejectedly, “Stupid Accords.”
Letting out a breath of relief, Natasha smiles fondly at you, happy to hear that you didn’t choose to hunt her down.
You push her shoulder when you notice her smiling at you with the usual love and fondness in her eyes. That look never fails to make your heart flutter.
“Stop that, I’m still mad at you.”
Your reaction just causes Natasha to smile more. You roll your eyes at her, deciding to return your focus to your drink.
The familiar banter helps to lessen the tension as a peaceful silence washes over the two of you. You felt slightly better after hearing Natasha’s explanation, though you’re still unsure if you were going to forgive her so soon. You are both agents, so you understood what Natasha meant, the pressure and dangers that come with this kind of life.
Still, you remember the pain you felt when you found her things missing from your room, and more importantly, it hurt that she didn’t believe that you would follow her if only she had asked.
You decided to change the subject, breaking the silence with a question.
“So, who is she?” you nod towards the stranger at Natasha’s old table.
The blonde girl notices you looking in her direction and gives you a sarcastic wave.
“That’s Yelena. She’s…my little sister.”
You snap your head back to Natasha in surprise, checking to see if she was serious. Her face showed no signs of teasing, just a tired look.
You take the chance to examine her closely. Right away, you can see the exhaustion in her body. She must have had a rough time these past couple of weeks on the run.
You decide to ask her cautiously, “Does she need any help?”
Natasha looks away, catching your underlying question.
“It’s complicated.”
You close your eyes and let out a deep breath, disappointed at her response. The familiar hurt that you felt when she disappeared resurfaces in your chest.
“In other words, you don’t want me involved in this either.”
“That’s not wha—“
You stand up, interrupting her and turning to leave.
“You two should probably go. Ross and his team will be here by the morning.”
“Wait!” Natasha grabs your arm, stopping you, as she stands up too. You don’t resist, but you don’t turn around either.
She pulls you back towards her, hugging you tightly from behind. Her voice whispers sadly against your ear.
“I made a mistake by disappearing on you suddenly like that. And I really am sorry, but this is different.”
Natasha pushes gently against your shoulder, silently asking you to turn around.
You do and you see an earnest expression on her face, pleading you to believe her.
She holds your hands in between your bodies, keeping you close. Seeing that you were listening, Natasha continues, “It’s not that I don’t want you with me. This is just something that I need to finish, both for Yelena and for myself.”
As you examine her face, you notice the same determination and fierce spirit in her eyes that made you fall for her in the first place. Even though you don’t like the thought of her doing whatever this is without you, you can see how much it means to her.
Letting out a resigned sigh, you give her a small bittersweet smile in understanding.
“So, a personal mission with your other family?”
Natasha let out a small chuckle at your attempt at teasing.
“Something like that,” she pauses in thought, your words giving her an idea. “Actually, you can help me with one thing. Do you think you can find someone? His name is Alexei Shostakov.”
Natasha grimaces before explaining, “He is sort of like my dad.”
You raise your eyebrow at the information before nodding.
“I’ll see what I can find.”
As you attempt to turn away once more, Natasha gently tugs your hands, bringing you closer to her. She leans her forehead against yours.
“About me leaving before…,” she whispered shakily. “You understand that it just wouldn’t be fair to tell you to risk your life and come with me.”
Sighing sadly, you gently remove your hands from hers and place them against her chest, pushing her away slightly.
“That’s the problem.” You give her a sad smile. “You never asked if I would.”
When you see the pained expression on her face, you caress her cheek softly in comfort before placing a small kiss on the corner of her lips.
Pulling away, you sigh resolutely, “Right now, you have your mission and I have mine. Let’s just focus on what we need to get done first.”
A small cough from the side pulls both of your attention. Yelena waves a set of keys in her hand, giving you a short nod in greeting.
“Time’s up. We have to go, Natasha.”
You give her a brief nod back, dropping your hands from Natasha and stepping away completely. You gesture to Yelena’s clothes.
“I like your vest,” you say sincerely.
Yelena beams at your comment.
You look back at Natasha and give her a small smile, “Bye, Natasha.”
Natasha watches sadly as you leave until you disappear from her sight.
Next to her, Yelena nods approvingly in your direction, “I like her.”
Sighing tiredly, Natasha grabs the keys from Yelena, prompting her to yell out in surprise as she trails after her.
“Wha—Hey, I’m the one who got that.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
There was a comfortable silence between the sisters as Natasha focused on driving. That is until Yelena couldn’t contain her curiosity anymore.
“So, that girl…” Yelena trails off, glancing at Natasha cautiously, trying to gauge her reaction to the new topic.
Natasha hummed in response, indicating for her to continue.
“She seems cool."
“She is.”
“How long have you known her?”
“A long time.”
Yelena's mouth twists in annoyance at Natasha’s bland responses, giving her no additional information.
At the sudden silence, Natasha glances at Yelena and finds her staring pointedly out the car window, lips pursed in a pout and arms crossed.
“What?” She questioned, confused at the sudden silent treatment.
“Nothing.”
“Yelena…”
Yelena throws her hands up in annoyance at Natasha’s pestering.
“We haven’t seen each other in years. Now, it just feels like you are trying to shut me out again.”
Natasha was taken aback by the sudden accusation, unaware that she was causing her such distress. Feeling bad, she nudges Yelena in her arms to get her attention.
“Okay then, what do you want to know?”
Yelena squints at her suspiciously.
Natasha sighs at her behavior, before reassuring her. “I’m serious.”
At her words, Yelena turns her body to face Natasha excitedly.
“How did you two meet?”
The question instantly causes Natasha to chuckle at the memory. Yelena raises an eyebrow at her expectantly.
“She was on the mission with Clint to eliminate me in Budapest,” Natasha says. “The first time we met…she shot me.”
“Really?” Yelena's eyes widened in shock.
Natasha nods.
“I found out later that she was the one who was able to track me down.”
Yelena snorts in laughter.
“Not like it’s hard.”
Natasha narrows her eyes, slightly offended.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Yelena raises her eyebrows in challenge.
“The tracker she placed on the car?”
Natasha rolls her eyes.
“Threw it away before we even started driving.”
“And what about the one she sneaked into your jacket when she kissed you?”
Natasha pauses at the information before reaching into her jacket pocket. Sure enough, her fingers brush against a small circular device. She lets out a small curse under her breath before throwing the tracker out of the window.
“That’s it. No more questions.”
“Wha-no fair!”
Eventually, they reach the designated clearing to see an old helicopter positioned at the center of the field.
“I said we needed a jet,” Natasha calls out to the person in the aircraft.
Rick steps out of the helicopter at her greeting.
“Yeah, you know what you didn’t give me. Time. Or money. I’m not made of jets.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the best,” Yelena says, kicking at the base of the helicopter.
Rick gives Yelena an offended look, shocked speechless.
“How dare you challenge my professionalism!”
“Aww, he’s sensitive. I see why you keep him around,” Yelena teases.
“Where’s the rest?” Natasha interrupts before Rick can quip back.
Huffing, Rick grabs a bag from the plane and opens it with a small flourish.
“Voila,” he says half-heartedly as Yelena goes to dig through the supplies.
Stepping away, he turns towards Natasha, pulling out a folded piece of paper.
“And for you.” Rick holds it out for her to take.
“What is it?” Natasha questions, grabbing the paper.
“A message from your favorite person.” Rick grabs another bag from the helicopter and places it on the ground near her with a huff. “Well, second favorite, I’m first of course.”
Natasha rolls her eyes as she steps away. She opens the note to see the familiar strokes of your handwriting.
Seventh Circle Prison
Stay safe ❤️
Natasha’s heart warmed at the last line. You are always caring even when you are supposed to be upset with her. It is one of the many things that she loves about you.
Yelena appears behind her, peeking over her shoulder at the note. She pretends to gag at words.
“That’s so cheesy. I’m gonna throw up.”
Laughing, Natasha pushes her head away from her shoulder, folding your note and tucking it safely into her chest pocket. Natasha gathers her gear and supplies and hops into the helicopter.
“Come on, let’s go.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
They did it. They finally destroyed the Red Room. An aircraft lands near Natasha and Yelena, showing the recently freed Widows waiting for the two of them.
Natasha places the antidote serum into Yelena’s hand.
“He had widows implanted all over the world. You should be the one to tell them that it’s over.”
In response, Yelena takes off her vest before extending it to Natasha, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.
“Here, since you like it so much.”
Natasha takes the vest with a small laugh and puts it on. When she looks up again, Yelena is giving her a pleading look.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
Natasha nods reassuringly, “You guys go. I need to take care of some things.”
At the sound of sirens echoing in the distance, indicating the incoming company, Yelena hops on the plane before turning around to give Natasha a pointed look.
“You don’t have to do it alone. We may not be able to come with you, but I know someone who is willing to.”
Natasha just gives her a small smile as she closes the door of the plane. She watches Yelena and the others fly away just as the sounds of sirens grow closer.
Not long after, a dozen armored trucks pull up around her, and she is quickly surrounded by Ross and his team, all with weapons pointed her way.
When Natasha raises both her hands in surrender, she hears a familiar voice call out in the distance.
“Really, Ross, is all this necessary? She’s not even holding a weapon!”
Natasha smiles amusedly as she watches you shove your way past Ross and march in front of his team’s line of fire toward her. When you finally reach her, your arms wrap around her, pulling her into a tight hug. Natasha’s body groans at the impact, but she still brings her arms around you, welcoming your embrace.
You hold her tight, tucking your head against her neck. She smelled like smoke and fire, reminding you of what you had just witnessed moments before. You pull yourself back abruptly, though her hands are still resting on your waist, keeping you close. You slap her shoulder in anger.
“What part of falling out of the sky without a parachute is staying safe!”
Natasha smirks at your words before defending herself.
“In my defense, I did have a parachute when I jumped.”
You huffed in annoyance before resting your head on her shoulder. You whispered against her neck, “Did you finish?”
Natasha looks at the debris of the Red Room around her before placing a gentle kiss on your head.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Hands up, Romanoff!” Ross’ voice calls out from a distance behind you.
You let out an exhausted groan against her causing Natasha to laugh lightly at you.
“Looks like you still need to finish yours,” she whispers against your ear before giving you one last hug.
Reluctantly, you pull away from her as she returns to her previous position with her hands raised. Stepping back, you notice the new piece of clothing on her. Patting at one of the pockets on the vest, you smirked at her.
“Nice vest.”
“Step away, Agent Y/n!” Ross calls out again.
Rolling your eyes, you finally back yourself away as soldiers take your place to cuff Natasha’s hands. Within minutes, her hands are restrained in front of her body, and she is escorted away.
You watch with your arms crossed as Natasha is ushered into the back of an armored van. She leans her body back against the inside of the car, relaxed and unbothered by her current situation.
The soldiers move to close the door, and at the last moment, Natasha turns her head to look at you before giving you a teasing wink right as the door closes.
You let out an amused huff at her, shaking your head.
“What are you so happy about?” Ross stops next to you.
You give him a professional smile.
“Nothing, just glad the mission’s over.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
“The Red Room, under our radar for all these years.” Ross looks at Natasha from the front of the van through the rearview mirror. “And you took them down. All on your own.”
Natasha’s face and body are relaxed and calm as Ross confronts her about the wreckage.
She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, “Had some help.”
“Who? Agent Y/n?” Ross questioned her.
Natasha gives him her usual smirk, “I was just being humble. It was all me.”
“You know, it’s strange. Agent Y/n can locate the others quickly enough, but when it’s you, she can’t seem to find a trace.” Ross points out accusingly.
Natasha subtly brings her hands to the pocket of the vest that you had touched earlier, stealthily pulling out the small lock pick that you had slipped inside. Keeping her hands low, she responds as she begins to pick the cuffs.
“Maybe you’re overworking her. You should try giving her a vacation.”
Ross scoffs in disbelief, focusing on the road in front.
“Caring about someone who arrested you. At least now we can focus our resources and efforts on finding Captain America. Unless you already know where he is?”
Ross looks up at the mirror when he hears no response. The bench where Natasha was sitting is empty. Shocked, he turned his head behind to see the back doors of the van open, swinging wildly with the movement of the car, and no Black Widow in sight.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Two weeks later, Natasha is meeting with Rick for her new mode of transportation.
“So what’d you get me this time, an upside-down lawnmower?” Natasha teases as she follows him into a field.
Rick looks back at Natasha smugly as he points into the distance.
Natasha stops in shock at the sight, looking between him and the quinjet in disbelief.
“Go on, say it. I wanna hear it. It would be really good for me to hear it.”
Natasha nods at him. “I’m impressed.”
Rick nods in acknowledgment.
“Well, of course. Though I did get some extra help with this one.”
Natasha tilts her head at him in question. The sound of the quinjet’s ramp opening causes her to look back. She sees your familiar figure stroll down the ramp.
“Good luck, mate.”
She feels a pat on her back, pushing her forward, as Rick walks away.
Natasha meets you at the bottom of the ramp.
“New look?” You reach up and twirl a strand of her new blond hair in your hand. Tilting your head, you give her a soft smile. “I like it.”
Natasha gives you a teasing smirk, “Here to arrest me already?”
Rolling your eyes at her teasing, you slide your hand down her arm and intertwine her hand with yours, pulling her up the ramp into the quinjet.
“You know, you had Ross going mad with your escape. Luckily for you and me, he’s currently preoccupied with the wreckage of the Red Room to send out another manhunt for you.”
“That’s some good news at least,” Natasha says in relief.
You bring her to the control panel. Dropping her hand, you grab a tablet and punch in some codes before turning it to her.
Natasha examines the screen which shows a bunch of different coordinates and a blinking marker. She zooms in on the map curiously.
“What’s this?”
“I found Steve’s current safe house location. You should probably pick him up first before you head to the Raft for the others.”
Natasha’s head shoots up to look at you, surprised.
You smile at her expression knowingly.
“You have a kind heart, Natasha. You are always going to save and protect your family. Both of your family.” You wrap your arms around her in a tight hug, tucking her head against her neck.
“Just promise me you’ll be safe.”
Natasha presses a kiss on your head in promise. “I will.”
You pull yourself back from her embrace, though she still has her arms around you. She searches your eyes nervously.
“Are you leaving?”
You give her a hopeful smile.
“That depends on you.”
Natasha opens her mouth, but no words come out. A silence falls between the two of you.
Feeling disappointed, you press a soft kiss on her cheek before moving away from her arms. You begin to head towards the exit. Right before you leave, you turn your head over your shoulder to look at her one last time. “Good luck, Natasha.”
Natasha watches sadly as you go, but then Yelena’s words run through her head, encouraging her. Determined, she chases after you and catches your arm, turning you back around to her.
“Nat–?”
She interrupts you before she loses her nerves.
“This mission is dangerous. I have no idea what’s going to happen. Even if we do succeed, we will be constantly on the run. You won’t be able to go back to the life you had before.”
She stresses the severity of the situation, trying to make you understand what you would be risking.
Unfazed by her words, you just raise your eyebrows and smile at her expectantly.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Natasha can’t stop the small smile that appears on her face at your calm expression.
“Knowing all that,” Natasha pauses as she searches your eyes before releasing a nervous breath, “would you still want to come with me?”
Smiling brightly, you grab her vest, pulling her in close. Your lips brush over hers lightly.
“That took you long enough to ask.” You close the small distance, bringing her in for a deep kiss. Her arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in closer.
Natasha was the one who pulled away first, giving you a smirk, “That wasn’t an answer.”
Wrapping your arms around her neck, you give her a determined but loving gaze, making sure she sees how serious you are.
“I would follow you anywhere.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: Thank you for reading and for all the nice comments, reblogs, and likes on my previous post. That was really unexpected, but I'm glad that you all enjoyed it.
Summary: Natasha has an unexpected reunion while on a mission.
Part 1 | Part 2
Warnings: light fluff, slight angst, mention of gun
Words: 4703
Natasha sits at a small outdoor table, blending effortlessly with the weekend crowd outside a nondescript café. Dressed casually in a simple jacket, jeans, and sunglasses, she appears to be just another city dweller enjoying a quiet morning coffee.
Beneath the surface, however, her sharp eyes remain focused on the apartment building across the street, subtly monitoring every individual entering or leaving.
The team had received a tip suggesting that one of the building’s occupants might have ties to the city’s criminal underworld and could possess some information about an upcoming weapons deal they were investigating.
Natasha’s mission is to uncover more, though the lead is vague. They only know that the target supposedly resides in this area, leaving Natasha with little to do but wait and watch for anything suspicious.
Maintaining her undercover guise, Natasha casually lifts her coffee cup to her lips. Just as the rim touches her mouth, she feels a gentle nudge against her leg.
Startled, she frowns slightly and glances under the table to investigate.
Wide, familiar yellow eyes stare back at her, unblinking.
For a second, Natasha considers the possibility that it’s just a coincidence.
There must be dozens of black cats in the city, but when her gaze shifts to the sleek gold tag hanging from the cat’s collar, she reads the ironic name engraved on it.
Widow meows, placing her paw on Natasha’s leg and nudging her again, this time with more insistence, as if greeting an old friend.
Natasha can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips.
“Hey, it’s been a while,” she murmurs, lifting Widow onto her lap. She gently scratches behind the cat’s ears, feeling the soft, familiar fur beneath her fingers.
“Did she lose you again?” Natasha asks the cat with a slight chuckle.
Before Natasha can react, a soft, amused huff appears near her ear, followed by a low voice.
“Is that really how you think of me?”
Natasha starts slightly, momentarily caught off guard by the fact that she hadn’t sensed your approach. She turns her head to find you standing beside her with an amused smirk, your eyes gleaming with playful mischief.
You reach out and gently push the bridge of her sunglasses up, fully covering her eyes.
“Does this disguise really fool anyone?” you tease.
Natasha clears her throat, recovering her composure quickly, though she still feels a slight heat on her face caused by your close proximity.
“It works well enough,” she replies smoothly as you move to the other side of the table.
You chuckle, casually resting your hands on the back of the empty chair across from her, raising a brow in question.
“Mind if we join you?” you ask, your voice carrying that familiar blend of ease and flirtation.
Natasha hesitates, her eyes flicking toward the apartment building she’s been watching all morning. She knows she should stay focused on the mission, but the unexpected reunion with you and the cat resting in her lap has thrown her off balance.
Noticing her hesitation, you lean forward, your voice dropping to a whisper.
“You know,” you say, glancing around dramatically before locking eyes with her, “it’s a lot less suspicious if you’re sitting with someone.”
Your knowing grin makes Natasha sigh, but still, the corners of her mouth twitch upwards in amusement. She gives a small nod toward the empty chair across from her.
“Alright,” she concedes. “But Widow stays with me.”
The black cat meows as if in agreement, her body brushing more snugly against her lap.
You grin wider, pleased at her acceptance, and pull out the chair to settle in across from her, the faintest glint of fondness softening your gaze at the two of them.
“I wouldn't dare argue with either of you.”
As Widow curls up, her purring reverberates softly in Natasha’s lap as she strokes the cat’s fur.
After a long morning of heightened vigilance, this unexpected visit brings a strange but welcome sense of calm. The tension in her body unravels as she savors this brief moment of normalcy, an unusual pause in her otherwise relentless routine.
“So,” you begin, your voice pulling her back from the quiet comfort of the moment, “who are you watching?”
Natasha’s gaze sharpens, but she keeps her tone casual, taking a sip of her coffee before responding, “Who says I’m watching anyone? I’m just here for the coffee.”
You raise a brow, your smile growing.
“Right. Because the Black Widow spends her weekends blending in with civilians, sipping coffee, and definitely not on a mission.”
“Exactly,” Natasha replies smoothly with a smirk.
Releasing an exaggerated sigh, your expression turns mockingly disappointed as you remark.
“And here I was, thinking you sought me out specifically.”
Widow lifts her head at your words, releasing a chastising cry in offense.
“Sorry,” you amend, glancing at the cat with an exaggerated roll of your eyes. “I mean, us.”
Natasha chuckles at the exchange, allowing herself to indulge in the banter to steer the conversation away from her mission.
“Isn’t it more likely the other way around? After all, you approached me first,” she counters with a teasing smirk.
You scoff playfully. “Ah, I see—someone’s pretty confident in herself.”
Raising a brow, Natasha gestures pointedly to the cat nestled comfortably in her lap.
“I’m just basing it on facts. Why else would you name your cat after me?”
You narrow your eyes, a playful glint returning.
“Who says she’s named after you?”
Natasha’s smirk widens as she leans back, clearly enjoying the upper hand.
“You’re not denying it.”
“And I’m not admitting it either,” you shoot back, leaning forward with a grin, resting your chin on your hand as you meet her eyes.
“It’s alright,” Natasha teases with a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve had my fair share of admirers. There’s no shame in being a fan.”
With an amused scoff, you gesture toward the apartment building as you reply with a sarcastic tone.
“Yes, you’ve caught me. My apartment is filled with Black Widow merch,” you smirk at her, adopting a playfully serious expression.
Your words make Natasha pause in her playful banter, her brows knitting slightly at the casual mention of your home. She glances briefly at the building she’s been watching, remembering the intel she received.
“You live here?” she asks, her tone more curious than accusatory.
Widow raises her head at her and lets out another indignant meow, clearly displeased by the oversight.
Natasha pets the cat’s head gently, an apology in her touch.
“Sorry,” she corrects, “the two of you live here?”
“Yep, third floor,” you answer. “We were just on our way back when Widow spotted you.”
Widow meows again, almost as if confirming the information, nuzzling Natasha’s hand affectionately.
At the new information, Natasha taps her fingers lightly on the tabletop, humming in thought. She wonders if the intel the team received might have been about you—or perhaps someone from your past.
Before she can delve deeper into the idea, your hand slips over hers, gently stopping the movement.
“I’m not the one you’re looking for,” you say, your voice serious enough to catch her attention.
There’s a knowing look in your eyes that Natasha recognizes but can’t fully understand. Yet, instinctively, she feels she can trust you—at least for now.
Natasha’s gaze drops to where your hand covers hers, feeling the warmth of your touch seep through her skin. The contact sends a familiar stirring through her, the same unexpected feeling that often rises whenever you’re near.
She’s still not sure whether to welcome it or resist it.
Natasha looks back into your eyes, her curiosity piqued, ready to probe deeper with questions.
But before she can speak, you gently turn her hand over in yours, your fingers tracing light, random patterns across her palm.
“At your ten,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
Natasha’s pulse quickens, both from the delicate sensation of your touch and the subtle way you’ve pointed out something she missed.
Despite the distracting warmth radiating from your fingers, she discreetly shifts her gaze in the direction you indicated.
Sure enough, a man walks toward the apartment building, his posture tense, clad in a plain jacket and a cap pulled low over his face, clearly trying to avoid attention.
Widow’s body tenses in her lap and her ears flatten against her head as she lets out a low hiss in his direction.
Natasha attempts to soothe the cat’s nerves with gentle strokes.
“He moved in down the hall a few weeks ago,” you continue casually, not looking up, still focused on tracing her palm. “Seems normal enough, but I’ve recognized his type before.”
After calming Widow to the point where her tail is no longer lashing, Natasha’s eyes return to you.
“You’ve been watching him?”
With a faint sigh of exasperation, you reply, “Didn’t have much of a choice. He’s taken an…unwelcome interest in me lately.”
Curious, Natasha glances back at the man, her eyes narrowing as she observes him. As if sensing her attention, he pauses mid-step, his gaze locking onto your table—specifically, onto you.
His body language shifts, stiffening with barely concealed interest and tension.
Before Natasha can react, your fingers slowly and deliberately intertwine with hers. With a playful smirk, you lift her hand to your lips, pressing a soft kiss against her skin.
Natasha snaps her attention back to you, eyes widening in surprise at the unexpected gesture.
"Maybe that'll finally give him a hint," you remark nonchalantly, lowering your entwined hands back to the table as though the intimate moment were perfectly ordinary.
Natasha blinks, momentarily thrown by the shift in dynamic.
A now familiar warmth rises in her cheeks, and she's grateful her sunglasses hide the flustered look creeping across her face.
Natasha clears her throat softly after a beat, regaining her composure. Glancing subtly in the man's direction, she's relieved to have a reason not to meet your gaze.
He’s no longer standing there—storming away instead, his frustration and confusion apparent in the hurried way he vanishes into the building.
Before Natasha can fully process everything that just happened, Widow hops onto the table. Her little paws rest on top of your joined hands as if wanting to be part of the moment.
That touch settles her as she returns to her previous cool demeanor.
“You were using me,” Natasha accuses, her voice carrying a mix of mock indignation and dry amusement.
You grin, utterly unfazed.
“And in return, I gave you valuable intel to move your little operation along.”
Natasha’s eyes narrow playfully with a slight huff.
“You could’ve just told me from the start.”
Your smirk widens, your eyes gleaming with mischief.
“But where’s the fun in that?”
Natasha shakes her head, her lips twitching upward in a reluctant smile. Despite your methods and actions, you did give her a new lead on her mission.
Though, now she has to handle this new situation—the tension between you two.
Even though the man is gone, you haven’t released her hand, and she doesn’t pull away either.
Something else lingers in the air between you, something unspoken but undeniable.
Widow nudges her head against your hands as if offering her approval of the unfolding moment.
Natasha’s gaze drifts to the cat before her eyes return to you, her expression softening.
“You two never came by the Compound after that night,” Natasha comments softly, her tone casual but tinged with a hint of disappointment.
You shrug lightly and reply with a sly grin, “I’m sure Stark didn’t appreciate how easily I bypassed his security system.”
Natasha chuckles lightly at the memory.
“Telling him about that was the best part. You should’ve seen his face.”
You let out a soft laugh, the moment lingering in comfortable silence.
Eventually, you slowly release her hand, your fingers trailing against hers before pulling away completely.
Standing up, you adjust your jacket with casual ease.
“Well, now that you know where we live,” you say, nodding toward the building, “feel free to drop by whenever you’re not too busy saving the world.”
You gesture to the little cat, who’s now swatting lightly at Natasha’s coffee cup in a playful manner, adding, “I’m sure Widow wouldn’t mind your company.”
Natasha’s eyes twinkle with amusement, catching the cup before it could fall and giving the cat a tiny scratch on her head before returning her attention to you.
“Just her?” Natasha raises a brow, the question hanging between you with playful intent.
You don’t answer directly, but the slight smile on your face says enough.
“Good luck with your mission, Miss Black Widow,” you say softly, your tone shifting to something more sincere before turning toward the apartment building.
Widow gives her a soft meow goodbye before hopping off the table and climbing into your arms.
Natasha watches you walk away, her gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. Eventually, her mind returns to the mission but not without a fleeting thought of you.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha leans against the rooftop's edge, her eyes fixed on the target’s apartment in the building across her. The cool night air brushes against her face, but her focus remains sharp.
You were right. The man you pointed out is involved with one of the organizations suspected of orchestrating a major weapons deal. His hidden familial ties and shady movements had confirmed it.
After bugging his phone and tracking his movements for days, Natasha discovered that tonight would be crucial—a drop-off containing the specs for some of the weapons in the deal and where they came from.
She watches patiently as the man opens his door to receive a small package from an unknown figure.
The exchange is brief, and once the door shuts, the man places the package carelessly on his counter.
As Natasha considers a plan to obtain the package, something causes the man to tense, and he cautiously turns back toward the door.
Her hand instinctively moves toward her own weapon, prepared to intervene when she spots him pull a gun, keeping it hidden behind his back as he cracks the door open again.
The man’s posture relaxes as he realizes who’s on the other side of the door, and he hides his weapon in the back of his waistband.
Natasha observes as his overly confident bravado takes over, and it becomes clear he’s trying to impress someone.
Natasha’s view of the visitor is blocked, but judging by the man’s lowered guard, she assumes this person doesn’t pose an immediate threat.
Whoever they are, though, they seem to hold some influence over him.
After a brief conversation that results in the man turning off the lights and slipping out of the apartment, led by the unseen visitor, Natasha seizes the opportunity to retrieve the package before he returns.
With practiced precision, she shoots her grappling hook across the gap between the buildings and swings silently onto the balcony outside the man’s apartment. Carefully picking the lock on the window, she slips inside without making a sound.
But as she steps into the room, she quickly realizes something is wrong.
The small package, which had been resting on the counter moments ago, is now gone.
Natasha scans the area, her eyes darting around the room.
Had it fallen somewhere?
A faint sound reaches her ears as Natasha walks around the room—movement just behind her.
She whirls around, gun raised, ready to face whatever threat is lurking in the shadows.
But the only thing she’s met with is darkness.
Her eyes narrow as her instincts scream that something is off. She’s sure she heard something.
She focuses on the shadows for a moment longer when a pair of familiar yellow eyes suddenly blink open, glowing softly in the dark.
Natasha lowers her weapon, momentarily caught off guard by the sight.
Widow emerges from the darkness, its head tilted curiously as she approaches Natasha. The corner of the small package is clutched tightly in her mouth.
Natasha lets out an incredulous huff.
“Really?” she mutters in disbelief as she kneels and waves the cat closer.
Widow trots over and jumps into Natasha’s arms without hesitation, the package still firmly between her teeth.
Standing up, Natasha tries to pry the package from the cat’s mouth gently, but each time she reaches for it, Widow swats at her hand and shifts her head, making it impossible to grab.
“You’re not serious,” Natasha sighs, exasperated.
But Widow only stares up at her with those wide, innocent eyes, completely unfazed by the situation.
Before Natasha can try again, she hears footsteps approaching from the hallway.
Instantly, she reacts, slipping out of the window with Widow still in her arms, her movements quick and silent. She carefully closes the window behind her, ensuring everything looks untouched, before flattening herself against the outside wall.
The light flickers on inside the apartment, and Natasha hears voices. She listens closely, picking up snippets of conversation.
“Thanks again, I don’t know what I would have done without your help,” your voice floats through the window, laced with exaggerated helplessness.
It’s not like your usual demeanor and tone. You were clearly playing a part.
“Anytime,” the man responds, his tone gruff, but Natasha can tell he’s trying too hard to sound confident. “You know, if it doesn’t work out with—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I really have to go!” you interrupt quickly, your voice fading as you move toward the door. “Have a good night!”
Natasha hears the door close with a soft click, signaling your exit. She waits a moment longer before making her own move, descending silently into the nearby alley below.
Landing with ease, she looks down at Widow, still cradled in her arms.
The cat is now lazily gnawing on the corner of the package, completely unbothered by the chaos of the situation.
Her claws grip the package tightly, almost possessively.
Natasha shakes her head in disbelief, her lips curving into a small, amused smile despite herself.
“You two have a lot of explaining to do,” she mutters, glancing at the apartment building.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The moment you open the door, your eyes widen in surprise at the sight of Natasha standing there.
“A bit late for a visit, don’t you think?” you tease with a playful grin, leaning casually against the door frame, trying to mask your surprise.
But Natasha doesn’t return your smile.
Instead, she tilts her head slightly, one brow arched with an unimpressed expression and pulls her jacket open just enough to reveal the black cat nestled comfortably in her arms.
Widow is still clinging stubbornly to the small package in her claws.
Your grin falters immediately, your gaze dropping from Natasha’s face to Widow and the damning evidence she’s holding.
Realization hits you like a wave, and your once-confident smile dissolves into a look of sheepish acknowledgment.
“Oh,” you murmur, awkwardness settling in as you glance between Natasha's unimpressed stare and Widow's innocent eyes.
“Well,” you sigh, stepping aside to open the door wider, “you might as well come in.”
Natasha steps past you, her eyes sweeping the room in quiet observation.
Your apartment is neat, save for the scattered cat toys littering the room. Natasha takes it all in quietly, her gaze eventually falling back on you—specifically, your night attire.
You’re wearing a black oversized t-shirt and shorts, casual and comfortable, but it’s the symbol on the front of the shirt that grabs her attention.
“Nice shirt,” she comments, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
You glance down and immediately realize what she’s referring to—the iconic red hourglass symbol of the Black Widow emblazoned across your chest. Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms defensively over the logo.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” you remark. “I’ve got shirts with the other Avengers symbols too.”
“Sure you do,” Natasha teases, clearly enjoying the moment before her attention shifts to the cat in her arms. She nods toward Widow, who’s still gripping the package as if it were a prized possession.
“How do you get her to let go of things?”
A proud grin spreads across your face at the cat’s actions.
Walking to the kitchen, you rummage through a cabinet, pulling out a small tube of cat treats before returning to Natasha’s side.
Tearing it open, you hand it to her.
Widow’s sharp yellow eyes instantly zero in on the treat. Natasha, intrigued, waves it in front of the stubborn cat.
“How about a little trade?” she offers.
The cat’s eyes follow the snack in contemplation. Slowly but surely, her grip on the package loosens, her claws retracting as she reaches a paw toward the treat.
Seeing the opportunity, Natasha quickly snatches the package and shakes out its contents—a USB drive, which she tucks into her jacket.
When Natasha still has not promptly given her reward, Widow yowls in protest, having already upheld her end of the deal.
Natasha huffs lightly at the exaggerated behavior but relents and offers the treat to the eager cat, who devours it with delicate bites.
“I guess that means mission accomplished,” you quip, attempting to bring some levity back into the room.
But Natasha doesn’t laugh. She glances up at you, her expression shifting as her playful demeanor fades.
“You said you didn’t do this kind of thing anymore,” she says, her voice edged with accusation.
You shrug, hands raised in defense.
“Technically, I didn’t,” you reply, though Natasha’s piercing stare cuts through your weak deflection.
With a tired sigh, you rub the back of your neck before continuing, "Remember that post I asked you to take down?"
Natasha nods slightly, her eyes never leaving yours, silently urging you to continue.
“Well, some of my old associates saw it before you did. And let’s just say…we didn’t part ways on the best of terms.”
Natasha places the finished snack on the table, her fingers moving to absently scratch behind Widow’s ears as she processes the situation. Her eyes narrow, her tone shifting to something more serious as concern creeps into her voice.
“So, they’re forcing you to steal for them?”
You lean back against the counter, exhaling a heavy breath.
“They have leverage,” you reveal cryptically. “If I don’t cooperate...things get complicated.”
Her fingers pause in Widow’s fur, her expression hardening as the situation sinks in.
“Then why help me? Wouldn’t that put you at risk?”
You manage a wry smile.
“If the Avengers get involved, they can’t hold it against me, right?”
You gesture toward her, adding teasingly, “I mean, what can one simple thief do against Earth’s mightiest heroes?”
Natasha shakes her head, frustration and disbelief mixing in her features.
“That doesn’t guarantee they’ll leave you alone.”
“And like I told you before,” you say, voice soft but resolute, “let me handle it. You’ve played your part. Now go be a hero to someone else.”
Natasha huffs, more in disbelief than anger.
“So you used me. Again.”
Her tone has no malice, but the sting of truth lingers.
You step closer and reach out to adjust the collar of her jacket. Your fingers brush her skin, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“Like I said,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, “you shouldn’t get involved with someone like me.”
Widow purrs contentedly in the stillness, oblivious to the tension in the room, nuzzling against Natasha’s hand affectionately.
Natasha’s gaze softens slightly at the sight of the cat—remembering what you once said about Widow being a good judge of character.
If this little creature, with all her instincts, trusts someone with a past like hers, then surely there must be a similar reason she chooses to be with you.
When Natasha looks up, her eyes lock onto yours, steady and unwavering.
“What if I want to be?” she asks quietly, her voice laced with something far more than just concern.
Your breath catches, the vulnerability in her words taking you by surprise. You quickly school your expression, forcing neutrality even as your heart pounds in your chest.
Natasha steps closer, the heat of her body brushing against yours as close as she can, her gaze piercing.
“Do you want me to be?” she asks softly, the challenge clear in her tone.
For a moment, you meet her gaze, steady and unrelenting, but your eyes betray you. They flicker, just briefly, to her lips.
Natasha catches it. Her lips part slightly, and the air between you thickens with tension, both of you standing on the precipice of something neither can quite name.
But you break first.
You step back, clearing your throat as if that could dispel the weight of what just passed between you.
“As tempting as that is,” you say, your voice thick with the emotions you’re trying so hard to suppress, “I can’t let anyone else get caught up in this.”
Natasha doesn’t move, her eyes searching yours for more explanation.
However, you reach for Widow instead, gently lifting the cat from her arms, using the small creature as a shield between you.
“This one’s already enough trouble,” you joke weakly.
Natasha’s gaze lingers, watching you with a mix of exasperation and something deeper—something you refuse to name. She tilts her head, her voice soft.
“You know my job is to help people, right?”
You swallow hard, the playful smirk returning, though it feels hollow.
“And I’ll let you know if I ever need it.”
Natasha narrows her gaze, unconvinced. “Really?”
Rolling your eyes, you offer a small concession.
“Fine. Check in whenever. You’ve got my number, remember? And I’ll even send you cute pictures of Widow often to keep you from worrying too much.”
Widow chooses that moment to let out a soft meow, raising her paws beside her face as if on cue.
Natasha’s stern expression falters, a tiny smile tugging at her lips at the sight. But even as she shakes her head in resignation, the tension between you both lingers, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
With a small sigh, Natasha accepts your decision and steps toward the door. As she reaches for the handle, she pauses, her hand hovering there momentarily before turning to look at you again.
“If you ever decide that you don’t have to handle everything on your own,” she says softly, “you know where to find me.”
You nod, your mask of indifference slipping back into place.
“You’d be the first one I’ll call,” you promise playfully.
Natasha lingers for a moment longer, her eyes searching yours for something that never comes. She finally opens the door and steps through, pausing briefly before turning back to you.
“Take care of yourself. Both of you,” she whispers before leaving, the door clicking softly behind her.
The room feels emptier in her absence, the warmth of her presence fading.
Widow stirs in your arms, hopping onto the counter and letting out a soft, sad sound as if sensing the change in the air.
You lean heavily against the counter, exhaling a deep breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Natasha's words replay in your mind, sinking deeper into your heart than you will admit.
But as always, you push it aside. There’s no room for doubt, no space for second-guessing—not in your world.
Uncurling your fist, the USB falls from your hand—swapped from Natasha’s pocket with another containing misleading data.
Widow trots over to the item on the counter, nudging it with her paw before turning to you, letting out a sharp meow, almost as if scolding you.
“I know,” you sigh, guilt settling in as you scoop her back into your arms.
You stroke her gently, your hand brushing over a slightly raised patch of fur. The reminder of what's beneath fills you with concern for the little feline and your position.
Widow meows again, tilting her head curiously, oblivious to your worry. You force a reassuring smile, though it never quite reaches your eyes.
As your gaze drifts toward the window, your expression falters. You watch Natasha’s silhouette disappear into the shadows, a heavy sigh escaping your lips.
“She really shouldn’t get involved with someone like me,” you whisper sadly, giving Widow one last scratch behind the ears before turning away.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Part 1 | Part 2
a/n: I have decided to make this into a series. It's probably not going to be like my other one with extensive plotlines and such (I don't think). But maybe leaning more toward light-hearted adventures and interactions between the two (and Widow). Thanks again for reading! I hope you'll enjoy this series too!
Summary: Natasha makes a new furry little friend and becomes captivated by its owner along the way.
Warnings: light fluff, light angst
Words: 4270
Natasha shoots upright in her bed, her heart racing and cold sweat clinging to her skin. Her hand instinctively reaches for the knife tucked nearby, gripping it tight as she scans the room, her pulse thundering in her ears.
She’s met with silence. The darkened space of her room at the Compound was empty of any threat. No footsteps, no shadows lurking—just her.
Exhaling shakily, Natasha lowers the blade, pressing her free hand against her eyes, as though she could push away the remnants of the nightmare from her mind.
The memories linger, though. They always do.
A quick glance at the clock tells her it’s 4:00 A.M. Too early for anyone else to be awake.
But for Natasha, this was normal.
Sighing, she swings her legs out of bed, trying not to dwell on how long it had taken to fall asleep in the first place.
Three hours of sleep was better than nothing.
She dresses quickly, pulling on her jogging clothes in automatic, well-practiced movements, intent on escaping the restlessness that always comes with her dreams.
The sky was still dark when she went outside, the first hints of light barely on the horizon, but Natasha set off anyway, her pace swift and determined.
With every stride, the tension in her body begins to ease, her breathing falling into a steady rhythm that mirrored the pounding of her feet against the pavement.
This was her moment of relief—where she could forget, even if just for a while—pushing her body harder, faster, hoping to leave behind the lingering shadows of her past.
After a few miles, Natasha slows to a stop beside a tree, her breath coming in even pants as she stretches out her arms.
The world was still quiet, save for the distant rustling of leaves.
Then, faintly, she hears something.
A soft, distressed sound.
She freezes, tilting her head to listen.
There it is again—a tiny cry coming from somewhere nearby.
From above?
Her gaze lifts upward, and there, high up in the tree, a little black cat clings precariously to a branch, its claws struggling to maintain a grip on the rough bark.
Natasha blinks in surprise, but before she can react to the sight, the cat lets out a desperate yowl and slips.
Moving on instinct, Natasha surges forward and catches the cat just before it hits the ground. She cradles the small creature against her chest securely.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs, her fingers gently checking for any injuries. Its fur is soft and clean—not a stray, then.
Her suspicion is confirmed when she notices the sleek collar around its neck, the gold tag gleaming faintly in the early light.
Natasha tilts the tag to read the name engraved on it.
“Widow?”
An amused smirk tugs at her lips at the irony.
At the sound of its name, the cat looks up at her with wide, inquisitive yellow eyes and lets out a tiny, plaintive meow.
Natasha couldn’t help but chuckle softly, sinking down to sit against the tree with the cat still nestled in her arms.
“What were you doing up there?” she asks, her voice a soft murmur as she scratches behind its ears.
The cat responds with a long, dramatic meow as if offering some elaborate excuse for its predicament.
Natasha smiles softly in amusement before glancing at the tag again, searching for any contact information but finding none.
“Well, you obviously belong to someone,” Natasha muses, lifting the cat to meet its gaze. “They must really trust you to make it back on your own, huh?”
In response, the cat swats playfully at Natasha’s face, its soft paws barely grazing her skin.
Natasha shakes her head with a smile and tries to set the cat down to let it go on its way, but to her surprise, the cat clings to her, its claws digging into the front of her shirt.
“Hey, easy now,” Natasha grumbles, gently trying to pry the cat off, but it stubbornly clings to her, refusing to let go.
“Really? This is the thanks I get for saving you?” she deadpans, raising an eyebrow at the tiny creature.
The cat chirps, blinking up at her innocently before nuzzling against her chin.
“Alright, I surrender,” Natasha sighs, settling back against the tree in resignation, her fingers absentmindedly stroking the cat’s fur.
The warmth of the tiny creature in Natasha’s arms is unexpectedly comforting. Before she realizes it, her eyelids grow heavy, and exhaustion finally pulls her under.
It’s not until a soft movement against her arms stirs her that Natasha blinks awake, momentarily disoriented. As her vision clears, the first thing she sees is your face, watching her from a nearby bench, chin resting casually on your hand.
“You have my cat,” you say, your tone flat but not unkind.
Natasha blinks again, still shaking off the grogginess from the unexpected nap. She glances down to find Widow still nestled in her arms, staring up at her with wide, expectant eyes.
As she processes your words, Natasha loosens her hold and sits up straighter.
Widow hops onto her lap, stretching languidly and letting out a tiny yawn, completely at ease.
“Your cat was stuck in a tree,” Natasha explains, her voice still rough with sleep. “I caught her when she fell.”
You raise an eyebrow, your gaze flicking to the lazily stretching cat.
“You do know they land on their feet, right?”
Natasha opens her mouth to argue but pauses, catching the subtle teasing in your tone. She leans back with a small smirk, deciding to tease you back.
“Widow is kind of a strange name for a cat.”
At her remark, you scoff and cross your arms, leaning back on the bench with a playful glint in your eyes.
“Wow, so you’re a thief and you’re judgy. Maybe next time I won’t be so nice and let you finish your nap.”
“I didn’t steal your cat,” Natasha retorts, unable to suppress the slight curve of her lips, trying and failing to hide her amusement. “She wouldn’t let go of me. Also, you watched me sleep. Isn’t that a little weird?”
You shrug with casual ease and respond with a softened tone.
“You looked like you needed it.”
Your bluntness catches Natasha off guard, leaving her momentarily speechless. She blinks, surprised not only by your remark but by the realization that she hadn’t woken up immediately when you arrived.
The fact that she was able to rest so peacefully with a practical stranger nearby is something she never would’ve thought possible—but here she is.
As the sun rises higher for the start of the day, its gentle light softens the tension between you. It casts a warm glow over everything, including you, and Natasha finds herself at a loss for words at the sight.
After a moment, you stand, calling Widow to your side.
The cat stretches one last time before hopping down from Natasha’s lap and trotting over to you with a playful spring in its step.
As you turn to leave, you glance back at Natasha, a faint smile playing on your lips.
“Maybe find a better spot for naps next time,” you say, giving her a backward wave. “Take care, Miss Black Widow.”
Natasha watches you walk away, something unfamiliar stirring in her chest. She exhales, running a hand through her hair as she tries to shake off the lingering sensation.
“Yeah,” she murmurs softly. “You too.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
A few days later, Natasha returns to her room after another one of her early morning runs, her body drenched in exhaustion from both physical exertion and the sleepless nights filled with nightmares.
She lets out a tired sigh, closing her eyes and shaking her head as if to shake off the haunting memories of the recent dream when a soft scratching sound from her window catches her attention.
Her eyes widen in surprise as she spots the source of the noise. Hurrying over, she opens the window and carefully scoops the black cat perched on the sill into her arms.
“How did you get all the way up here?” Natasha asks curiously.
Widow meows softly in response, twisting in her arms to bat playfully at a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her face.
Natasha huffs in amusement, leaning her head back to keep the hair out of reach.
Her gaze drops to the collar around Widow’s neck, reminding her of the lack of contact information to reach you.
A small smile tugs at her lips as she recalls the memory of you accusing her of being a thief. Now, somehow, your cat has found its way to her again, staring up at her with those innocent, wide eyes.
Natasha taps the top of Widow’s nose lightly in mock scolding.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble with your owner again,” she mutters, half-playful, half-exasperated.
Unbothered by Natasha's words, Widow glances around the room with mild curiosity before letting out a pitiful meow, pawing at Natasha with an urgent expression.
Natasha raises an eyebrow, confused. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"
Her meows grow more insistent, her tiny voice taking on a more desperate tone.
“What do you want? Food?” she asks.
The cat immediately quiets at her suggestion, eyes shining with eager anticipation. Natasha chuckles softly, shaking her head.
“All right, let’s see if we can find you something to eat.”
An hour later, Natasha finds herself in the Compound’s kitchen, waiting for the coffee pot to finish brewing as she reflects on the bizarre morning.
Just as the aroma of fresh coffee begins to fill the room, the elevator doors slide open, and Tony Stark comes strolling in, waving his phone at her.
“Someone explain why the emergency communication system I created is sending messages for cat food.”
Before Natasha can respond, Peter Parker swings in through an open window, landing at the kitchen counter with a large bag of cat food under his arm. He pulls off his Spider-Man mask, flashing a wide grin.
“No worries, Mr. Stark! I saw the message and picked some up on my way,” Peter declares proudly, placing the bag triumphantly on the counter.
“Thanks, Peter,” Natasha says, taking the bag and raising an eyebrow at Tony. “At least someone’s reliable around here.”
“Anytime, Miss Romanoff,” Peter replies, rubbing the back of his neck shyly as he moves toward the sitting area.
Meanwhile, Tony scoffs at her teasing jab, muttering her words mockingly under his breath as he turns to leave. But he freezes mid-stride, pointing toward the couch.
“Uh, what is that?”
Natasha follows his gaze and sees he’s referring to where Wanda is sitting on the sofa, using her powers to create a small red ball of energy for Widow, who is happily pouncing at it.
“Her name is Widow,” Natasha explains as she pours the cat food into a bowl.
“You named a cat after yourself?” Tony snorts, shaking his head. “And people say I’m the narcissist.”
“She’s not mine,” Natasha replies, rolling her eyes as she walks past him toward the sitting area.
“So, you stole it,” Tony deadpans.
“Why is that the first thing that comes to your mind?” Natasha huffs, exasperated, as she sets the bowl on the floor.
At the sight, Widow scampers over, letting out a happy meow before digging into the food.
Natasha smiles softly, scratching the cat’s head as it eats, though her thoughts inevitably drift to you, wondering how she will return your cat to you.
Wanda, who’s been watching the scene with an amused grin, chimes in, “Natasha has a crush on the owner. She keeps thinking about her.”
“Oh, this just got interesting,” Tony says, leaning on the back of a chair with an intrigued smirk. “When did that happen?”
Natasha glares at Wanda before answering, “I met her on one of my runs. We talked. That’s it. Also, what have we said about reading people’s minds?”
Wanda raises her hands in mock surrender.
“I’m not, I swear. Your thoughts are just…really loud, and most are about her.”
Tony chuckles at the revelation, thoroughly entertained. He raises an eyebrow at Natasha, grinning.
“Nat, there are better ways to get someone’s attention than stealing their pet. I could give you some tips if you want.”
Natasha huffs, crossing her arms.
“I don’t need your help, Stark.”
Tony, unbothered by her dismissal, smirks.
“Then why haven’t you contacted her about the cat?”
“I don’t have her contact info,” Natasha admits reluctantly. “I didn’t get her number.”
Peter, who had been quietly watching the exchange, suddenly perks up.
“I have an idea!”
He pulls out his phone from his backpack, snaps a picture of Widow, and begins typing. A moment later, he shows the screen to Natasha.
The post reads: “Cat found at Avengers Compound,” with Widow’s picture attached.
“What’s this?” Tony asks, peering over Peter’s shoulder.
“It’s the ‘Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man’ app,” Peter explains animatedly. “You told me to focus on local stuff as Spider-Man, so I made this app where people can report crimes or activities happening in New York. This way, Miss Romanoff’s crush will see the post and know where to find her cat.”
At his last casual remark, Tony bursts into laughter while Wanda hides her smile behind her hand.
“All right, that’s enough,” Natasha says, scooping up Widow and grabbing the food bowl. “Come on, Widow. Let’s get you some peace and quiet.”
With that, she leaves the room, escaping the playful teasing of the others.
Later that afternoon, Natasha returns to the common room and finds Peter frantically overturning the sofas.
“What are you looking for?” she asks, arms crossed.
Startled, Peter jumps, dropping the sofa back to the ground with a loud thud.
“Please don’t tell Mr. Stark,” he pleads.
Natasha raises an eyebrow. “What did you lose?”
Peter hesitates, then slumps his shoulders in defeat.
“Mr. Stark gave me a USB with the new suit design, and I was going to show him my modifications, but now I can't find it anywhere.”
He starts pacing, clearly panicking, as he continues.
“I thought I put it in my backpack, but it’s gone. If I lost it in the city, Mr. Stark will never let me help with modifications again!”
Natasha steps forward, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, calm down. Tony will understand,” she says, nodding toward the window. “Why don’t you go check your place again? I’ll keep an eye out here.”
Peter takes a deep breath and nods.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks, Miss Romanoff,” he says before pulling his mask back on and swinging out the window.
Natasha shakes her head with a small smile and resumes her original task—finding Widow, who had somehow slipped out of her room without Natasha noticing.
The little cat was proving to be surprisingly clever and stealthy. It seems you obviously trained her well.
After searching around for a bit, Natasha is about to check with Wanda when a pair of yellow eyes appear from the shadows on one of the black sofas.
Widow stares up at her, completely unbothered.
Chuckling in realization, Natasha sits beside the cat, gently scratching her head.
“You’re pretty good at hiding. I didn’t even realize you were there.”
Widow responds with a bored yawn, stretches her body, and then hops onto Natasha’s lap, curling up contentedly. As her eyes begin to flutter closed, Natasha frowns in realization.
“No, no, you can’t fall asleep on me. I’ve got things to do.”
Widow ignores her, already deep in sleep. When Natasha hears the soft sound of the cat’s snoring, she throws her head back against the sofa in disbelief.
Sighing, Natasha spots a tablet on the nearby table. She carefully reaches for it without disturbing Widow and begins doing some work.
After a moment, the rhythmic purring from the cat brings an unexpected feeling of calm and comfort to her, and before she knows it, Natasha’s eyes start to grow heavy, and she drifts off without realizing it.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep when she wakes up, blinking groggily. As her eyes adjust, she notices a familiar face beside her—you.
For a brief moment, Natasha wonders if she’s still dreaming. Though, she doesn’t usually have dreams this pleasant.
But then your eyes lift from your phone at her movement, and you raise an eyebrow, amused.
“For a hero, you sure take more naps than I expected.”
Natasha blinks away the remnants of sleep, sitting up straighter, and tilts her head at you curiously.
“How did you get in here?”
You gesture casually toward the elevator.
“I came by after seeing the post, and your teammate—Wanda, I believe—she said she recognized me, so she directed me here.”
Resting your arm against the back of the sofa, you lean your head on your hand as your eyes twinkle with amusement.
“I thought I told you to find a better napping spot. This one’s just going to give you neck cramps.”
Natasha’s lips curl into a small smile as she gestures to Widow, still sound asleep on her lap.
“Wasn’t exactly my choice.”
Your gaze drifts down to the cat, and you sigh knowingly.
“Widow, stop pretending and get off her.”
Natasha frowns in confusion at your words and snaps her gaze to the seemingly asleep creature on her lap.
For a second, the cat doesn’t move, but when you call her name again, a little more sternly, the cat’s eyes snap open.
Widow lets out an indignant meow before hopping off Natasha’s lap and licking her paws casually as if nothing happened.
Natasha shakes her head in disbelief.
“What a little liar.”
Groaning softly, she stretches out her stiff muscles and catches you watching her, your gaze lingering for a second too long.
When you realize she’s noticed, your eyes flicker back to your phone.
Natasha smirks, about to tease you, but then you show her the screen of your phone—the post Peter made about Widow.
“I need you to take this down,” you say, your tone serious.
Natasha furrows her brow but nods.
“Sure, I can do that. But why? It looks like she’s a hit with everyone.”
Your smile turns faint as you stand, the lightness in your expression turning somber.
“Not all attention is good attention,” you say cryptically.
Before Natasha can ask what you mean, you grab a pen from the table and reach for her hand. She watches in surprise as you scribble something on her palm. Your touch lingers for a moment, making her feel unexpectedly flustered.
“Here,” you said, finishing. “If Widow finds her way to you again, you’ll know how to reach me. Though, hopefully, you won’t need it too often.”
Natasha glances at the number on her palm, then back at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Am I only allowed to use this for cat-related emergencies?”
You smirk, though there’s a hint of something more serious in your eyes.
“I’m not sure I’m someone you’d want to get involved with.”
Natasha holds your gaze, intrigued.
But the tension is broken when Widow hops back onto the sofa, drawing both of your attention. The cat tries to burrow into the cushions, as if searching for something or determined to get comfortable again.
You sigh, picking her up despite her annoyed yowl. Before leaving, you glance back at Natasha, tilting your head thoughtfully.
“Though… I guess a hello from the Black Widow every now and then wouldn’t be too bad.”
With that, you head to the elevator, disappearing behind its doors.
Natasha looks down at the number on her palm, a small smile playing on her lips. She finds herself hoping that Widow might "accidentally" find her way back to the Compound again soon—if only for another chance to see you.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha didn’t have to wait long for another chance to see you, after all.
Just a few hours after your departure, late at night when the Compound was quiet, Natasha—still unable to sleep—wandered into the common room.
To her surprise, there you were, dressed in dark, stealthy clothes, frozen the moment you noticed her.
Her instincts kick in immediately, and within seconds, Natasha has her weapon drawn, pointing it directly at you.
Yet, you show no sign of panic. Instead, you raise your hands slowly and tilt your head at her with a calm, almost amused expression.
“You really shouldn’t be up this late, you know,” you say lightly, as if this was a casual conversation. “Messes with your sleep schedule.”
Natasha ignores the teasing, her gaze unwavering and her senses on high alert. She didn’t feel any malice from you, but the situation is far too strange to let her guard down.
“How did you get in undetected?” she asks, her voice low, tinged with suspicion.
With deliberate slowness, you gesture with one hand toward the open window behind you.
“That was left unlocked. Pretty reckless for the Avengers.”
Natasha’s frown deepens as she glances at the window, already making a mental note to have Peter redo security training.
“And the alarms?” Natasha asks, her weapon still trained on you.
You shrug casually.
“Let’s just say we have a lot of experience when it comes to not being seen.”
Natasha's eyes narrow at your words. "We?"
You nod toward her feet, and Natasha briefly glances down.
Widow is there, casually walking through her legs and brushing her fur against Natasha with a soft purr, completely at ease.
When her gaze snaps back to you, you gesture toward her weapon.
“Mind putting that away? I’m unarmed. You can check if you like.”
Natasha hesitates, her eyes studying you carefully, looking for any hint of deception.
But there is none.
Reluctantly, she holsters her weapon and steps closer, reaching out to pat you down.
You stand still, hands raised, letting her search you for any hidden weapons or gadgets.
“So, what are you?” Natasha asks, her tone sharp. “A spy?”
“Reformed thief, technically,” you reply with a casual shrug. “I don’t do this sort of thing much anymore.”
You sigh lightly, casting a glance at Widow, who had settled by Natasha’s feet and is now nonchalantly licking her paw.
“She, however, is still struggling to break her old habits.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, glancing at the cat.
“You’re telling me this cat’s a thief?”
You chuckle softly, catching the disbelief in her voice.
“I’m serious. Check my pocket—it’s the reason I’m here.”
Frowning, Natasha reaches into your jacket pocket, her fingers brushing against something small and metallic. She pulls out a USB drive, her eyes widening slightly in realization when she notices the small Spider-Man logo sticker on the side.
“I didn’t realize Widow had swiped it before we left earlier,” you explain, your tone sheepish. “I came back to return it before there’s any trouble.”
“Is that why you wanted the post deleted?” Natasha asks, her suspicion now tinged with curiosity. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
There is a brief pause as you meet her gaze. Your smile turns slightly rueful at the concern in her voice, and for a moment, something unspoken lingers between you.
“Let me worry about that,” you say softly, your tone more serious than before. Then you lift your hands slightly in surrender, a playful glint returning to your eyes. “So, are you going to arrest me, or am I free to go?”
At that moment, Widow trots over, settling in front of Natasha and meowing softly as if to plead on your behalf.
Natasha crosses her arms, her lips curling slightly in amusement at the sight, though the concern hasn’t left her eyes.
“You two sure know how to double-team a person.”
You chuckle, realizing Natasha’s letting you go, and call your cat’s name. Widow immediately jumps into your arms, curling up comfortably. You look back up at Natasha, your expression softening.
“I told you—you wouldn’t want to get involved with someone like me.”
Natasha’s gaze softens in response.
“Your cat seems to think otherwise.”
You smile at that, gently shifting Widow in your arms.
“She’s got good instincts. A good judge of character, too. So, you must be really special if she’s interested in you.”
For a moment, silence settles between you, broken only by Widow’s soft purring. The tension eases, but something still lingers beneath the surface—an unspoken understanding that there was more to your story, more to you, than you were letting on.
With a small smile, you take Widow’s paw and give Natasha a playful wave.
“You should head to bed soon, Miss Black Widow,” you tease softly, raising an eyebrow. “We wouldn’t want you napping in random spots again.”
As you move toward the window, Natasha steps closer, her voice lowering.
“You know, I don’t mind the visits from Widow. And the two of you don’t have to sneak in or anything. Just…come by whenever.”
You raise an eyebrow, surprised by her offer.
“Are you sure about that?”
Natasha holds your gaze steadily. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
You study her for a moment, then smile—a genuine, appreciative smile that softens the usual teasing banter.
“I’ll think about it,” you say with a playful tone.
With a quick nod, you adjust Widow in your arms and slip through the window with practiced ease. Natasha watches you disappear into the night, her mind spinning with questions and curiosity.
One thing’s certain: this won't be the last time she’d see you and your cat. And to her surprise, she finds herself looking forward to the next time.
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