Boundless Devotion - Part I

·˚ ₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 | natasha romanoff

. ݁₊ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 . it was a new era of her life. she no longer had missions or a team to rely on — only endless free time, and a bunch of thoughts that weren't really helpful. Natasha for once, had time to pick up her phone — something trivial. through the dating app Tony had dared her to install months ago, she meets somebody. finally, her heart was at peace.

. ݁₊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 . smut! i am not responsible for your content consumption! — a TW for the photo editing thing. this may be a sensitive topic for some. lonely Nat, insecure Nat — she edits a picture of her body, swearing, oral (N receiving). lots of fluffy stuff, too. set after Civil War.

. ݁₊ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. this ended up SO MUCH longer than i initially planned. i put a lot of dedication into this so, yeah 🥹

thanks to my lovely @sunswish who helped me with the plot and the proofreading! ♡

The trailer was quiet, except for the faint rustle of the wind through the trees outside. Natasha sat at the small wooden table by the window, her knees pulled up to her chest, a steaming mug of tea resting untouched beside her. The Norwegian countryside was beautiful, vast and unassuming, but the stillness pressed down on her.

Her phone laid on the table, the screen dark. She stared at it for a moment, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing her face. She’d never been good at this — being still, alone with her thoughts. For years, her life had been one constant motion: missions, battles, briefings, always moving forward because stopping meant thinking, having time to ponder about her life.

Her jaw tightened, and she looked out the window instead. What was she even doing?

She’d fought tooth and nail to become an Avenger, to carve out some sliver of redemption for herself, some sense of belonging in a world she’d spent so long working against. She’d believed in their cause, in their family, even when it meant trusting people with pieces of herself she hadn’t known she was capable of sharing.

And now? The Avengers were gone. Torn apart, like everything else she’d tried to build. She was a fugitive, hunted by the very government she’d once fought to protect. Her friends — her family — were scattered, some in hiding, some in prison. She was left with nothing but her name and a handful of private contractors who worked in the shadows. People she barely trusted, people who barely trusted her. Yet she still needed them for supplies, false documents, and a roof above her head. Funny, she thought.

She reached for her mug, her fingers curling around the warmth of the ceramic, though she didn’t take a sip. She had no mission now, no team to fall back on. No one to call when the silence became too much. She wasn’t sure if she missed the fights or the people more.

A faint vibration against the table snapped her from her thoughts. Her phone. She glanced down, the screen lighting up with a notification — some random email, one of these ‘no reply’ ones, nothing important. She hesitated, then picked it up anyway, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Scrolling through her phone felt… strange. Almost trivial. She opened Instagram, an app she barely used but kept around for the rare moments she wanted to feel tethered to something normal. The feed was full of snapshots of a life she didn’t recognize—vacations, dinners, smiling faces, people celebrating milestones she wouldn't ever have.

And right then, the name ‘Avengers’ didn’t make sense for her anymore. She was supposed to have this. This life where she would have a fun moment and think ‘oh, yes! i should absolutely shoot a pic and add to my stories’. After all, Natasha was just an unavenged girl, woman, human. A picture of a mother celebrating her daughter's birthday wasn't just one more picture showing on her feed. It was her dream.

She scrolled absently, her mind only half-engaged as her thumb flicked upward. Part of her wanted to throw the phone across the room and forget she’d ever picked it up. But another part—the quieter, lonelier part—held onto it like a lifeline.

She then receives another automatic notification. How has your love life been going? It took her a moment to remember what it was, and when she did, she let out a dry, humorless laugh.

The dating app.

She’d installed it months ago as a joke, because Tony had bet her she wouldn’t. She could still hear his voice in her head, teasing her. “Come on, Nat. You might actually meet someone who doesn’t want to kill you for once.” At the time, it was funny. She’d downloaded it, filled out the bare minimum of the profile, like: cat lover, captivating green eyes & martial arts enjoyer and promptly forgotten about it.

Her finger hovered over the icon now, her heart giving a strange, uncomfortable twirl in her chest. The idea of opening it felt absurd. What would she even say to someone? What would they see in her, beyond the scars and the lies and the mess she’d made of her life? That was made of her life? Could she even try and have a relationship? When throughout her life, she didn’t ever have a conversation about feelings? Clint was the closest attempt to that — he knew her past, more than the others, at least. So she spoke to him about things like that before. But he had a wife, kids, a home.

Natasha damned her heart every single day — for wanting a connection with somebody — for wanting to be somebody's, and for not being content with what she already has.

What does she even have?

She sighs deeply as she gathers a little bit of courage (that usually wasn't necessary when one was to open a simple app in their phone) and presses her thumb against the icon. Her eyebrows show a little frown as she realizes the app wasn’t open — she had held the icon for too long, making the options add to home and uninstall pop up on her screen.

“Goddammit,” she mutters to herself. Maybe she had done it on purpose. She considers choosing the second option. But her thumb, once again, hovers over the uninstall word for too long.

She was just confused. In conflict, with something so small. Although, she was braver than that.

“Let's just get over with this.” She mutters to herself as she finally opens the app — SparkMatch, she reads the name, for the first time. She lets out a scoff. Though the feeling of unease didn't take long before coming back to her. The about me section was completely empty, in exception for-

“Captivating green eyes. Cat lover.” she reads the words she had typed, aloud, cursing herself. It was what she had written in order to simply make the Iron Man laugh and leave her alone. “Great job, Romanoff. Truly irresistible.”

Scrolling down her profile, which was named only @Natasha1203— having in mind that her surname wasn't one to be openly shared — she finds the photos she had chosen, months ago, without really thinking much. Her gallery didn't have much cheering stuff. They were as nondescript as possible: a picture of a skyline she had taken while on the run. Her in sunglasses, her most common accessory. And.. a single closeup of her face, that felt too honest for comfort. She doesn’t know why she left that one there, for the world to stare at. Maybe it was the one moment where she caught herself looking like.. well, herself. If somebody squinted their eyes, they could see a small scar on her shoulder. She hoped people wouldn’t do that.

Summing up: the profile was a mess. And that was a perfect reflection of the person behind it. She doesn't make a move to edit any information — before remembering an important detail. It would be nice to change her profile's name, in case anybody (especially Tony, that was aware of this) tried to look for her.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203 was the new username.

Perfect. She does a little ‘tsk’ with her tongue, a little habit she developed when finishing a task.

Flirting was easy. She had been trained for it — trained in the art of seduction, molded into a woman that could slip into any persona, say the right words, touch in the right way, just to get what she needed. But this wasn't one of the spy programs she had access to in SHIELD. This wasn't about manipulation or information extracting. This was trivial. Normal.

Natasha browses through the app for a while. She stops in profiles of strangers that smiled back at her through their pictures — men, women, who were teachers, doctors, engineers. People with families and hobbies. Who had the chance to live a life without looking over their shoulders every second. Yet something about this.. gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was faint, but it was there. Knowing all these little details about random folks, she could find small pieces of herself in each one: some did ballet when they were little. Some had a scar due a kitchen accident. Some did karate simply for liking the sport. Some liked peanut butter sandwiches. She quietly giggles, her previous nervousness replaced by a silly feeling.

Maybe it wasn't that bad. It is not like a random person was gonna crawl out of her phone screen and have a date right then, anyway. And there was another ‘problem’. This app was still american, while she was in a whole new timezone.

What a relief.

She shifts on the small couch of her trailer, now laying down on it, allowing herself to get entertained with SparkMatch. She even found some profiles that were probably deactivated by now, seeing that they were created, like, a decade ago. She purposefully clicked on the small heart on them, meaning Match. She softly laughs.

But the sound is interrupted by herself as she finds a specific user.

It was a minimalist profile — elegant, even. It didn't say much about the person's personality: it said enough. It wasn't extravagant or absurd like some she had found. And it certainly wasn't a mess, like hers.

Y/n. 34. Not good at small talk, but I'm a good listener. A photographer, currently traveling around. Just someone who thinks the world is too big of a place to stay idle for too long. Currently: Norway

It was truly something else, compared to the live, laugh, love bios or the gym rats flashing their abs.

Her curiosity picks up, and soon enough, she sees a picture of them in Oslo.

And it was posted just three days ago.

So they were active in this app. But this wasn't what her mind grasped. Traveling in Norway. International trips usually didn’t last just three days, right? So that meant they were still there. There with her.

Out of all countries in the world, they were there?

She reads the bio again. Currently: Norway.

A strange shiver runs down her spine the more she thinks about the situation she found herself into. She bites on her lip, her stomach twirling almost painfully, like a school girl texting her crush. She was the Black Widow, for God's sake. She didn't get to go on silly dates and receive flowers.

No. This was too much. Without closing the app, she locks the screen of her phone again and drops it to the couch, quickly standing up and running her fingers through her hair. There were many reasons why this wouldn't work, especially when she was a fugitive and could get recognized, even in a small cafe.

Heading to the tiny kitchen, she opens a drawer on the countertop and grabs a bottle opener, opening the fridge and taking a beer out. She removes the cap and downs the bottle with no second thought, the bitter liquid ripping down her throat. Deeply breathing, shakily. Amidst the vast emptiness, not only of the place she was currently settled, but of her heart too, she fought back tears. The glass of the bottle clicks against the marble countertop as she places it down, her hands tightly gripping onto the edge of the furniture, holding herself up. It was a hard decision to make, whether to take this opportunity and keep it safe in her heart, or to let it go and pretend it never happened in the first place.

But she wouldn't be able to rest tonight knowing she simply did nothing about that special person the app charitably put into her hands. So, on this night, the unshatterable Natasha Romanoff did something she never thought she would. Before heading to bed, she picked up her phone again. Gladly, she didn't have to look for the profile once more. She simply had to press onto the small heart next to their picture. And she did.

The screen flashed: It's a match!

Natasha blinked in surprise, almost dumbfounded by this message. But this was meant to happen, right? Now, she could only hope that she would receive something in return by the morning.

It felt.. good. She had something to expect, a little flicker of hope that followed her even in her dreams, that made her feel better than she could ever imagine.

And this was just the start.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

When the next day came, all of Natasha’s thoughts regarding the whirlwind of recent events were replaced by a single thing: that person. That New Yorker who was currently in Norway to take photos for a personal album. She initially wondered if she could really lower her guard like this and not think too much about Secretary Ross — who was still after her — but it was not like she would leave this trailer anytime soon. Thus, she needed a distraction, something to keep her brain entertained until this whole mess was over.

Talking to them was a relief — a solace she had been needing and didn't even know until now.

Talking to you.

Right away you had seen the match notification of SparkMatch, even if it was already one in the morning when it arrived. You sent this woman- Fanny? a message, and waited, but no response came until the next day. You wondered if she had impulsively pressed the match button and ran away from her phone out of nervousness. You actually imagined it, seeing the one picture of herself she published on her feed. Her profile was.. vague, to say at least, but she was incredibly beautiful, and indeed had captivating green eyes, like she boldly described herself. It made you smirk to your phone’s screen. No, genuinely smile.

It was pretty much clear that she wasn't a dating app person. And neither were you! You just had a better sense of organization than her, that's for sure. What if you two could really be a match?

As the day went on, you two engaged into a conversation that was surprisingly enjoyable for both sides. Opening the inbox chat, that could be found:

@Y/n: Good night. Is your real name Fanny Longbottom?

— eight hours later —

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Good morning! The first thing you ask a woman is if her name is real?

@Y/n: It just doesn't suit a beautiful redhead with captivating green eyes.

Natasha groaned to herself at this, laughing. The humor in the text was evident, and she loved that.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Right. It was a joke. You can call me.. Nat.

It was a glimpse of her name. It could be Natasha, Natalia, Natalie.. or all of these.

@Y/n: Nat.. that is better. Yet still very vague. Like your whole profile.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Perhaps my whole account here is a joke.

@Y/n: And we still matched. And sincerely, I'm intrigued. Intrigued and curious.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That’s a dangerous thing to tell someone you just met.

@Y/n: Personally, I wouldn’t call a cat lover dangerous.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Will you stop mocking me for my irresistible biography or what?

It was an easy playful banter. It felt light. Not like these conversations where you had to directly ask the other person to be nice to you.

@Y/n: You just don’t strike me as someone who spends much time on dating apps. What brings you here?

With that, she debated whether to mention Tony’s dare or not. She could talk about it, but not for now. If she’s sincere, about how much she needed not to be alone anymore, this could lead to something good, more profound.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: I’m just trying something new. What about you? Norway seems kinda away from the rest of the world.

@Y/n: It is. But sometimes you have to go far to find what you’re looking for.

Natasha leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn’t know who you were, or why your words seemed to settle something in her chest, but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she felt.. excited.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Have you found it?

@Y/n: Not yet. But I have a feeling I might be in the right place.

She stared at the message, her mind turning over the possibilities. She was already glad that this hadn’t started with “hey, you’re cute” or “what’s up?”, and now? It felt like she was in a dream — to find someone that shared her ideals, or that at least, thankfully, sounded like a mature adult.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Maybe Norway isn’t so bad after all.

@Y/n: So you’re also here!

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That seems like an excited message to me.

Gladly, her phone’s camera wasn’t capturing anything. Because she swore her eyes were sparkling right now.

@Y/n: Of course I’m excited, Nat. Now I have something else to think about other than shooting pictures.

Natasha stared at the reply, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of her phone. There was something disarming about your words — direct, yet not forceful. And the way you used her name so casually made her blush.

She hesitated, before typing back.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: What do you shoot? Other than clever replies, apparently.

@Y/n: Street photography. Portraits, mostly. But I’ve been known to dabble in the occasional cat picture. You know, for balance.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Balance is important. What would the world do with no cat pictures?

@Y/n: I shudder to imagine it. Speaking of balance.. would you let me buy you coffee sometime? Or would that be too much?

Her breath caught. You really didn’t waste time, did you? she thought. For a moment, her walls threatened to go up again — she could almost hear that little voice in the back of her mind telling her that this was not a good idea, that it wasn’t smart, safe.

But she silenced it. It was too soon, for sure — but she couldn’t knock it till she tried it.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That depends. Are you going back to New York in the next few days?

@Y/n: I don’t have a specific date to go back. So I guess it depends on how things go.

Yeah. Now she felt a little pressured. It was a dilemma, she could be the reason you stayed or left. Adrenaline coursed through her veins — that was determination.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: It’s not like I am going anywhere anytime soon, either. But.. I like to play hard to get sometimes. How about we wait and see how things go?

@Y/n: Hard to get, huh? Well, patience is a virtue. Let me know when you feel like stopping the chase.

And you two went on like that — talking about your favorite portraits, sending her some — receiving her compliments, which sounded way too genuine for your liking. It was casual, like talking to a friend. Natasha didn't take long to start feeling comfortable with texting you. If she weren't a spy without a private number, she would've asked for your WhatsApp. Or maybe she was just exaggerating. The thing was: she didn't have to wonder about how to answer you. Your way of having conversations was so nice that she didn't feel forced to text back.

And with these new discoveries, Natasha felt like she could be in this new country without feeling too out of place. She feared that in the end this would be just one momentary experience, one of the many personas she played.

But shockingly, for once, she didn’t feel like paying attention to her overthinking.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

Weeks had passed, and the nightly silence Natasha once dreaded was now filled with something else. Her phone screen, once cold and impersonal, had become an opening to something warmer. A new phase of her life. She never thought she would be so close to a mobile device before. Supersecret agents couldn’t have personal ones other than burner phones, it was risky — they could get hacked, tracked, recognized. She didn’t have a number, or an email with her name, bank accounts, or any sort of thing that could link her to the authorities. She only had TikTok, Instagram, some games like Candy Crush Saga and her newest best friend, SparkMatch.

Everyday, without fail, your conversations flowed effortlessly. You spoke about everything: Norway’s quiet beauty, silly anecdotes, and even the mundane things that somehow became meaningful when shared. She made herself get used to the habit of not thinking much. This wasn’t part of the plan — or rather, there was no plan. This constant connection grounded her in a way she didn’t fully understand.

Having someone willingly care about her, without having to ask, beg for it — she couldn’t understand.

This evening, after eating her exquisite caviar and drinking champagne, she settled onto her couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her phone buzzed, and her mind involuntarily anticipated your witty reply, or question about her day.

Instead, a picture greeted her.

It wasn’t posed or staged — just you. mid-laugh, with a goofy expression that instantly betrayed your attempt to be serious. Your hair was a bit disheveled, and the lighting was off, but the image carried a kind of authenticity Natasha couldn’t let pass. The caption reads:

@Y/n: I don’t usually do selfies, but I figured you deserved to see what you’ve been stuck talking to all this time.

It was caring. You thought about her often enough to send a picture of yourself, doing absolutely nothing important.

Natasha softly blinked at the picture, completely still as her brain worked to process what she was looking at. It wasn’t just a picture. There was trust behind it, a hidden message. She couldn’t tell where you were getting at with this action — actually, she could. She just tried to convince herself of the contrary, afraid of putting her hopes up and screwing up afterwards.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Hi. I wasn’t expecting that.

@Y/n: Hi! How are you right now?

She bites her lip, incredulously chuckling. She was almost certain that this question was supposed to come before the picture.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Better.

She was feeling better, but not just that — she was feeling.. something. Something like.. seen. Like she was remembered by someone, like she existed, for once.

And those feelings stirred something even deeper within her.

The connection was becoming deeper — it was just now that she realized that the flirting which occurred every now and then wasn’t meaningless. It had a deep impact on her, in her soul — as a friend, as a person, and mostly.. as a woman. She needed it. She needed someone to like her, to pay attention to her, to see her — intimately, closely. Even better when this someone wasn’t a superficial person, and actually one who she related to and felt like she could share this dormant part of herself.

So she decides to share a picture, too.

She sits upright on the couch, the blanket falling and pooling around her hips as she opens the camera. She switches from the back camera to the frontal one, and takes a selfie. She was wearing a simple grey tank top, so her shoulders, collarbone and neck were on display. She wasn’t smiling smiling, just briefly, just enough to make a friendly expression. It was soft, tender. Unlike the deadly Black Widow.

Thankfully, for you, she didn’t have to be that.

So she presses send, laying back again and staring at the screen in anticipation — her eyes closely watching as the send mark changed into seen, that then turned into open. It stayed like that for a long while — like you were examining the picture and weren’t ashamed of it.

It gave her goosebumps.

The typing bubble appeared again after what felt like an eternity.

@Y/n: You’re beautiful, Nat.

It was a compliment you had already used on her. But this situation? Oh, it felt so, so different. You were talking about the simplicity, the domesticity of her in this closeup, the softness.

Fueling the fire that started to burn within her on this specific day.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Just a selfie.. don't get carried away. I'm hardly camera ready.

@Y/n: It's more than a selfie for me. It made my day. If that's not camera ready, I wonder how it'll be like when you try.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Would you like to see?

Oops. She didn't think before sending this one.

@Y/n: Hell, yes.

Her mind was immersed, totally consumed by the attention you were giving her — no jokes, no hints, just shameless flirting. Standing from the couch, she walks to her small bedroom, which was already dark, gladly — she closes her door, and slumps on her bed. Seduction was her nature, she couldn't control it. Though it wasn't necessarily a bad thing right now. Reaching her hand out, she turned on her yellow dim lamp, a gentle, warm glow casting her skin, making a better environment for the incoming picture.

She reopened the camera and adjusted herself in a comfortable position — knees pulled up, her left hand resting above her stomach as she held her phone with her right one above herself — taking the photo. There was auburn red hair all over the pillows, some strands framing her face perfectly. There was skin showing — a bit of her thighs, her arms, waist.. the curves of her body leaving room for imagination.

And something that she forgot about for the longest time.

The bullet scar above her left hip.

She stared at the photo on her screen, finger hovering over the "Send" button instinctively. The lighting was perfect, the pose effortless yet captivating. Her expression was soft, relaxed — but her pupils were darkened, a hint of the sinful emotions coursing through her body. But her eyes fell to the scar.

It was unavoidable, cutting through the smooth expanse of her pale skin like a brutal reminder. The bullet scar left by the Winter Soldier, a relic of her past life, stood out glaringly in the image. Her jaw clenched as a familiar wave of self-consciousness surged through her, a feeling she thought she had buried already.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the headboard as her thumb swiped to open the editing tools. It took her less than a minute to brush the scar away, leaving her skin unmarked, untouched. Natasha tilted her head, scrutinizing the result. The photo looked… perfect. Too perfect, perhaps, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that.

With a deep breath, she pressed send.

Unlike your other conversations, she felt.. heavy. Like the instinct of having to show her perfect body in order to be liked was speaking louder than her rational side.

The message was delivered almost immediately, but the seconds felt drawn out, agonizingly long. When the "seen" indicator appeared, her heart raced. She bit the inside of her cheek, anticipating your response.

The reply came swiftly:

@Y/n: Wow. I’m speechless.

She smirked (bittersweetly), her thumb hesitating for only a moment before typing back.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That’s a first. Usually, you always have something to say.

The typing bubble reappeared, and she waited, her heart thudding in her chest.

@Y/n: You make it hard to think, Nat.

Natasha felt warmth flood her cheeks, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Don’t let it go to your head.

@Y/n: I think it's too late for that.

For a moment, she wondered what you would have said if you’d seen the unedited version. Would you have found it ugly? Would you have pitied her? Or would you have admired her for wearing it like the badge of survival it was?

In her dreams, you would have worshiped it.

Before she could send anything else, you decided to take a shot on meeting her in person once again.

@Y/n: I'm sorry, I'll have to suggest. How about this: I'll find the best café within a 10-mile radius, and you can tell me if my photography is as good as my coffee recommendations.

Time passed, and the accusations against Natasha had toned down a bit. Maybe, just maybe, if she's careful enough, she can do this. The first date she'd have in what, a decade?

It was refreshing. And scary. But overall refreshing.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Deal. But I will be the judge in both.

The day and place was decided — it would be in Oslo, downtown — a café, where tons of people would be present. Natasha, growing up, became a master in blending in.

If fate decided to be on her side, this would be one of the best days of her life.

She tossed her phone onto the pillow beside her and laid back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers brushed the scar again, tracing its jagged edges as if trying to understand its place in this new chapter of her life.

“Not everyone gets to see this side of me,” she murmured to herself.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if that was a warning or a promise.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

The café buzzed with the warmth of chatter, the soft clinking of ceramic mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter. It was tucked into a quiet corner of downtown Oslo, a place where the world felt comfortably distant yet close enough for her to disappear if necessary. Hours before, Natasha had dressed herself up — a burgundy dress, black tights, her usual black boots — and her jacket, of course. Her hair was naturally wavy, falling down her shoulders and back — and the makeup was simple. She wasn't a woman for makeup. But this time, she wore red lipstick and the faintest glitter eyeshadow.

She felt like a doll. It was stupid, a thing she liked to imagine how it would feel like back then — in the Red Room, where the girls wore black uniforms — grey sometimes, but always robotic, always calculated. It was a comforting feeling, which made her want to go back in time and tell little Natalia: yes! we are older now, and we are all dolled up for the date of our dreams.

Natasha arrived early — of course she did. She always did. She chose a seat by the window, her back to the wall, a vantage point where she could see everyone coming and going. Her heart wasn’t racing, but there was a slight tension in her chest. She sipped her coffee slowly, the warm bitterness grounding her as she kept an eye on the door. Then, you walked in.

Her doubting thoughts flew away the moment the green eyes landed on you.

She recognized you instantly. Your smile was smaller in person but somewhat warmer, more genuine. You scanned the room briefly before your eyes landed on her, and for a moment, Natasha thought she saw your breath catch. She softly smirks, gaze involuntarily daring.

Come and get me. This? Is all for you.

She shaked that thought away as she watched you approach her table — your clothes, your style, your body language — she scanned it all. The Black Widow wasn't an easy woman to conquer, which made her dump most of the people that tried to hit on her in the past. You were a rare exception, someone who didn't even have to try to make her heart race. It happened in it’s own.

“You made it,” Natasha said, standing to greet you, to give you a quick hug — the subtle press of your body against hers making her skin tingle. Damn it. She adjusted her dress before sitting back down. You did the same, sitting in front of her.

“Of course I did. This date was all I could think about,” you reply, eyes drinking her in, like she was the prettiest woman to exist. She truly was. “No. Let me rephrase. Seeing you was all I could think about.”

Natasha lets out a soft laugh, shifting her gaze towards the floor. She was so pale that the fact that she was blushing was, unfortunately, evident.

“Feels good to finally hear your voice,” she says, resting her chin on her hand as she stares at you. “In person. Not in audio messages or calls.”

After ordering pastries and more coffee for the both of you, the conversation flowed easily, from the usual mundane topics to little jokes that made Natasha chuckle softly. She found herself studying you more and more, the way you gestured when you spoke, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed.

Eventually, the question came.

“So, what’s it like?” you asked, your voice gentle but curious. “Being an Avenger?”

Natasha paused, her fingers brushing the edge of her coffee cup. She had expected this, of course. She knew it would come up. She couldn't simply hide, not when her face had shown up on TV so many times. But if necessary, she would say that this wasn't what she wanted to be anymore. Not with you. She simply wanted to be herself around you, and not the superhero.

She wasn't Natasha who assaulted T'challa. Wasn’t the Sokovia Accords breaker. She hoped you knew by now.

“It’s… complicated,” she said after a moment, her tone measured. “Not as glamorous as it looks on TV, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

You smiled. “I’m sure. But it’s still something, isn’t it? Saving the world, fighting alongside legends.”

A faint, nostalgic smile tugged at her lips. “It was something, yeah. But it wasn’t always about saving the world.” Her gaze softened as she thought back. “There was this time when Tony installed this AI in the kitchen — Friday’s cousin or something — to help us cook. It ended up burning everything it touched. Clint started calling it ‘Flamebot,’ and Steve…” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Steve tried to fix it, of course. Said it was ‘worth saving.’”

You laughed, and Natasha found herself smiling more openly. She was rambling.

“And Thor,” she continued, “he once mistook a microwave for some kind of… magical contraption. He tried to ‘summon its power’ with Mjolnir.”

“Did it work?” you teased.

Natasha smirked. “No, but we had to get a new microwave.”

The nostalgia warmed her, but it also left her feeling melancholic. She missed them. Not the missions or the battles, but the team — the messy, dysfunctional family they had become. You seemed to notice the shift in her mood and didn’t push further. Instead, you leaned in slightly, your voice soft.

“I can tell you miss them,” you said.

Natasha nodded, her walls lowering just a fraction. “Yeah. I do.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, realizing she needed some cheering up. This was supposed to be a happy day, not one to bring up sad memories. So you opened your bag, pulling out of it your camera — which made Natasha's eyes brighten up.

“You brought it!” she exclaims. “I almost forgot that you're a photographer,”

“I thought of the possibility of having to register this moment. And I was absolutely right. You look.. beautiful isn't enough to describe it,” you deeply sigh, as if surrendering to her, to this feeling of being completely in love. “Can I please take a picture of you?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “A picture of me?” she asked, her tone teasing. “You know that’s dangerous, right? What if you decide to sell it to the tabloids?”

You laughed softly, looking at her like a lovesick puppy, shaking your head. “I’m not interested in fame, Nat. Just in you.”

That made her pause, her smirk faltering for just a second. It wasn’t often she heard something so direct, so sincere. She tilted her head, studying you with those piercing green eyes, as if trying to gauge if you meant it.

“Alright,” she said finally, leaning back in her chair. “But only if it’s a good angle. No pressure.”

You grinned, lifting the camera and adjusting the settings with practiced ease. “No such thing as a bad angle with you.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the blush dusting her cheeks just got worse. She straightened up, her posture relaxed yet commanding, exuding that natural grace and power.

“Like this?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her voice.

You brought your chair closer, lowering the camera for a moment. “No. Don’t pose,” you said quietly. “Just be yourself.”

That caught her off guard. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she shifted in her seat, unsure of what to do with herself for once.

“Be myself, huh?” she murmured.

You nodded, lifting the camera again. “Exactly. I don’t need the Black Widow. I want Nat.”

Her lips parted slightly at your words, and for a fleeting moment, the mask she wore every day seemed to slip. Her shoulders relaxed, her head tilted to the side, and a genuine, very shy smile spread across her face. “I-”

Before she could protest, the shutter clicked, capturing her in that rare, unguarded moment. “Perfect,” you murmured, lowering the camera and meeting her gaze.

Natasha shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only the good kind,” you replied with a grin, setting the camera down.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand again as she studied you. “So, do I get to see it? Or are you keeping me in suspense?”

You turned the camera around, showing her the photo on the screen. Her expression softened as she took it in — the warmth in her eyes, the slight tilt of her head, the way the light framed her face, her rosy cheeks. It wasn’t just a picture. It was a glimpse of who she really was, beyond the layers of secrecy and survival. It was simply her, away from espionage, having coffee with her date.

Her unforgettable trip to Norway.

“It’s… good,” she said quietly, her voice almost hesitant.

“Good?” you ask. “It’s stunning. Just like my model.”

Oh, that…

The way you emphasized the word ‘my’.. the way you were making her feel.. actually precious. She was trapped.

“Alright,” she said, sitting back. “You’ve had your fun. Now tell me, do I at least get a copy?”

You laughed, nodding. “Of course. But only if you promise to go easy on me when I take more later.”

She smirks, her confidence returning. “We’ll see about that.”

As the evening wore, the sky showed a beautiful indigo, stars twinkling just like the sparkles in both of your sets of eyes. Natasha allowed herself to relax. To bask in this kind of normalcy that she never had the chance to experience. She had seen a lot, lived a lot. She knew what people could do in response to fear. She saw war and hatred, she saw coldness and cruelty. But from now on, she could live in a lighter way — like her heart was finally at peace.

“Should we get going?” you asked as the people also started to leave, standing and offering her a hand.

Natasha hesitated for half a second before taking it. Your touch was warm, steady, grounding, and promising. As you stepped outside, the cool air of Oslo wrapped around you. The city lights flickered like stars. Natasha felt a strange sense of calm. When she felt your arm enveloping her shoulders, her breath hitched, but she didn’t let it show — leaning into you gently.

“Where to now?” she asked, glancing at you.

“Well, the hotel, if you’re up for it,” you replied, your tone playful but not pushing.

That playfulness was a disguise for more surprises that awaited her back into the hotel room you were hosted in.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

When you unlocked the door to the hotel you're staying in, Natasha followed you inside, her steps hesitant, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The space was warm and inviting, even if it wasn't a fixed place — especially after knowing you for a good while now — tons of polaroids laying across the bed, portraits, some funko pops that you bought recently. But what caught her attention almost immediately was the bouquet of flowers resting on the counter, tied together with a simple ribbon.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she turned to you, her lips parting in surprise. She didn't even have time to look around the place. “What’s this?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and vulnerability.

You stepped past her, picking up the bouquet and holding it out to her with a smile. “These are for you,” you said.

Natasha blinked, momentarily stunned. Her fingers brushed against yours as she took the bouquet, her touch delicate, as though the flowers were something precious. She examined them quietly — deep purple irises mingled with soft yellow sunflowers and a few sprigs of white heather.

“So you’re a hopeless romantic.. you didn’t take them to the café. What made you so sure I would come back to your place?”

You shrugged, leaning casually against the counter. “I wasn’t sure,” you admitted, meeting her gaze with an honesty that made her pause. “But I hoped you would. And, well, I wanted them to be a surprise. It felt more personal this way.”

Natasha glanced down at the flowers again, her fingers gently brushing over the petals. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“I thought you were worth the effort,” you said simply, the sincerity in your voice making her blink rapidly, as though she was trying to process it.

Natasha smiled as she shook her head lightly, trying to dismiss the overwhelming feeling creeping up on her. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You chuckled, stepping closer. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She tilted her head, her green eyes studying you with a mixture of curiosity and warmth. “It is,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” you interrupted softly, stepping closer. “You deserve something beautiful. Something that shows how incredible you are, even if you can’t always see it yourself.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The Avenger, the unshakable spy, was speechless.

Natasha turned to face you fully, the bouquet forgotten for a moment as she searched your face. It was almost desperate, how she tried to find reassurance, anything that told her that her past wasn't a problem. “You… you don’t even know the half of it,” she murmured.

“Maybe not,” you admitted. “But I want to. Every part of it, Nat. I want to know you.”

For a long moment, she just stared at you, as if trying to decide whether she could let her walls down one more time. Talking through an app was easier. In person felt way too serious. And then, with a deep, trembling breath, she set the bouquet back on the table and closed the distance between you.

She walked with determination, her chest lightly touching yours as her hands found their way to the back of your neck. Her fingernails softly scratched in between the hair strands. She didn't know what to say — she didn't want to say anything. In this very second, she simply wanted to feel. Feel what she never had the privilege to feel as the years passed, because yes, this felt like a privilege. She stood on her tiptoes to press herself closer, doe green eyes pleading.

They told you everything, and you didn't need to be passed the message twice. Your right hand cupped her cheek as the left one wrapped around her waist, bringing her even closer.

She was an angel. Not a deadly spy. A sweet angel to be taken care of. To have her needs satisfied and tears wiped away.

As Natasha felt you responding, she allowed her eyes to close.. basking in the darkness, wanting to be enveloped by this only one sensation. This soft, intense sensation of your lips against hers, moving in a way that wasn't rushed, but wasn't too deliberate either — your hands gripping her waist and bunching the fabric of her jacket, maneuvering her back against the counter. Holding onto your shoulders, she sat on the countertop, welcoming your body between her legs. The kiss lasted. She softly whimpered as she felt your tongue brushing against her bottom lip, asking for entrance, for more of her. And she allowed it. Her head tilted to the side, moving in sync with you — as your tongues danced, a dance she hadn’t discovered before.

Needing air, you pull away, foreheads resting against one another as you deeply inhale, messily. It was torture to stop kissing her, she was good. But air was necessary. Calming down, your arms circle her waist. A smile makes its way to your lips as you see the state she was in. Flushed. And…

“I think your lipstick is a little smudged,”

Natasha felt that — every nerve of her skin was burning, including the parts with the messy makeup. She lets out a huff of air and clears her throat, trying to find her voice so she could respond.

“That was…” she whispers, her hands cradling your jaw. “Wow,”

“You are ‘wow’,” you whisper, using your thumb to wipe away the red lipstick from the corners of her lips, fixing it. “You are perfect,”

“I'm not that- I'm not,” she nervously giggled, humming as you finished fixing her up. She shifted on the countertop, her legs pressing around your hips, as if afraid of you leaving.

“I wish I could give you my set of eyes,” your hands travel down to her thighs, feeling the slightly rough fabric of her tights, but that didn't make her skin any less smoother to the touch.

Her dress was basically all the way up her hips at this point, something she hadn't paid the necessary attention to, due being too busy making out with you — and in the pit of her stomach, a small flicker of panic started rising. This was reckless, so reckless. It is not like she didn’t think of the possibility of things escalating while coming back to the hotel with you, but in her head, she would have more control over the situation — and with that, manage to keep her secrets uncovered.

But she didn’t. Her body was reacting in its own and her mind was cloudy. She had zero control.

Before you could even touch the zipper of her dress, Natasha froze. Her breathing hitched — barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention, but you were. Her hands, which had been so confident just moments ago, trembled as they pressed gently against your chest.

“Wait,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if it might shatter if spoken any louder. “Just.. give me a second,” she muttered, avoiding your gaze as she detangled from your grasp, getting off the counter and hurrying to the bathroom.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the quiet room. Natasha leaned against the sink, gripping its edges so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her reflection stared back at her — flushed cheeks, wide eyes, red marks staining the corners of her lips.

Why did she have to choose a matte lipstick?

Her fingers brushed against her side, over the spot where the bullet scar lay. She had hidden it from you before, in that photo. It had seemed harmless at the time — a small deception to preserve the image of herself she wanted you to see. But now, in the raw intimacy of this moment, it felt like a betrayal.

She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto her face in an attempt to calm the storm raging inside her. She couldn’t lose this moment — not to her own fears, not to a scar that was just one more piece of her long and painful past. But how could she explain it? How could she show you this part of her without ruining everything?

Natasha pressed her hands to her face, inhaling deeply. It’s just a scar, she told herself. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t change who I am.

Except that it does. And a small tear rolls down her cheek.

You’re not in the Red Room anymore, she reminded herself, gripping the sink harder. And this person… they’re different. They don’t expect you to be perfect. They just want you.

The doubt, the fears that you managed to keep away from her in the past month, came back to her — only a thousand times more painful.

Regardless, Natasha didn't have any more time to think, before she heard the doorknob turning, the damn door she didn't lock opening. She kept her head low, her body stiff as she continued to hold onto the sink. You could see her reflection in the mirror clearly. The fact that she was silently shedding tears.

“You're crying,” you state quietly, taking baby steps towards her.

“And you're bold,” she chuckles, the sound a mixture of tears and sarcasm. She sniffles, using her arm to wipe her nose. “Entering like that.”

“You're crying.” you shake your head, once again standing face to face with her. You reach out your hands and cup her tear stained cheeks. “What's wrong?”

“I…” she debated what to tell you. That she was afraid of physical intimacy since she was young? Or that she hid a crucial thing about her body all this time? “I don't know-”

“You’re hiding something from me and are afraid I’m gonna hate you?” you inquire, voice serious — not mocking, not pressuring.

What?

Her eyes go wide instantly, the tears stopping. You wipe them away from her cheeks, expression softening again as you prepared to explain yourself. “You’re part of a New Yorker superheroes team. There was absolutely nothing that spoke about your personality in SparkMatch, which is expected, Nat. I’m aware that there’s a lot that I don’t know about you. I know where I’m getting myself into.”

“For the longest time, all I wanted was company. Someone to talk to, to listen to me, and that I could listen to them. Someone to see me,” she quietly confesses, leaning her cheeks into your palms. “You did just that. You’re that person.. you filled a huge void in me. You saved me in more ways that you could ever know.”

“I’m so grateful for that.” you lean closer, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead. She shyly wrapped her arms around your waist, her eyes searching yours once more.

“It’s not just that…” she adds, her breath hitching. She was now determined to continue from where you left off on the entrance counter. “I longed- I long for.. touches, and..”

“And closeness,” you complete, head dipping down and tucking itself into the crook of her neck. “Geez, you smell delicious,”

“It’s… Twilly D’Hermès,” breathless, Natasha speaks, a small hint of pride in her tone as she spoke about her moisturizing cream. “My body lotion,”

It wasn’t cheap, but she liked to spoil herself sometimes. It was also great to deal with the constant bruises and cuts on her skin. Your brows raise in surprise, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. Natasha could feel the warmth of your breath on her neck, a surge of happiness and ecstasy washing over her.

“That’s.. pretty luxurious, one can say.”

“Can’t a woman spoil herself sometimes?” she retorts — interrupted by a gasp that left her as your lips pressed against her neck. Her eyes flutter shut, her hands holding onto your arms as she did her best to keep talking. “B-Besides, years of bruises and burns require good skincare.”

“I see,” you hum, nuzzling into her, into the spot behind her ear. She felt soft today. Now you knew the reason. After staying like that for a while, you pull back, looking into her eyes with a gaze that showed admiration, respect and concern towards her comfort. “Can I?”

She deeply inhales, feeling you reach for her dress again — only more mindfully now. Shrugging her jacket off her shoulders, she places it next to her on the sink and nods.

She was prepared for the question.

“Okay, hold on.” you kneel down, beginning to untie her boots, catching her by surprise. You remove them and place them aside, before slowly pulling down her tights. “Damn. Why did you have to wear something so complicated?”

“I wanted to feel beautiful,” she quietly chuckles, allowing you to get rid of the excessive fabric on her body.

So, it's time for the dress. You got up to your feet and slid your palm up her spine, holding onto the zipper and then pulling it down. Natasha was expectant, self aware, but mainly, consumed by her desire — finally awake again.

“I'll make you feel beautiful,” you nod, pushing the dress straps off her shoulders and sliding them down her arms.

“You already do.” She breathes.

She doesn't stop you from getting her off the dress. But when it stops below her hips, she tenses up. That's because she sees you freezing. To look at her. It's strange, to have someone look at her body with no apparent emotion. You didn't look at her as if she were a prize to win — an object, or a weapon. Helping her step off the dress, you toss it aside on the floor. Now nothing was disturbing you from taking her in. Her black underwear. Her toned muscles — which you assumed were from years of workout. And her scars. Cuts, a few small keloids, and the bullet scar.

“You didn’t have to hide this from me.” you breathe, dropping to your knees once more as you held her by the hips. She found herself leaning against the sink’s counter, breathing ragged, every nerve of her body buzzing in anticipation. “Makes you even more gorgeous.”

“I—”

“You're fucking gorgeous.” you hiss, kissing above the place that once had a bullet in.

Yup. Her dreams came true.

“Please,” she murmurs, not knowing how to vocalize what she wanted. But the heat pooling between her thighs told you everything.

Your lips make a path from her hip down to her pelvic bone, right hand grabbing her thigh and putting it on your shoulder — coaxing a gasp out of her. Your palm covers her scar, as though it were something precious about herself — making her feel safe, above everything. Natasha, for a moment, almost lost her balance — having to hold her weight with one foot — as your pointer finger hooked around the soaked fabric of her panties, pulling it to the side. You gave her one look. One look before diving in.

You are no longer alone.

She took the message. And her world exploded.

Your tongue working on her — licking past her folds, tasting her — as if committing to memory, and not just using her — her slender fingers tangling into your hair, pulling your head closer to her core, soft moans leaving her mouth as if there was no tomorrow.

“Yes,” She gasps, her hips bucking, seeking more of the kitten licks you showered her clitoris with. “Don't stop.”

None of her sexual experiences had been good in the past — not in the slightest. So having something so good, so pleasuring — it was truly her first.

In the Norwegian hotel, Natasha was more Avenged than she ever was with the Avengers. In the end of the night, she ended up with you on the bed — your clothes making each other company on the floor, as she lost herself — in your body, your scent, your hands on her,

and your love for her.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

You were tucked under the covers when the bathroom's door opened — the hot steam of her recent shower now dispersing and mingling with the air. You sat up, leaning against the headboard as you watched her with a smile.

Natasha walked towards you, the white hotel's towel in her hands, drying her damp hair. She was wearing a t-shirt you lent her, which was probably three times her size. She was smiling. Happily.

Before climbing back onto the bed, she absentmindedly placed the wet towel on an armchair. She gently settled onto your lap, straddling your hips, her head instantly nesting on your shoulder.

“Hi, baby.” you embrace her.

“If I have to leave the country, for any reasons,” she says, her hands tracing random patterns on your back. “Will you come with me?”

“I'll go anywhere with you.” you reply, voice unwavering.

She released the air she didn't know she was holding, and allows herself to relax her sore body. She nuzzled closer as you played with her still damp hair.

Maybe dating apps weren't so bad, after all. If she ever saw her team or Tony again, she would thank him for making her install it.

“Oh, and by the way,”

Natasha whispers, finally. Probably, you were aware. But it was one more thing about her true self she wanted you to know.

“My name is Natalia.”

COUNTING HER FRECKLES

Vi x f!reader

Synopsis: Early in the morning, while Vi was still asleep and you had just woken up, you couldn’t help but notice the little constellations of freckles on Vi’s face.

The morning sunlight spilled through the half-closed curtains, painting the room in a soft, golden glow. The warmth of the blankets cocooned you, but it was the woman lying next to you that truly kept you rooted in place. Vi was sprawled out on her back, an arm slung over her head, her mouth slightly open as she snored faintly. A tiny trail of drool glittered at the corner of her lips, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your own.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand. Her freckled cheeks were kissed by the sunlight, and her crimson hair stuck up in every direction. Even like this,unfiltered, messy, unguarded, she was stunning. Maybe even more so.

Carefully, you reached out to trace the faintest of lines across her skin, stopping short of touching her. “One, two, three…” you whispered under your breath, counting the constellation of freckles on her nose. You had no idea how she got freckles with her pale skin and constant yet humorous scowl, but you were grateful for them.

“Mmm…” Vi stirred, her head tilting slightly toward the sound of your voice. Her lashes fluttered, though her eyes stayed shut. A soft, groggy smile tugged at her lips, and she slurred, “Y’doin’, babe?”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. “Counting your freckles. Shh, don’t move. You’ll mess up my math.”

“Math?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep. “It’s too early for math,” She cracked an eye open, peering at you with a mix of confusion and amusement. “Y’always this weird?”

“Always,” you replied, grinning. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drooling.”

Her brows furrowed, and she quickly wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, grumbling incoherently. “Don’t call it that…” Her pout was impossibly endearing.

“You’re right,” you teased, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “It’s not drooling. It’s aggressive hydration.”

Vi snorted, her laughter muffled by the pillow as she turned her face into it. “Stop, you’re killin’ me,” she groaned, though her hand reached out to curl around your waist, pulling you closer. “Lemme sleep.”

“You’re already awake,” you pointed out, though you didn’t resist when she tucked you against her chest. Her body was warm, her heartbeat a steady rhythm under your cheek.

“Not awake,” she mumbled. “Just resting my eyes.”

You ran your fingers up and down her arm, tracing the scarred skin there. “Your snoring says otherwise.”

Vi groaned again, this time more dramatically. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t,” you said softly, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. “I like you like this. All soft and sleepy and human.”

“Not soft,” she muttered, though her grip on you tightened. “I’m tough. Real tough.”

“Sure, babe,” you said, hiding your smile against her skin. “Super tough.”

Her only response was a low, contented hum as she drifted back into a half-sleep. You stayed like that, counting her freckles in your head and savoring the rare moment of peace. The world could wait a little while longer. For now, it was just you and her, tangled together in the soft light of morning.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: I know this is extremely short but I found it in my notes and thought I should post it (just a cute one shot).

You don't need anyone's approval for the stories you write and the art you create. But it's also absolutely valid to want some approval from your audience. Kudos and likes don't determine your creation's worth. But it just feels amazing to receive them.

sugar, sugar | v.a

summary: a week after isha’s birthday party, you tell vi it’s time to take the night on to make some blueberry cinnamon rolls. the two of you open up to one another in the midst of your baking session; your feelings for her somehow festering even more but maybe those feelings aren’t as one sided as you believe.

pairing: fem!reader x vi arcane

contains: modern!au, mila & jinx side-plot (that’s barely touched on), awkward and adorable tension, pining, fluff, talks of parental deaths on vi and reader’s end, possible incorrect depictions of baking (i love baking but im not an expert </3)

word count: 4.5K

a/n: i think i got one more part for you guys and i can’t wait for it :) i love love all of the overwhelming support for this little series; i cannot express it enough!! the reblogs & comments really help me keep going. i hope you guys enjoy this part!!

— THREE

“What are you doing?”

You hear from behind you as you were frantically wiping down the stone top island in the kitchen, making sure it was squeaky clean for Vi’s arrival.

After attending Isha’s birthday party, another week had flown by before you were able to have everything prepared. Okay, you had most of the materials at home already.

You felt you needed to mentally prepare to have Vi here in your childhood home; a place you go to for comfort at the end of a restless day. You had sent her messages with your address and what time she should make her way over to yours.

You hold back the eye-roll threatening your eyes at Mila’s judgemental tone. You were as ready as you could be, wearing a simple pair of striped sleeping pants and a dark gray sweatshirt that hung slightly off your shoulder with a back tank underneath. You were home so you wanted to be cozy yet cute. Your hair was up in a simple ponytail, a few flyaways escaping from your vigorous cleaning.

“Cleaning. What does it look like I’m doing?” You sarcastically respond to your sister, sucking in a deep breath as you move to another spot.

“I can see that but I mean, why are you scrubbing so damn hard? You’re going to carve the stone, dude.”

You close your eyes as you try not to snap at your sister. Your grandma had given you the day off so that you could spend as much time with Vi as you could. Even after insisting to her that it wasn’t necessary, she made sure you weren’t on the schedule and to not leave the house unless it was with Vi.

‘I need a daughter-in-law,’ were her words as she left the house to go to the bakery. She was very hopeful for you.

“I’m… a little anxious, okay?” You admit, ready to hear your sisters mocking.

She snorts at your words as she rounds the island to look at you. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Okay can you keep that to yourself, please? I-I don’t need this right now,” you wipe back some of the flyaways as you put the rag in the sink.

You wash your hands in silence, hearing your sister shifting behind you.

“Look, what I was going to say was that you are going to be fine. Clearly, she already likes you or else she wouldn’t have agreed to come over to help you,” Mila quietly tells you, tilting her head to try and find your eyes. “I know this doesn’t happen often for you but I don’t want you to screw it up.”

You take that in, ignoring the dig at your antisocial skills and lack of dating experience. You knew this was your sister's way of trying to comfort your scattered mind.

“Thanks… I think,” you squint your eyes at her, drying off your hands.

You hear your phone ding on the countertop, leaning over to check to see who it was. To your demise, it was Vi telling you that she had arrived at your house. You mutter a curse as you turn to your sister getting ready to tell her to go somewhere that wasn’t here. You hadn’t even heard the car rolling up the dirt driveway.

“You’re welcome. Now, I’ll be doing you a favor and leaving so you can have the house to yourselves.”

Your brows furrow at her words, questioning your sister’s whereabouts.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Mila grins at you before shrugging one of her shoulders, seeming sheepish. “Hanging out with a friend. I’ll see you. Have fun with Violet.”

She drags out Vi’s full name to tease you as she throws her brown suede purse over her shoulder. You practically shove her out of the house as you peek out the window once she shuts the front door. You knew your sister didn’t have a car, and she was not using yours, so you wanted to see who the hell was picking her up. Your eyes squint to see a streak of light blue hair in the driver’s seat and Vi walking up to your front door.

Vi passes your sister and gives her a slight nod and wave, telling her something that you couldn’t quite hear due to the fact that she was outside still. It took you way too long to realize that the head in the driver's seat was Jinx. Mila and Jinx were friends? And she just forgot to tell you?

Absolutely shocked by this news, you tug open your front to reveal Vi with her hand raising to knock but eyes widening at your confused expression as you look behind her at the car reversing and leaving the dirt driveway.

“Hey, uh,” Vi shoved her hands into the pockets of her zip-up, tilting her head at you, “is everything okay?”

You blink as your attention switches to Vi’s awaiting expression. You shake your head, an embarrassed chuckle leaving your lips.

“I’m sorry. Hi, Vi,” you grin at her before opening the door wider for her to step in.

“You’re okay. It’s Jinx and Mila, right?” Vi questions, an amused smile forms on her lips.

You nod slowly as you allow her to step further in, asking her to take off her shoes before nodding with a shocked expression as you shut the door and lock it.

“Yeah. They’re… friends?” You press, wanting to know your sister's business.

Vi pries off her shoes near the door and places them next to the small line-up of you, your sisters and your grandmother’s shoes.

“Yeah, I guess Jinx went to the bakery on her own and your sister was there and they started talking after that,” she breathed out a laugh.

“That’s crazy. I love my sister but she is cranky as hell at work,” you chuckle.

Vi shrugs her shoulders, her laughter fading to a small grin. Vi’s bright eyes dart around the interior of your grandmother's home, curiously examining every inch of the house you grew up in. You linger behind her as you try to compose yourself over the fact that she was here. You fiddle with your rings in an attempt to ease your bouncing mind.

“It’s so… cozy here,” she voices her thoughts as she smiles at a photo of you, your sister and your grandma when you were younger that was sitting on a shelf underneath the living room TV.

Her light gray zip up was slightly falling off her shoulders to reveal the inch strap of her black wife pleaser underneath. The sight distracts you for a moment before you cringe at your younger portrait but Vi merely admires how much you’ve grown yet somehow look the same.

Beautiful, nonetheless.

“Everyone says that when they come over. My grandpa actually helped build this place with his friends when they were younger. He really loved my grandma.” You explain softly, looking at the back of Vi’s head.

Vi turned her head to look at you, nodding as she glanced around the room wondering how long it must’ve taken to do this.

“It’s really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you accept the compliment on your grandmother and grandfather's behalf. “Oh, and I did make the dough last night because it needs to rise overnight so it can be all light and fluffy.”

Vi slowly nods at your words, furrowing her brows as she motioned towards the kitchen area that was adjacent to the living room.

“So what more do we have to do other than, you know, assembling them?” Vi questions as she waits for your response.

You hold your hands behind your back as you tilt your head towards the fridge, an eager smile spreading onto your face.

“Do you want to listen to music while we bake?” You question.

Vi’s eyes flicker to your elated gaze and she can’t help but smile at your question. When you look at her like that, she thinks she would do anything for you. She watches your movements as you scurry over to a side table that was next to the living room couch to undo the clasp of a vinyl player that was disguised as a leather brown suitcase.

You kneel down to tug out a crate that held around 50 records, humming to yourself as you pick up a record that satisfied you. Vi couldn’t see from where she was standing but was hesitant to move forward. You carefully remove the vinyl from its paper shell to place on the spindle, moving the tonearm to rest it on the song of your desire.

“This is just a bunch of different blues and R&B songs,” you inform Vi, your back still turned to her. “I thought it was fitting.”

Vi nods in understanding even though you weren’t able to see her. You stand back up to your feet once adjusting the volume, walking back over to Vi’s awaiting figure. You take her hand in yours and motion for her to follow you into the kitchen.

“Is this going to be messy?” Vi asks, distracting herself from how much she loved feeling your hand in hers.

“Mmm, I would be lying if I said no so you either roll up your sleeves or take off your jacket so you don’t get it covered in anything,” you suggest as you release her hand to tug open the fridge to retrieve what you needed for the filling.

Vi, to your wonderful surprise, zips down her jacket and lets the cotton roll over her toned shoulders. You stand frozen near the fridge for a moment at the sight of her back nearly covered in ink. You had to thank whatever or whoever sent her to your grandma’s shop because how the hell is she real?

Standing here in your kitchen looking like that?

Vi sets her jacket aside on one of the chairs that was pulled up to the island, her hands finding their place on her hips as she awaits further instruction.

“Okay so, what you’re going to do is sprinkle a bit of flour onto the island. Just all over it,” you motion to the bag of flour and use one of your to make a spreading motion to the lengthy surface.

Vi nods in understanding at your instruction, clearing her throat as she reaches carefully into the paper bag to grab a good handful as does exactly as instructed. You hold back your glee as you watch her lean over a bit to even out the flour. She glances at you through her peripheral to make sure you seemed satisfied with how that looks.

“How’s it look?” She hums, dusting off her hands over the spread.

“Perfect. Now, take the dough and just give it a few kneads to press out the air bubbles.” You point to the metal bowl full of dough, stepping to the side to move out of her way.

Following your words once again, Vi takes the malleable tan dough into her palms to plop it down onto the surface. You turn your head to cough at the gust of powdery air that blew upwards. She, too, waves a hand in front of her face to brush the puff away from her nostrils.

When Vi had said you only wanted her there so she could do all the kneading, you didn’t expect to actually be gawking over her doing it. She digs her palms and fingers into the dough, leaning her chest forward to press it into the flour. Her triceps tightened at the motion, readjusting the blob to spread the flour evenly throughout. You swore you heard a grunt of struggle leave her lips as the dough was a bit thicker than she was expecting.

You raise a hand to your mouth to push back the infatuated smile that was tickling your lips, just watching her knead the dough.

“Is this good?” Vi asks through another press into the surface, another light grunt leaving her mouth.

“Yeah,” you say without thinking, lost in your lust-driven daze.

Vi looks up at you from her kneading as she stops with her hands still buried into the dough, no longer sticking to it as it was covered in flour. You dart your gaze away from her as you shake your head, chuckling and muttering ‘right’ to yourself.

“I’ll get the, uh, rolling pin so you can flatten it out.”

You suck in a deep breath as you turn your back to her, shutting your eyes as you internally scold yourself to pull it together. Had she noticed your lingering almost creepy stare at her arms?

If she did, she hid it very well.

“Do I need to wash my hands?” Vi questions from behind your back as you kneel down to retrieve the rolling pin from the cabinet.

“No, not yet. After rolling them, you can. I’ll put the filling and roll them if you want,” you offer from over your shoulder as you grab the wooden object.

“Okay. You’re the boss,” Vi chuckles.

You stand back up on your feet, blinking harshly from the sudden rush to your head. Change the subject, you begged internally as you handed her the rolling pin. As you flicker on the stove and try to think of something else to talk about, you can hear Vi humming along to the song currently playing as she rolled the dough as instructed.

You smile to yourself as you begin to make the filling as quickly as possible.

“You know this song?” You question the red-haired woman, turning to her slightly as you watch the filling simmer in the small pot.

Vi seems to be caught off guard at the fact that you could hear her humming to herself along with the song's lyrics, pausing her movements for a second.

“Uh, yeah,” she clears her throat as she takes one glance at you before looking away flustered. “My… mom would sing it all the time. She was obsessed with it.”

“You know, you’ve never talked about your mom,” you state carefully. “Not that you have to. It just hit me.”

Vi shook her head, muttering a ‘no, it’s okay.’

“I guess I never really had a reason to but I don’t mind,” she reassures you to glance at you once again with a small smile.

You send her one back as you stir the filling slowly, watching the ingredients dissolve over the heat.

“What was she like?” You question.

“She was… loving. She, uh, passed when I was 11 and Jinx was 6. She gave us home hair cuts that were just so terrible,” Vi shook her head with a chuckle as she recollected on her childhood. “I mean, seriously. I mean, it looked like we had cut them ourselves but my dad claimed that we loved the look. I think it was because it was the fact that it was her cutting our hair instead of some stranger.”

You can’t help but smile at her words. Her voice had softened the second she had brought up her mom, signaling to you that her mom was a gentle soul. You could feel how much that transpired within Vi.

“Were her and your dad together for a while before they had you and Jinx?” You hum.

“They were never together. They were actually friends but my mom got knocked up by some random guy twice that they never knew about and my dad kind of took that position of being, well, a dad.”

Vi explains as she sucks in a deep breath, seeming as though she was composing herself. You furrow your brows as you are afraid that you’ve pushed it too far with the questions.

“Well, when did Isha come in?” You ask in hopes to distract her.

This Vi freezes at, releasing the rolling pin to turn to you with a soft sigh.

“She came out of nowhere. My dad told us one day coming home from school that someone had left a baby on our doorstep. We thought that kind of stuff only happened in the movies so we thought it was a joke,” she leaned her back up against the counter top, folding her muscular arms across her chest. “But then we came into the living room and there she was wrapped up in a little blanket in a bassinet. Jinx was more excited than I was because she got her own little sister.”

“You have a very loving family. It’s obvious, honestly. I can tell you have a good heart, Vi,” you tilt your head to make eye contact with her to show the sincerity behind your words.

Vi’s eyes hold contact with your own, pupils dilating to the point where the blue of her eyes was a mere ring. She exhales a soft breath as she just stares at you.

“What about your parents? Are they…?” Vi blinks and reroutes the attention to you now.

“Uh, no. My mom and dad died when I was 6 or 7 and Mila was just 1. They weren’t the best parents from what my grandma has told me. They tried but they were… angry and overworked,” you shook your head as you turn down the heat on the stove lower before looking at Vi with a shrug to your shoulders. “I guess they thought having kids would bring them closer but it only seemed to push them further apart. They had dropped Mila and I here one day and just never came back. My grandparents found out a week later that they had gotten into a car accident and died on the way to the hospital.”

You wince to yourself at the silence that had fallen over the two of you. The soft crackle of the record switching songs and the soft bubbling of the blueberry filling in the pot were the only sounds in the house.

“But I’m okay. My grandparents raised me and my sister and I can guarantee it was the better choice,” you attempt to make a joke but Vi simply looks at you with a genuine expression.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry too.”

You clear your throat, a strained chuckle leaving your lips as you clasp your hands together.

“Sorry, the filling’s ready. I didn’t mean to get all– Well, to bring that subject up.”

Vi shakes her head to reassure your frantic mind, reaching for your hand. You allow her to do so, heart leaping into your throat when her thumb wipes over the back of your hand.

“I said it was okay. I meant that,” she persists.

You look at her with a hesitant expression, opening your mouth about to apologize but she gives you a pointed look as if she was testing you to try it.

“Okay, okay, let’s roll these.”

Vi seems content with that and releases your hand to let you bring over the pot to the counter of rolled out dough. You ignore the bothersome want to grab her hand right back as carry it over and rest it on a crocheted pot holder so it wouldn’t burn the surface. You two stay in a comfortable silence as you take a wooden baking spoon to scoop it and carefully spread the blueberry-cinnamon filling across the flat dough. Once everything was properly rolled up and placed onto the baking sheet, you popped it in the oven for its designated time period.

About 20 minutes passed of sharing soft words to one another in the kitchen, the timer on your phone went off. With the rolls fresh out of the oven, you started to make the cream cheese frosting to wrap it all together. You could see Vi lingering over the delectable smelling pastries out of the corner of your eye, seeming to be examining them.

“You really do have a knack for this, cupcake. These look incredible,” Vi praises you as you plop the ingredients into the bowl.

You tuck a flyway piece of hair behind your ear as you bashfully smile in her direction.

“Well, you did all the kneading. They wouldn’t been made without your help,” you switch it around to the pink-haired girl.

“I knew you were staring,” she teased as she took a few steps forward so her shoulders were a few inches apart from your own.

The close proximity made your stomach flip but you simply continued to whisk in the bowl. You gradually add the milk, careful not to add too much or else it wouldn’t be thick enough.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie through your teeth. “I was making sure your technique was good. I’m the baker here.”

“If you say so,” Vi held her palms up in defense, that annoyingly attractive grin on her face.

You shake your head before vigorously whisking the frosting, watching it turn into the perfect texture. You sigh as you dip your finger into soft white glaze and hold it up to Vi’s mouth, wiping it on her bottom lip without thinking.

Your eyes widen as you realize what you’ve done, watching Vi’s eyes match yours. She licks her lips to taste the frosting regardless, raising her fingers to her lips when yours just was.

“I’m so sorry. I—When I bake at home with my grandma or my sister, we usually just do, well, that because we’re the only ones eating it,” you cover your mouth with both of your palms, shaking your head. “I’m sor-I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” Vi raises her hand to wave you off, a weird chuckle leaving her lips. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

You sigh, the embarrassment still clinging to your skin as you replayed in your mind how easily you did that.

“It’s good, though,” Vi adds through the silence.

You can’t help but let out an amused laugh at the way she immediately tries to assure you that what you did was in fact very normal. You knew it wasn’t… by any means but she attempts to make you feel better regardless.

“What?” Vi asks through her own soft laughter.

You shake your head as you motion to the fresh cinnamon rolls.

“Can we frost these, please? I’m trying to save myself from embarrassment.”

Vi simply grins at you as she reaches two fingers into the glaze to gather a bit on her pointer and middle before sticking it in her mouth. You stare at her, unable to utter a word. What the hell is wrong with her?

“See? It’s good.”

Instead of humiliating yourself further, you shove her back with one arm as you scold: “Did you even wash your hands?”

“I did, actually.”

“Then get to it,” you point to the cinnamon rolls and hand her a spatula.

Vi glances down at the bowl of frosting and the wooden spatula with a soft blue rubber before taking it from her hands to do as you had asked. You watch her step around you to take a good scoop of the glaze to spread it over the warm treats. You spoke quietly to one another, asking her random questions to pick at her mind a bit more; to get to know her better.

“You think you could teach me how to kick box?” You question as you are now sitting in your living room.

Two small ceramic plates that were in the style of pool balls on the coffee table in front of you; Vi’s being the 6 green ball and yours being the 8. Cinnamon rolls sat on either one; yours being less eaten than Vi’s. She had mere crumbs left as she nodded into her last bite.

“Oh yeah. You can let me know and I’ll clear out some space for you.” Vi grins as she licks her lips to be rid of the cinnamon from her lips.

“I will definitely,” you chuckle as you take another bite.

“Hey, uh, speaking of that, I have this kickboxing tournament coming up in a few days. I… want you to be there,” Vi looks at you with an awaiting expression; hope glimmering over her eyes.

Your eyes meet hers as you chew your food, a hand hovering over your mouth so you don’t drop crumbs. I want you to be there, her voice rang through your mind.

“You’ll be competing?” You wonder.

“Yeah and a few of my older students,” she confirms.

You’d be an idiot to say no. A stupidly giddy smile spreads onto your face as you set the last quarter of your cinnamon roll back on the plate.

“I’d love to be there. I’ll cheer you on from a distance.”

Vi tilts her head from next to you, bumping her shoulder with yours.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll embarrass you with a huge sign that says ‘Go Vi’ in rainbow glitter,” you lean closer to her face as you tease her.

Vi eyes flicker down to your lips for a split-second as you lean in. You notice the action but brush it off as the closer proximity.

“You’ll be my cheerleader?” She questions, a smirk forming.

“Always,” you whisper, sucking in a deep breath as you shift yourself so that your body is facing hers.

Your answer sends a shiver down Vi’s spine, her heart leaping into her throat. She lifts her hand to take one of yours before she opens her mouth to say something. A loud knock fills the house causing the both of you to jump.

You mutter a curse to yourself as you excuse yourself to Vi to walk over to the door to unlock it to see your sister and Jinx standing on the welcome mat. They both held cheeky, suspicious grins.

“Hey guys,” you furrow your brows at the two. “Back so early?”

“Early? It’s been three hours,” Mila states with raised brows, stepping into the house.

Vi must’ve heard Mila’s voice and appeared behind you at the door, cursing to herself as she did not realize how much time had passed. She checked her own phone before looking at her sister.

“Shit, I gotta go. I promised I would take Isha to the park before it gets too dark,” Vi runs to grab her zip-up, sadly shielding her toned arms once again. When she walks back over to you, Mila and Jinx, she wraps her arms around you to give you a warm hug. “I’ll text you all the details, I promise. Thank you for letting me come over. I had a good time.”

You hold onto her tightly, discreetly inhaling the cinnamon-blueberry scent that was clinging to her skin.

“Yeah, me too. Let me know everything, Vi,” you pull away to see your sister and Jinx giving each other weird looks.

Okay, their friendship was going to drive you up the wall.

“See you, cupcake. Bye, Mila,” Vi grins at you and waves at your sister.

“Bye, Vi. Bye Jinx. Text me!” Mila calls after Jinx as they both walk away to the running car.

Jinx turns her head to send your sister a knowing smile, calling back: “I will, Mils!”

You and your sister watch the two open their designated sides of the car, leaning against the door with a long sigh.

“God, could you act like you’re not in love with her?” Mila teases before walking over to the kitchen to probably devour the pastries you had baked.

You shake your head to yourself as you think that no, you really can’t.

previous part -> next part

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𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: requested by a very dear reader on wattpad :)

summary: based on the song by justin timberlake; SHIELD agent!reader, iron man 2!nat because i rewatched it recently and goddamn 🤤

warnings: smut (fingering, n receiving), blood, descriptions of injuries

word count: 11.5k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Practiced hands adjust seams and smooth over her arms. The fabric doesn't bunch, which is good — it wouldn't be practical during a fight. You tighten the straps around her thighs, making sure they're snug and secure, and then look up.

Natasha smiles at you and cups your jaw. Her thumb brushes along your bottom lip.

"Taking your time?"

"More like stalling."

It's dark in your lab. Machines whir, scanners beep occasionally. You're crouched in front of her, fitting and prepping her suit pre-mission. You've done this dozens of times. It's how everything started between you and her.

Back then, you couldn't believe your luck (you still can't), because who would've thought that being her weapons specialist would lead to what you have now? In hindsight, however, it makes sense.

It's intimate. It's quiet. It builds trust. You know her better than most people around here, which is a privilege. You know her favorite types of knives, how she likes her suit fitted, what exactly she needs to be able to perform at her best.

And then, afterwards, you go home. Other things matter, like her favorite candy (sour patch kids) or the show she's currently watching.

You adjust the suit around her waist, fingers skimming her hips. You secure a few holsters, attach some knives, and then straighten up. You feel her lips against yours before you can even look at her again.

Deep, firm, slow. Savoring it. You cup her face before slowly moving your hands into her hair. The curls are soft between your fingers.

She pulls away, but you can still taste her breath. Her lips curve into a sweet little smirk.

"Stalling, huh?", she mumbles, glancing at your lips. You lick them and taste the lip balm she loves so much.

"Yeah. They take a while. Missions, I mean."

"I'll be back before you know it."

Your hands trail down her sides again. You absently adjust her knives.

"Not soon enough", you say, pecking her lips. "Who's joining you this time?"

Natasha tilts her head. "I'm not telling you."

You frown. Truthfully, it might be for the better that you don't know. Depending on who it is, the answer might end up making you waltz up to said person and show her off just to make a point.

Mine. Seriously. Look, don't touch. Actually, don't even look.

She smiles and steps away. You quickly snake your arm around her waist and tug her back into you.

"I want an answer", you insist. Her hands splay out on your chest, toying with the zipper of your SHIELD vest. "For safety."

"Remember that lie detector test you took?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What's your point?"

She grasps your bottom lip. "No wonder you failed. You're miserable at it."

"Not necessarily a bad thing."

"Never said that's the case."

She steps away and gathers her stuff — her favorite gun, her backpack, her Widow's Bites that she puts on. You stand there, watching her, arms crossed and mind running in circles.

Hopefully, she's not going with Valerie. What they had was barely a relationship, but the entire organization knows that she's still pining for Natasha.

Or Ward. Nothing happened between them, to be fair, but you heard him call her 'eye candy' once.

Was he wrong? No. Did you mess with his suit anyway, just so it'd smell like something had rotted in it? Possibly.

"Be careful", you mutter, still slightly disgruntled.

"Always am." She shoulders her backpack. "Hands off Ward's stuff."

Your head snaps upward. "What? I didn't-"

"Lie detector test, honey."

You grunt, rubbing the back of your neck. Natasha puts her foot up on a chair to adjust the strap around her thigh. You catch yourself staring.

Behind you, something starts beeping rapidly. You quickly walk back to your and curse quietly. One of the new high tech gadgets you've been tinkering with has started sparking.

Natasha glances at you, trying not to smile. "New?"

"Of course", you mutter, trying to find what the issue is this time. You reach for the pliers and cut one of the wires. "Goddammit."

"Don't burn yourself."

You sigh and put the gadget aside. How unfortunate — you've been putting a lot of time and energy into this little project. It's a small gadget, merely the size of your palm, but its impact would've been huge. It's multifunctional, designed to help agents hack into databases, unlock different kinds of locks, even scan rooms for traps.

Of course, you mainly had Natasha in mind when designing it. She's complained about similar issues a couple times in the past, and the idea struck you when you were lying in bed together.

Whatever. Looks like you'll have to keep working. In the end, it doesn't matter whether you put ten weeks or ten months into it — as long as it'll end up making her life safer and easier.

"You're nerding out again", Natasha says, suddenly behind you, and presses a kiss to your exposed neck. Your cheeks flare up. "I'm leaving."

"A goodbye, maybe?", you say, turning to face her halfway. She pauses, then cups your jaw with one hand and puts the other on the small of your back.

She's not used to this yet. This having-someone-to-say-goodbye-to, tender thing. Having someone who wants that goodbye, and the obligatory kiss that follows. Someone who'll wait in the hangar when she returns. Someone who'll check up on her.

How couldn't you, though? The reason why you're doing it is standing right in front of you. You'd be an idiot not to care like this.

"Don't go all sentimental on me", she mumbles, finally kissing you.

It's softer this time, lingering even after she's already parted from you. You walk her to the jet, where the pilot is waiting already. Another kiss, a bit quicker, then she turns around. You watch her leave, red curls bouncing slightly as she climbs into the jet.

. . .

SHIELD's hallways are never quiet, never silent, never empty. There's always someone wandering about — whether it be security or agents getting from one place to another.

It's not different tonight. You're walking through hallways, boots thudding against concrete floors and your hands tucked into your vest. Comparing you to a dog would be stupid, but you're not too unlike Hachi in that moment.

You round a corner, greet a fellow agent and check the time. 2.40am, so Natasha should be arriving in about ten minutes. You run your hand through your hair and step into the hangar, where Fury is waiting already.

You give him a quick side eye. "Another one of those?"

"Immediate debriefing. Not much time, Y/L/N." He raises his eyebrows. "What're you up for this early?"

"Nat", you say evasively. "I always wait for her."

He nods. It's not that your private relationship isn't known around here. You've been seen kissing, sneaking into each other's workspaces, flirting over lunch and leaving together a bunch of times. But Fury always seems to assume that it just isn't that serious. That it can't be that serious.

You know what he bases that assumption on. It's not fair, or right, but you can't change the mind of a man who's as stubborn as a mule.

He'll always see Natasha as the person he was first introduced to. The girl from the Red Room, who wouldn't let anyone get too close to her. The one with the trauma, the one who built walls too high to climb and too thick to take down.

It's bullshit. You know it is because you've seen the proof. You've held it in your hands, you've seen it in a way no one else is allowed to. Which is exactly why you won't tell him about it, though. There are different ways in which you can protect someone.

You hear the spinning of engine blades, still muffled but slowly increasing in decibel level. As the jet nears the hangar, the sound gets less and less bearable. If it were only slightly louder, it'd cause you pain.

You walk down the stairs as soon as the jet has touched down. The moment Natasha steps out, though, your stomach turns.

Valerie, in all her glory. Straight black hair, a little nose piercing, her hand resting on your girlfriend's lower back and steadying her. She mumbles something and laughs before Natasha can even react properly.

In that moment, you're glad you left your taser in your office. Giving her a quick little shock probably wouldn't sit too well with Fury, and you're pretty sure Natasha wouldn't love it, either.

Thankfully, she spots you before you can say anything stupid. She's next to you in the blink of an eye, smiling softly, secretively, and squeezing your hand. She doesn't dare do much else, but that's fine. Just like that, Hachi is back home.

You wrap your arms around her and kiss the top of her head. Her head rests against your chest, if only briefly.

"How was it?", you mumble, ignoring the fact that the Director is trying to talk to the woman wrapped up in you. She tips her face up, letting your lips brush against her nose.

"Exhausting and painful", she replies, voice soft.

"No Ward?"

"Careful there."

"Can't blame me for asking." You glance in Valerie's direction pointedly. Natasha pinches your side. "What's she doing here?"

Natasha sighs and kisses your cheek. A rare moment of PDA meant to calm you down, but it ends up having the opposite effect. Valerie gives you a look that's entirely too long. You frown and turn back to Natasha again, your arms tightening around her.

Your little moment gets disrupted by none other than Fury. He pats your back with a little too much force, so you let out a long-suffering exhale and let go of her. Right, the debriefing. Another hour spent here, waiting.

You trail through the hallways, following Natasha like a guard dog. The debriefing room is familiar, with its black leather swivel chairs and long table. A fancy high tech screen hanging on the wall, a projector, the shutters closed so that not a single photon can escape.

You sit next to her. Obviously. She raises her eyebrows at you, but truthfully, she should be glad you didn't just say 'screw it' and pull you into her lap.

Fury stares at you like you just shapeshifted into an actual dog. You weren't part of the mission. All you did was prep her gear and fit her suit. You don't belong here. Yet you waltzed in like you do, and no one seems to be complaining.

Grinning faintly, you put your legs up on the table and cross your arms behind your head. You nod lazily.

"Feel free to start, Sir."

Another stare. A sigh, long and loud. He rubs his forehead and finally turns on the projector. A bunch of mission jargon, accompanied by a map and a few pictures, appear on the screen.

An hour turns into two. You leave the debrief room with your arm around her shoulders. You're tired, but she's drained. You know she'd never admit to it — you know she tends to push herself no matter what; even on the brink of death, she'd keep fighting — but you can see the signs.

The blinking, slightly more frequent. The redness in her eyes. The way her voice softens into a mumble.

She barely says anything on the way home. But as soon as you've entered her apartment, she pulls you into the bedroom with her. You're the one who fitted her suit, who made sure it's like a second layer of skin on her. You know every strap and zipper, and you undo them all blindly.

Your vest is shrugged off. It lands on the floor. Boots are toed off and kicked aside. Bodies fall onto the mattress together.

Right as you're kissing down her neck, hands wandering over her body, you feel something that shouldn't be there. A bandage, around her thigh, with dried blood on it.

First, you stare. Then, Natasha puts her fingers under your chin and tips your head up.

"You know what I think about you doing that."

You almost grimace. She hates it when people stare at her wounds and scars. It's not just a pet peeve — it's a deeply rooted insecurity. It's only a small part of what she tends to cover.

In that moment, though, you don't care. Because you know what Valerie was for on this mission. She was there to watch Natasha's back, to make sure she wouldn't get hurt.

"She failed", you say, sitting up. Natasha sighs and rests her upper body on her forearms. "She had one job-"

"And she made a mistake."

"One that could've killed you!"

"Do you really think I'm that easy to kill? Trust me, she's helpful, but she's not the reason the mission was successful."

You snort derisively. Not because of her, but because she thinks she has to remind you. Of course you know all of this. There's a reason as to why Natasha is so feared, why Fury values her so much. But you're looking for things that'll help you win this argument.

It's not really an argument. You're just pissed at her ex.

"I'm aware", you say, fingers brushing against the bandage again. "Still, you know...what's the point of her joining if you end up getting shot at, anyway?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, silently challenging you. Do you really want to hear this?

"Oh, come on."

"You're ridiculous."

"Okay, maybe I am", you concede. "You're still the one with a bullet wound, though."

She flops backwards onto the mattress. You sigh and crawl on top of her, hands braced next to her head, and kiss her.

She grasps the front of your top, lips pressing against yours firmly, essentially shutting you up.

Well, it shuts you up for exactly five hours. The second you're back at the headquarters in the morning, you drop Natasha off and then make your way to the gym. Boots thud, your steps heavy and determined.

You push open the door with such force that it slams against the wall, but Valerie doesn't bat an eye. She's on the treadmill, warming up, her hair in a sleek ponytail and her clothes tight. There's a band around her wrist that measures her vitals.

She barely glances at you. You stomp to her side and tug the earphones out of her ears. Another glance, slightly annoyed.

"What?”

"What do you mean, 'what'? You're the reason my girlfriend has to take antibiotics!"

She stops the treadmill and leans on one of the handrails. You'd love to wipe that look off her face — smug, unimpressed, almost daring. You used to be naive. You used to believe that no one could be that petty. Natasha's ex managed to prove you wrong.

"She's fine", she says, sounding like she's explaining the concept of love to a toddler. You clench your jaw. "She's not even in med bay. They sent her home."

"'Fine'? She got shot at! You were there to prevent it, and what did you do?"

"I tried", she replies curtly. She straightens back up and turns the treadmill on again, but you slam your fist on the stop-button. "What's with you and those anger issues?"

"You tried? You don't go there to try! You go there to do your fucking job!"

Valerie raises her eyebrows at you. You've never been nice to her, no, but you've never snapped at her like this. Truthfully, she thinks it's ridiculous. It makes her wonder why Natasha bothers being with you, but that's a thought she's not going to voice unless she has to.

"She's alive", she says, leaning back against the other handrail this time. Her arms cross in front of her chest.

"Oh, and that's enough? It's the bare minimum! I need to be able to trust you that you'll protect her!"

"No, you don't", she says. "Nat trusts me, and that's enough."

You almost flip the treadmill she's on, but that'd be overkill, so you lean over the handrail and grip it tightly.

"Not enough, apparently. Otherwise-"

"Agent Y/L/N."

You turn around, blinking. As soon as you see Fury's face, you almost roll your eyes. Of course. Who else would it be but the man who could fire you.

You put some space between you and Valerie to make it seem like you weren't about to chew her out.

"Yes, Director?", you ask, trying your best to seem normal.

"Romanoff's asking for you."

Maybe you should be embarrassed that those few words are enough to make you perk up, but honestly, you don't care. She's asking for you, not Valerie. When she needs to talk, she talks to you. You're jealous, and that's fine, but deep down you know there's no reason to be.

You shoot Valerie a pointed glance, then leave the gym.

. . .

"You're insane", she says, combing her fingers through your hair.

You're in the rec room, which is only empty because almost everyone is at lunch. Natasha, on the other hand, received a sweet little text that made her tug you away from the cafeteria.

She's straddling your lap, hands all over you. In the sweatpants and tank top she's wearing, you can barely focus. Too bad there are security cameras all over this place. The storage room falls flat as well. 'Too dirty', she said. 'So much dust.'

Though, if you hook up at work once, it might affect your performance for the rest of your career.

"She had it coming", you say stubbornly. Natasha raises her eyebrows. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what, exactly?"

You shift under her. She clicks her tongue and cups your face. "May as well tell me."

If only it were that easy. You doubt she hasn't noticed how Valerie stares at her, how she still seeks her out, how she wants what's clearly taken. You don't have ownership over her — obviously not, god forbid — but you're selfish. You know you are. If you could keep her to yourself, you would.

"The point is-"

"The point is you're overthinking this", she cuts you off. "Val and I are on good terms..."

(The nickname makes you fume. You bite your tongue.)

"...and I don't need to end up in a spat with a coworker." She pushes her finger into your chest. "And neither do you."

No reply. You stare at her, tongue between your teeth, a million unsaid things on your tongue. You're not sure if she hasn't realized or if she simply doesn't care, but you do have your reasons. Valerie is annoying, and she's petty, and she hovers around Natasha like she has any right to do so.

You don't like this feeling, either — this all-consuming jealousy. It's not something you're used to. But something about that woman just drives you up the wall.

"Fine", you mutter. "Fine, I'll let it go."

"You better."

"I still don't like her."

"Fair. I guess."

Natasha pecks your lips and scoots off your lap. You watch her grab the coffee pot and pour a generous amount. Sugar, no milk. Back to work it is.

You pick her up once you're both done with your shifts. Arm wrapped around her shoulders, you make sure to walk past Valerie's desk on your way out. She doesn't look at you, but her typing on the keyboard speeds up.

"Ha", you mumble.

"What was that?"

You shake your head and kiss her ear. She squirms at the feeling.

"Doesn't matter. I'm happy now, angel."

. . .

"Whose idea was this?"

"Hill", Natasha says, reapplying lipstick. You're in the elevator that leads to the building's top floor, but you're not here for work. It's Fury's birthday, and apparently Maria Hill decided that the grumpy old man deserves a proper celebration.

You're leaning against the wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of your slacks, an absentminded look in your eyes. A gift is tucked under your arm, your shirt is open at the top, but it's not your reflection that's got you this distracted. It's Natasha, looking at herself in the mirror and gently blotting her lips. Hair freshly curled and dress hugging all her curves, she looks unfairly sinful for an office celebration.

"Doubt he even wants a party", you mumble, eyes trailing lower. You exhale quietly. "That dress is a blessing, you know."

"So dramatic", she says, smiling faintly. "I'm not complaining. I want to see him get drunk. Think that’ll change his grumpy attitude?"

You hum. The elevator dings and comes to a stop, so Natasha links her arm around yours. You step into the hallway, her heels clicking with every step. You can already hear the music and feel the bass thump.

“Nothing could change it”, you say, eyes on her. She tilts her head. “A real Fury the Grouch.”

“Sesame Street?”

“I babysat my niece while you were gone. Don’t ask.”

Natasha laughs, the sound soft and raspy and genuine. She tugs you into an empty corner, hands finding the collar of your shirt, and brings her lips up to yours.

“Good thing you’re not a grouch. And even better that I know exactly how to turn a grumpy you back into a happy you.”

“It’s quite easy”, you affirm. Your hands slide to the curve of her back, keeping her close. “It involves you and the disposal of a dress.”

“Charmer”, she whispers.

Cheeks reddened, you smile. You lean in, slowly, and steal that kiss you’ve been waiting for since you stepped out of your apartment.

She tastes like mint and something entirely hers. Her fingers grasp your collar tightly, her skin is warm under your palms. She nods her head to deepen the kiss, one hand finding the back of your neck.

“Romanoff, Y/L/N! You really have no shame, do you?”

You pull away with a quiet groan and shoot a glare at the offender. Of course it’s Ward, because who else would it be but SHIELD’s most annoying agent.

Natasha doesn't even glance at him. She just smiles at the sight of your mouth, smudged with her lipstick, and swipes her thumb across your lips.

"Not your color", she says thoughtfully.

"Agreed", Ward says, putting a tray of horsd'œuvres down next to you. “You guys hungry? Probably not, since you’re eating each other’s faces. The salmon’s good, though.”

“Can you creep someone else out?”, you mutter.

Natasha smiles at you, which is enough to soften your attitude a little. Ward rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, Fury gets uncomfortable when someone holds hands. But keep the girl-on-girl action going, I’m not complaining.”

“I’ll shoot you”, you say, gripping Natasha’s waist.

He lifts his hands. “You can try.”

“That’s enough”, your girlfriend mumbles, patting your side. “Stay here for a moment, hm? I’m getting us something to drink.”

You hum reluctantly, staying in your spot against the wall. With your hands losing the purpose of holding Natasha’s waist, you have no other choice but to tuck them into your pockets.

She’s already halfway to the bar, hips swaying and red curls moving with every step. You sigh quietly and turn your head. The way you scan the crowd isn’t deliberate, but it’s purposeful. It’s you making sure that nobody is staring too hard.

You’re fine with Natasha getting looked at. Somewhat fine, that is. You know she’s gorgeous, and that others can see that too. Humans can’t help it — if something’s beautiful, they stare at it.

Or avert their eyes. Which is what happened when you first met her. But knowing you wouldn’t get anywhere with that attitude, you’d forced yourself to get your shit together. Thankfully, you didn’t make an idiot out of yourself. It worked out.

You still remember it all. First dates, leaning against bars and sipping whiskey. Getting to know her. Sleeping with her. The tingling feeling in your stomach whenever your phone made a sound — a text? A call?

That hasn’t changed. You still hope it’s her behind every phone call, every text.

Natasha leans over the bar and mumbles her order to the bartender. He nods and turns around. Valerie slides closer. Just like that, the mood shifts. It’s like a storm rolled in.

You’re somewhere between making a beeline for the bar and staying right where you are. After what happened last week, you’re sure she wouldn’t appreciate an unwarranted interruption by her girlfriend right now.

They’re talking, that’s it. Just a brief chat. They’re co-workers, after all. Friends. Exes. It’d be selfish of you not to let her have this, right? Even if they’re connected by history.

But Valerie’s getting closer. If you were in Natasha’s spot, you’d probably feel her breath and smell the cigarette she smoked.

You subtly feel for the gun tucked into your belt. It’s always there. Not a moment of peace for you, but you’ve gotten used to it.

Natasha smiles. Valerie tilts her head, scoots closer. Your heart beats faster.

Natasha gets up and turns around. Valerie stares at her, blinking. You quickly push off the wall to meet her halfway.

She wraps her arm around yours neck and holds the glass to your lips, tipping it. Vodka burns in your throat, your eyes water, and you pull away enough to kiss her. She hums, sucking the remaining alcohol off your tongue.

“What was that for?”, you mumble, rubbing her side.

“Thought you needed it. Tried to stop you from breaking her nose.”

“Oh, you…” You huff. “Alright.”

“You’re everything but subtle”, she reveals, putting the empty shot glass aside. “And shooting her really isn’t necessary, baby.”

You roll your eyes. Natasha smirks and tilts her head, nose brushing against your jaw. Her hand cups the side of your face. Your cheek feels warm beneath the pad of her thumb.

“I don’t know why you’re this chill”, you mutter.

“Because I know that Val can be sad and desperate”, she whispers. Her hand moves to your shirt, and she undoes another button. Palm against your chest, she feels your steady heartbeat. “And it’s you who’s taking me home tonight.”

You put your hand on her wrist, holding her hand in place. Your eyes slowly trail back to the bar, to Valerie; and when your eyes meet, she knocks back another shot.

She's looked pissed off before, but never like this. Time to amp up the heat.

"Taking you home, huh?", you mumble, glancing at Natasha's lips. "You're optimistic."

Natasha raises her eyebrows at you. Her hand, still on your chest, slides back up and into your hair. "What're you saying?"

"I'm saying..." You lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I don’t want to wait. Let me touch you."

She exhales. Her head tilts, her eyes search yours. What you’re doing is painfully obvious, but she can’t deny the thrill your words send through her. The idea is risky, but appealing.

You, her. Hidden in a dark hallway. Dress hiked up, lipstick smudged, your hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Would you keep her quiet? Or would you try and do the opposite?

Your hand moves down her body and to her backside. You give it a light squeeze, and she gives you another glance.

Her hand grabs yours. You sneak away from the party and into the hallway.

Before you even manage to push her up against the wall, she's already pulling you closer. Your lips crash into hers, desperate and needy, and she clutches your collar. Your hands fumble with her dress, bunching it up around her hips.

The party is still in hearing distance. A pop song is playing instead of whatever techno music was booming earlier. You hear voices, muffled and blending together. Natasha’s lips press against your shoulder, your own trail kisses down her neck.

“Don’t leave a mark”, she warns, breathless, when you suck on her collarbone.

“Why?” You pull away enough to see the hickey blooming on her skin. “Looks good.”

She moans quietly and tugs you back in. Your fingers slide between her thighs, to the lacy underwear she’s got on, and nudge the fabric aside.

Moonlight seeps in through the window. You taste alcohol and mint. Wet heat envelops your fingers, and her back arches. You thrust in deeper, all the way you your knuckles, and kiss her through it. She pulls away, panting into your open mouth.

"Fuck."

"Don't make a sound", you mumble, peppering her jaw with kisses. "You'll get us caught."

A whine. Your free hand grips her thigh, hikes it up. Having better access now, you add a finger. She almost falls apart, and her moans and whines echo in the empty hallway.

A door opens and shuts. You angle your body a little, still fingering her relentlessly.

Butterflies and tingles, legs trembling and breath uneven. You hear footsteps, quiet and muffled. Your hand is drenched, her underwear is sticking to her thighs.

Another whiny moan. You shush her, curling your fingers and pushing them deeper.

"Not a noise, love. Or I'll make you come again. Want to go back in there shaking?"

The footsteps are approaching you. Natasha writhes, and you wrap your arm around her thighs to keep her in place. When she comes, it's loud and barely restrained. You laugh against her neck, breathless, and let her ride out her orgasm.

She slumps against the wall. You pull out and lick the excess moisture off your fingers. She watches you, dazed and spent.

"Back to the party?", you ask, already adjusting her dress with one hand.

"A moment", she mumbles, closing her eyes. "Good luck explaining this to Fury."

"Huh?"

She nods at the ceiling. You look up and huff. Security cameras, of course. Everywhere. Filming and remembering every moment, every gasp, every movement of your hand beneath her dress. You curse quietly.

"Goddammit."

"This was your idea", she says, adjusting her dress and smoothing it out. "Have fun dealing with him."

You roll your eyes and kiss her flushed cheek. Natasha's managed to go from looking wrecked to almost normal. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair a tad more disheveled, her cheeks still got a hint of color in them, but nobody would suspect that it's from anything other than a makeout-session.

Well, except for whoever checks the security cameras. You bite your lip when you realize just how much they'll see.

It's an odd feeling. Yes, they'll see way too much — but they'll also see you with her.

Natasha fixes her lipstick, wipes the smudges off your mouth with a napkin, then you return to the party. Of course, almost nobody noticed. They're too caught up in chatter and alcohol. Fury looks like he's about two minutes away from exploding. You can't blame the poor guy; he's surrounded by a bunch of drunk agents trying to get him to dance the Cha Cha Slide.

Valerie's ignoring you, but in that one way that lets you know she's trying her hardest to do so. She knocks back another shot, her jaw set.

You smile to yourself and let Natasha lead you further into the room. Once you've reached the middle, she wraps her arms around your neck and presses a quick kiss to your swollen lips.

"Round two in my office later?"

"Don't you dare", she murmurs.

"Shame."

The look on her face is unimpressed, but her lips twitch. You hug her closer to your chest, still swaying in spot. You dip your head and kiss her shoulder.

"Let me show you off", you mumble, running your hands over her back. Natasha smiles now, her face buried against your neck.

"You are, dumbass."

You hum. You can't argue, you are showing her off. You pulled her into the center of the room, the center of the universe, and pulled her into a slow dance that probably would've had her running a few years ago.

Her head tilts slightly, resting against your shoulder. She stays silent for a while, lost in everything happening around her.

The party, now a bit more quiet. The music, having changed to a slower rhythm. You, holding her.

The contrast between the thing in the hallway and the dance here is drastic enough to give her whiplash. But she's content, happy, silently and quietly. She's unlike you in that regard — no need to make a big scene of it. Keep things as lowkey as possible. Not everyone needs to know.

(Two days later, you get called into Fury's office because the person checking the security camera footage complained about emotional damage. You get banned from the hallways. Natasha's belief to keep things private is reinforced. All you hear is that your office is still an option.)

. . .

You're on the floor, cross-legged, Natasha's suit on the ground. A lightweight Kevlar blend you designed, adjusting to every movement. You straighten out the fabric and check for damage.

"The side is singed", you comment. "An explosion?"

"You don't want to know."

You shake your head and get up. Natasha unzips her jacket and peels it off, the tight fabric revealing creamy skin you're definitely not supposed to be staring at.

Her pants follow, then her shirt. You crouch in front of her and help her step into the lower half. You tug the fabric over her legs, smoothing it out as you go.

It's been a while since you started doing this. You should be used to it. But your hands brush her calves, her thighs, and your ears burn.

"Cold hands", Natasha comments.

"Stop squirming."

"Can't blame me, your hands are very cold."

You look up, jaw set. "Just...don't move."

She smirks as she lets you help peel the fabric over her arms. You grab the zipper and pull it up, slowly straightening up as you go.

When you're face to face and you've got her all zipped up, you don't let go. Natasha hums, watching you. You hesitate one last time — the quicker you're done, the sooner she's leaving for her mission. Again.

"You're staring", she mumbles. You let go and turn around, leading her into the weapons storage room. Tight quarters, as you barely fit in there together. But you make it work.

"I should be used to this", you admit, scanning the shelves. Natasha reaches over you to grab a gun, her front brushing your back. "But I'm not."

"Neither am I."

You grab her Widow's Bites and a couple blades. You turn around and fit the bracelets with an automatic look. Then you kneel in front of her, slide her belt into place, adjust it accordingly. The thigh straps follow — lord have mercy — and you tuck her weapons in. You tap each of the concealed items: the blades along her ribs, the guns, the taser.

Natasha brushes her fingers through your hair and makes you look up. She crouches, breathing more heavily, her lips right in front of yours. You smell perfume and gunpowder, leather and shampoo, cleaning solvents. Her breath is hot against your lips when she speaks.

"Blades are lighter."

"Shaved an ounce off", you mumble, blinking. "Makes it easier."

"Always thinking about everything", she replies. Her lips meet yours halfway and she kisses you with her fingers tangled in your hair. You grab her waist and keep her close, knees still on the ground, head tipped back slightly. It's warm, slow, enough to make you wish you could cancel the damn mission.

She pulls away. You clear your throat.

"I'm keeping an eye on Valerie."

"Oh no, you're not."

"She doesn't have a clue what she's doing", you say, getting up. Natasha sighs. "You got shot!"

"Her responsibility is to support me as best as she can and focus on the mission. She's not my babysitter, Y/N."

She turns around and picks up a scope. You narrow your eyes, silently trying to both find an argument and figure out whether you designed the gadget she grabbed. It's not the matte black one you handed to her a couple months ago. It's more clunky, less practical, the magnification range is probably less optimal as well.

She turns, the scope in her hands, and looks at you. You raise your eyebrows.

"You're sure that's the one you want?"

Natasha tilts her head, idly toying with the scope she's holding. "What's wrong with this one?"

You frown, irritated, and gesture at it. "Well, first of all, the magnification range is not nearly as good. Its system is also outdated. The reticle doesn't auto-adjust, which means that if the light conditions are less than optimal, you'll suffer from it. The thermal and night vision are also pathetic. I tested it, and it's no good."

"Sounds fine to me", she drawls. You narrow your eyes.

"Babe", you say, already turning around to grab the scope you personally designed from the shelf, "I spent half a year tinkering with this. I burnt my fingertips off twice."

"Appreciate the dedication", she says. You swap the scope out yourself, not breaking eye contact. "And the confidence, too."

"I mean it. This one's better. Ergonomic, biometric lock, the casing is great, and the internal shock buffers? Even Fury was impressed."

"You sound in love."

You bite back an 'I am', because she knows you are. Not with the damn scope, though. The scope is the result of being in love, and she knows it. But that's no reason to make her even more cocky.

You nudge her out of the storage room and lock it behind you. Safety measure — no need for anyone to get into her private stash. Even Fury needs permission, but in a less official way.

Natasha leans against the wall and watches you clean up. You wipe the workbench with a towel, arms flexing in a way that makes her wonder why you aren't joining. You fit in, she knows that already.

Then again, it'd make her job even more terrifying. She'd spent every second worrying about you.

"Five minutes", she reminds you.

"Right", you mumble. "Be careful. Make sure Valerie's doing her job or I'm doing it for her next time."

She wants to argue that you have no idea what it's like on the field. How dangerous it is, how much it differs from what you do every day. But you have been on the field before, years ago, when you were just starting out. Your talent has always been weapons and everything high tech, but when you got injured, you had no choice but to switch to what you're doing now.

You're good at it. Better than at field work. But she knows you sometimes miss it. Specifically those few months you got to spend alongside her, right after you met and before everything turned more intimate.

You can't protect her by being there anymore. But you can design tools that will make her job safer.

"I have your scope", she says, voice softer. "I'll be fine."

You can't help but preen at her words. You've been praised for your inventions many times, but it's only her opinion that really counts. When she says something, she means it.

"Be careful", you say. "The scope's good, but..."

"But it all boils down to the person using it", she finishes, grabbing her duffel bag. "I'll be fine."

"I know."

"Good."

"We'll stay in touch?"

Natasha steps closer to kiss you. It's fleeting, brief, and you know why. Quick goodbyes leave dry eyes. She'll be back soon, but what she does is risky, and you're never not scared that any goodbye could be your last one.

She steps out. You've watch her leave.

. . .

This time, you don't have to wait that long to see her.

Something goes wrong during the mission. Not horribly wrong — there are no accidents, no injuries, which is a relief. But one of the prototypes, a crucial one, malfunctions in the field. It's so tailored that nobody else can fix it, and since you're the one who designed and understands it, you're flown out.

The helicopter touches down in a remote area of the Catskills. You adjust your suit before jumping out and landing on thick grass. The forest is cold, the area foggy. Leaves that were once green have started to turn red. You exhale quietly.

A winding pathway leads to a small cabin. The exterior is hardly impressive, but the inside hides an entire bunker and an underground facility. Clutching your duffel bag, you walk towards the front door.

You're welcomed by a man in his 30s. Hair already graying, jeans, a flannel shirt. He stares at you and you stare at him. You can smell his stupid cologne.

"Want to let me in?"

"Who the fuck-"

"It's Y/N", a familiar voice says. Natasha. You can hear her from somewhere in the cabin. "Let her in."

"Oh", he says, stepping aside. "Right. The girlfriend. They told us you'd come by."

You push past him, not saying another word, and make your way into the cabin. Natasha emerges from downstairs, her hand on the railing. Her hair is curly and tied back, and she's wearing one of your old band hoodies. The sight is enough to let you forget about Mr. Wannabe-Lumberjack.

You meet her halfway. She hesitates, then decides it's worth it and leans in. You reciprocate the kiss and cup her cheek. She tastes like black coffee. It's way too short, but you can't really complain — you feel like you're being watched, whether that's actually true or not.

"Who's the guy?", you ask, following her into the lab.

"Agent Mintz", she says. "Formerly a lieutenant in the US army. Did you bring your little toolbox?"

"Little", you mutter, lifting the toolbox to test its weight. "This thing weighs 30 pounds. Lieutenant, you said?"

She flicks on a light and leads you to a workbench. You haul the toolbox up onto the top and open it. Natasha slides the prototype, a combat neural link, in front of you. You jack a tether into the side port and hook it up to a tablet to diagnose the problem.

"Tried to guess my body fat percentage", she says casually, right as you're running a scan. You pause. "He was off by one percent.”

You exhale, your fingers drumming against the surface of the workbench. "Of course."

"Very observant."

"Mhm", you mutter, looking at the data on the tablet. The prototype is desynced — her muscle memory has been outpacing the link's adaption rate. "Sounds like a great dude."

"He designs tech as well", she says, leaning on the workbench next to you. Her head is turned toward you, her voice softer and more sultry. "You know the GhostSuit?"

You bite your tongue and straighten up to brush Natasha's hair aside. "Hoodie off."

She hums and strips so you can access the link housing. You rearrange the central circuit array with tweezers and a soldering pen. You curse when your hand accidentally jerks.

"Burned your fingers again?"

"Crap", you hiss, shaking your hand. "What's this Mintz dude's issue, anyway?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, your body fat percentage? Is he kidding?"

"Pretty sure he wasn't."

Footsteps, on the staircase behind you. You whip around and glare. You should've expected it to be him — there's nobody else around — but his presence is still an unpleasant reminder that you aren't alone.

Arms crossed and tattoos showing, he leans against the railing and nods at Natasha. "Combat neural link?"

"Very much so."

"I designed it", you mutter, starting to re-upload the stored neural combat data. "Specifically tailored for her."

"Of course", he says, grinning. "Only the best for Ms. Romanoff."

You roll your eyes and plug in a thumb drive. Your hands brush over her shoulders.

"There", you say, ignoring Mintz's presence. "Want to test it a little? Just some quick movements."

Natasha nods, the neural link facing you. It's nothing huge, just a few kicks and balance shifts, but the prototype's lights glow smoothly again.

Agent Mintz raises his eyebrows. He steps closer, inspecting the little device, and almost runs his fingers over it.

You stare at the floor. You're not going to do anything — Natasha will break the guy's wrist if he crosses a line, and you stepping in would be unnecessary. You turn around and start to put your stuff back into the toolbox.

"Impressive", he says. "Doesn't take away from your beauty, either."

An explosion makes them both flinch. You give Natasha an innocent look and gesture at the test grenade that 'accidentally' rolled off the workbench, now on the floor and releasing smoke.

"Oops."

Natasha purses her lips to stop herself from smiling. Mintz just clenches his jaw, clears his throat, and steps aside.

"Alright", he says. "I'll see you later."

He leaves, but you don't turn around. You keep cleaning up, hands moving swiftly, until you feel her mouth right next to your ear.

"What was that?"

"Nothing", you say, closing the toolbox. Natasha's hands sneak under your zip-up hoodie, fingers digging into your abs. "Happy accident or whatever."

"You're not slick."

Your mouth opens and then promptly shuts again. Her lips are against your jaw, the kisses wet and warm. It's only been a couple days, but god, you missed this. Your bed's too empty when she's not around.

Instead of arguing, you let yourself melt. Even if just for a minute, you do. Her body's pressed up against yours, her touch familiar. She smells like your perfume, which confirms your suspicions that she's the one who grabbed it from the shelf in your bathroom.

The tech, the clothes, the perfume — all yours. You wonder if there's a part of her she hasn't claimed as yours yet.

She turns you to face her, her hands staying under your hoodie. Only then does she wrap her arms around your neck and pull you closer to kiss you. You hold her to you, nodding your head to deepen the kiss. Her heart beats faster, and so does yours, but you have a significant advantage — you're not attached to a link with stress-response sensors.

The tablet lights up. You glance at it, briefly pulling away from the kiss, and bite back a smirk. The device logged her rapidly accelerating heartbeat, her changing vitals.

"You know it records this stuff, right?", you mumble. "Heart rate, adrenaline spikes. Practically broadcasting your- ouch."

"Don't."

"You didn't have to twist my ear like that, you know."

Natasha laughs quietly, her lips brushing against yours. She doesn't feel sorry. Not at all. "That's what you get for embarrassing me."

"I'm not the one embarrassing you", you murmur, smiling, and kiss the corner of her mouth. She hums. "The device is."

"And who designed that device?"

You shake your head, but she cups your face and pulls you into another kiss. When the neural link sends another signal, she reaches behind her neck and tugs it off. It gives you enough time to grab her and spin around to set her down on the workbench.

Her thighs wrap around your waist. You mouth at her neck, hands slowly bunching up her hoodie around her torso. Slender fingers tangle in your hair, tug at the strands, and you move your lips back up to hers. She moans into your mouth.

"You do that one purpose", you mumble whenever you take a short break from kissing her stupid. Natasha hums against your lips. "To get a rise out of me."

"It works", she says, using her calves to pull you closer and closer. Your pelvis creates friction between her legs. "I wish I could put one of those neural links in you. See what your body does."

"Cruel", you mutter, pecking her lips. Your hand pushes past the waistband of her sweatpants. Her breathing gets heavier. "You already know what it'd say."

Your fingers find their target. You kiss down her neck, biting and nipping, and slowly thrust into her. Right as her hips buck against your hand, you hear someone hurry down the stairs.

You don't even flinch. You just sigh into her neck, hand still buried in her sweatpants. You're not stopping this unless someone's dying.

"What now?"

Mintz stares at you, frozen in place. He's uncomfortable, so much so that he keeps making himself even more uncomfortable by staring. Natasha bites her lips and grabs your wrist, guiding you out of her pants again.

"There's, uh, movement. We got ten minutes. Suit up."

You sigh and pull away. Natasha slides off the workbench and grabs the neural link again so you can attach it. You work fast, brushing hair aside and attaching it to the link housing again. She turns and reaches for her suit, and you pack your things.

She looks at you and hesitates. The injury, the accident, is still fresh in her mind. It may have been years since that happened, but she can't forget it that easily.

Blood on pavement, in your mouth. Coughs that sounded way too scary. Your hand shaking in hers, your entire body trembling.

You tilt your head. She's thinking, probably so much so that she's lost in whatever train of thought she's following. Natasha shakes her head when she realizes that she's gone quiet.

"It's fine."

You nod and look at Mintz. "Keep an eye on her and the neural link. She shouldn't go out with it untested in live combat, but it's a little late for that."

He shrugs, rubbing his jaw and starting to look for his gear. "Then go with her."

Natasha immediately looks at him. "What?"

"Yeah. Hell, no one knows how to fix that thing. Only she does. If shit goes sideways..."

"It won't", she interrupts him. "She knows what she's doing. The link is fine."

"Nat", you say, making her look at you. She blinks and averts her eyes again. "Hey. I'll be careful. Besides, it might be safer if I join."

"I don't want you out there."

"Well, too late." You walk up to the storage space with the suits and dig through heaps of old clothes. "Better be safe than sorry."

"Trust us", Agent Mintz says. He straps a knife to his thigh and adjusts his suit. Natasha shoots him a glare, her own suit zipped up halfway. "I've got overwatch. But if something happens with the link-"

"Nothing's going to happen", Natasha insists.

You reach for a vest and slip into it. "Don't be stubborn, baby. Doesn't even look good on you."

"This isn't a joke."

"Never said it was." You step closer to zip up her suit. She briefly closes her eyes. "Let me help you suit up. It's basically tradition."

She doesn't say anything as you step away again to swap your shoes for some combat boots. You reach out your hand, the set to her jaw cracks for a split second, and you lead her up the stairs and outside.

. . .

Natasha notices the neural link misfire when she gets out of the van.

Minutes ago, you were adjusting it. You brushed her hair aside, checked the prototype, made sure it's up to date and connected to your tablet. You seemed certain. You were, probably, otherwise you never would've let her out of the vehicle. The mission may be important, but she knows you'd never test her luck like that.

She jumps out of the van and approaches the building. SHIELD's abandoned black site, sitting in the middle of the forest. Not something they thought would be targeted, but ex-HYDRA agents found out about some data drive that was apparently forgotten her, and now they're trying to steal it.

As soon as she sneaks into a corridor, walking close to the wall, she notices an issue. She doesn't tell you anything, but she feels it. She feels it misfire in motion, feels the little glitch. It's not supposed to happen, and she knows it.

Too late now. There's not enough time to be running back to the van and get it fixed.

"You inside?", you ask via comms.

"Corridor on the east side of the building, approaching a staircase. Any news?"

"Copy. Sir Lieutenant is in position. Do they train them in the army for this kind of stuff?"

"No", he suddenly speaks. "We usually just die."

"Oh really? And you're still here?"

"Y/N, I am begging you", Natasha hisses. You shut your mouth. "Focus. Both of you."

"Sorry, babe.”

Your mumbled response would've been enough to make her smile in just about any other situation, but right now, she's too on edge to react. The neural link glitching, the shuffling noises, the fact that you're outside, in a van and basically alone.

She keeps her back pressed against the wall. Mintz mumbles instructions into her ear — go left, down the hallway, go right, down the stairs — and you're checking the neural link's feedback via your tablet.

Someone pops out from behind a staircase. Natasha, not having to think twice, ducks right as he shoots. It's combat, and she knows what shes doing. She's been trained for this. The neural link usually helps, too.

This time, it doesn't. What it does is worse than it not helping.

Right as she's about to kick him and twist the gun out of his hands, her shoulder locks. The neural link misfires, again, lasting only a split second but still long enough to almost get her shot. She curses quietly.

You stare at the tablet, unable to believe your eyes for a moment. You're not sure what happened, but very briefly, everything glitched and you lost signal. Now that it's back, though, Natasha's vitals have spiked.

Which doesn't have to mean the worst, obviously. The vitals spiking is normal, especially during missions. But the glitch? The signal going poof? Bad signs.

"Natasha", you say, already desperately tapping on the screen to see if you can do anything, "what happened?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it. I found the vault."

"Okay", you say, packing your stuff and hopping out of the van. Into the corridor, go left, down the hallway, etc. Thank god you listened to Mintz as he gave her the instructions. "Be careful."

"I said don't worry."

"You said don't worry about it", you mutter. A gun in one hand and your most important tools in the other, you're easy meat. "What do you see?"

"Desks", she says, eyes scanning her surroundings. "Computers. Deposit boxes."

The signal is lost for another short moment, making her voice sound chopped. The feedback displays another glitch. Your heart beats faster and you hurry up.

"Right. Column five, row ten", Mintz adds. "Iris scan, ten digit password and a keycard. You got everything?"

No sound comes through. Then, a grunt. Something breaks, possibly a chair or a table. Whatever it is — it has you speeding up, running, searching for the stupid vault. But you reach it and the door is locked.

You glance at the screen. Bleeding located.

"Nat?", you say, rummaging through your tools. Maybe you have something that'll help you unlock it. "Any updates?"

Again, nothing. You curse and grab a hairpin, but this is SHIELD's abandoned black site. The doors are designed to keep trespassers out.

You end up grabbing the little grenade you packed. It's tiny, usually only enough to take out one person, but it'll have to do. You attach it to the door, active it, and quickly move backwards.

It blinks three times. It explodes, the door bursting open, and you exhale and run into the vault.

Blood, and a lot of it. It's soaked the right side of her shoulder. Right as you move to help her, someone wraps their arm around your neck and squeezes. You gasp, choking, and start clawing at their forearm.

Natasha barely manages to move enough to point her gun and shoot. The pressure on your airways disappears and you fall to the floor, wheezing and gasping for breath. You crawl to her side and put both hands on the bullet wound in her shoulder. Thick blood seeps between your fingers, and you take off your vest to ball it up and use it to stop the bleeding.

"You're okay", you say, voice shaky. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shakes her head. "Get the data drive."

"No", you say, keeping the vest pressed to her shoulder. You speak into the comms. "Mintz, you there?"

"What happened?"

You swallow, fingers digging into the fabric of the vest. "The neural link, it- it glitched. Misfired. Natasha got shot."

"On my way."

You nod, still putting your entire weight on the wound, still watching her every breath. She seems stable enough, but speaking from experience, it's not a good idea to rely on the hope of something happening.

There are two things you're thinking about.

One: she could die. Right here, right now.

Two: you designed the neural link. You 'fixed' it. If anything happens to her, it's your fault.

Earning her trust seemed to be the biggest honor once. None of your achievements seemed as valuable as getting someone like Natasha to trust you, getting to watch her open up and show you sides nobody else had ever seen. In that moment, however, you curse it. If she'd never trusted you, she wouldn't have worn the neural link. She wouldn't have gotten hurt.

. . .

It's quiet in medbay. Natasha's better now — the wound has been treated, the bleeding has been stopped, she's stable. But the heavy feeling in your gut remains.

She's asleep right now. Her cheeks are rosy instead of pale, her curls have flattened a little. You reach out and brush your fingers against her jaw, then you get up.

The neural link has been in your pocket ever since you got her to medbay. It's sitting there like a mass that's pulling you down, defying the laws of weight.

You reach into your pocket and pull it out. The surface shimmers in the dimmed lights of the room, your initials carved into the side. You ball your hand into a fist, clutching it, then leave the room. Natasha barely stirs.

Your steps are quick and filled with silent anger. Boots thud against vinyl flooring, your throat bobs with every despaired swallow. You push open the door to your lab and slam it shut behind you.

You reach for the hammer before you can think twice. The neural link shatters into tiny pieces, bursting to the sides and falling to the floor. Breathing heavily, you put the hammer aside. Then, the tears come.

They're silent, unthreatening. Rolling down your face in drops, staining your hoodie. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and pause, hand still against your face, when your phone buzzes.

It's the nurse, telling you she woke up and asked for you. You hesitate — do you want to go back there? Does she, despite asking for you, actually want you back there?

It was a mistake. It could've happened to anyone. But when Valerie made a mistake that got her shot, you lost your mind. But who's going to do that to you? Who's going to chew you out?

Nobody. Not even Natasha. You'll get away with it.

Sighing, you make your way out of the lab and back to medbay. It smells clinical, like disinfectant and cleansing chemicals. Metallic, too. You feel nauseous.

When you approach Natasha's room, you see a figure enter and close the door behind themselves. Heart starting to beat faster, you hurry up. You push open the door only to find Valerie standing next to her bed. That's when you lose it.

"Get the fuck out."

She barely even looks at you. "I'm just checking in on her. Making sure she's okay. Heard what happened."

"I said get out."

"Valerie, leave."

Both your and Valerie's heads whip around. Your first instinct is to be petty and make sure she knows it, but Natasha is injured, and you truthfully have other things to worry about.

She exhales sharply, then turns around and leaves. The door shuts loudly.

Natasha looks at you, not saying anything. She's studying you — you can tell that much. It's what she's always done. You shift, then hesitantly sit down on the edge of her bed.

She tilts her head. A soft breath leaves her lips. "Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You broke the neural link."

You blink a few times. Oh, so that's how observant she truly is. Or maybe she just knows you really well.

"Well, I...", you trail off. "It's useless anyway."

"No", she says, voice quiet. "You spent months working on it. It worked."

"It didn't. It's the reason you almost..." You rub your face. "You could've died, Nat. Because of me."

"That's not true."

"But it is."

"That thing helped me", she insists. "I wore it because I trust you. Because I love you. And you just broke it?"

You stare at the floor, jaw set. There's no way to explain what's going on in your head. All these years, you tried to be the one who protects the one person who claims she doesn't need protection. The one who protects everyone around herself — you, too.

When you got injured all those years ago, it was Natasha who got you out of the battlefield safely. She carried you to the field medics, she went to medbay with you. She stayed until you were better.

You would've kissed her. Neither of you were ready, though. But she was worth the wait.

"I fixed it", you say, glancing at her. She softens. "I tried to fix it. I swear. I don't know what went wrong."

"Accidents happen."

"Not like this", you reply, raking your fingers over your thigh. The denim feels overstimulating against your fingernails. "Not to me. Not when it comes to you. Valerie makes mistakes, and Mintz, and Ward, but-"

"And you're flawless? Perfect?"

You shut your mouth. No, you're neither of those things.

"If I were, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

Natasha scoffs. You refuse to look at her, so she shifts in bed despite knowing she shouldn't. It's a plan, though — a plan that works. You quickly lift your head.

"Don't even try", you say, already trying to gently nudge her back into bed. She smiles and you know what she's done. "Oh, fuck me."

"Not while I'm injured."

You roll your eyes, but what she's doing seems to work. You smile, one hand still on her waist and thumb rubbing circles into her side. She flops into the pillows again, a tad more dramatic than others would expect her to do it.

"It was supposed to help", you say softly. "I wanted it to be safer for you. Easier. It almost got you killed instead."

Natasha hums. "You're right", she says. "It did. But how many times did it save me?"

"That's not important."

"Oh, but it is. And I'm not just talking about the neural link. You've invented a dozen of these nifty little things, and how many times were those faulty?"

You shift, refusing to answer. You could say it — never. They were never faulty, never malfunctioned so badly. Sure, there were some issues and minor problems every now and then, but Natasha was always able to keep going despite those. This was a one time thing. An unlucky coincidence.

You feel her fingertips trail down your back. You sigh and then smile tentatively. "Alright. Fine. You got me."

She stays silent for a moment, her fingers glued to your back for no specific reason. She's touching you, and that's enough.

"You didn't invent your way into my life, you know."

You look at her, frowning. Those are words you didn't expect. "No?"

"No." Her fingers drum against your spine. "The gadgets are great. Truly. But they're not the main appeal here, and they never were."

"It's just..." You swallow. "You saved me. It's like, I don't know."

"A debt?"

"Maybe."

Natasha doesn't say anything. She just moves her hand, reaching for yours. When you give it to her, she tugs you into her side.

You know she's being serious. She doesn't need the gadgets. You'll keep inventing them, anyway.

. . .

There's a bandage around her shoulder and a tiny bandaid above her eyebrow, but she's still attracting attention from everyone in the room. You know she is. She always does. You pull her into your side and lead her through the hallway.

"They're staring", you mutter, gently squeezing her upper arm.

"I wonder why."

"You're beaten up and they're still staring." You enter your lab and walk right towards the little couch in the corner. Natasha sits down without arguing, which is a miracle. Getting her to do just about anything that'd be beneficial for her injuries is like fighting a very stubborn bear.

She shifts until she's comfortable, her injured arm resting on a pillow you tuck against her side. "So?"

"Nothing", you say evasively, closing the door now. You're pretty sure no one's going to come by anyway, but you're not keen on taking that risk right now. "Need anything? Water, a granola bar?"

"I'm good." She tilts her head. "You gonna keep me locked in here until they stop staring?"

Hand around a water bottle, you pause. You're crouched in front of the mini fridge.

"Well..."

"Oh god."

"I'm kidding."

She laughs and, despite saying no earlier, accepts the water bottle you hand her. "Hey, at least feel sorry Valerie quit."

"Feel sorry?" You snort and step up to your workbench. You grab the new neural link you've been working on and the stack of data necessary to program it so you can get to work. "I don't do that."

"No, of course." She leans back and watches you work. You adjust wires, program the link using your tablet, test it a few times.

It took two days for you to get up and get started on another neural link. You've barely been sleeping, and Natasha knows that's the case, but you're relentless. Having experience with this prototype, creating an updated, better one hasn't been hard. That doesn't make the process less painful, though. You've burnt your fingertips again already.

"I'm relieved, you know", you mumble.

"Mhm?"

"Valerie really was incompetent."

The cap of the water bottle hits you in the back. But she's smiling, trying not to laugh, and you turn around.

"I mean it."

"She's not even here anymore", she says. "Dial down the jealousy."

"It's not jealousy, it's me disliking her."

"And why do you dislike her? Because you're jealous."

You walk up to the couch and sit down. Hands cup her face, fingertips burnt and wrapped into little bandaids so they'd hurt less, and your breath fans against her lips. You lean in and kiss her, but briefly enough to leave you both wanting more.

She sighs, eyes lazily trailing across your face. "That's not an answer."

"I'm not in the mood to argue. I need to work on your new neural link."

"Better not make any mistakes this time."

You give her an unimpressed look like, Really? You know how much that destroyed me. But she just smiles and tugs you closer.

"I told you I trust you", she says. You roll your eyes. "Don't give me that look, or I'll start using someone else's scope."

"Oh, don't even-"

"Kidding", she cuts you off. "Again."

You narrow your eyes at her. But with the bandaid over her eyebrow, and her bandaged shoulder, you can't be too mad. You sigh and press a kiss to her mouth, your hand on her cheek. She smiles against your lips, hand resting on yours, fingers tangling with yours.

"You're beautiful, you know", you mumble, placing another kiss on her mouth. "No wonder they're all staring. Can't blame them."

"Mhm? Beautiful, you say?"

"So so beautiful." You run your hand down her arm and lightly squeeze her wrist. "It's not fair. You're all beaten up and you still look like you escaped some frame in a museum."

Natasha huffs a laugh. Her forehead rests against yours, her thumb brushes against the side of your hand. You scoot closer and the cushion dips slightly beneath you. She rests one leg over your lap.

"Not jealous anymore?"

"Oh, fucking mental", you say, nodding. "But Valerie's gone, so that helps."

"Terrible."

"Honest."

She scoots and ends up fully in your lap, her weight welcome and familiar. You wouldn't be able to guess her body fat percentage (that detail still leaves you stunned whenever you think about it), but you don't need to see or hear her to recognize her.

Your hand trails down her side and slips under her hoodie. She's warm, her body nestled against yours.

She smiles and nods at the workbench. The neural link lays abandoned, at least for the time being.

"You're stalling again."

"No", you mumble, kissing her shoulder. "Just taking my time."

I Kissed The Scars On Her Skin

Natasha X Reader

Inspired by the lyrics ‘I kissed the scars on her skin, I still think you’re beautiful’ from the song A Match Into Water by Pierce The Veil.

Chapter warnings/Tags: Mentions of objectification/sexualisation, Brief Reference to Natasha’s past and unwanted sexual experiences, talks of body image, Insecurities and anxiety about body image, comfort, fluff (?)

Word Count- 2.6k

I wrote this to try and get out of my writer's block and it's not worked 🫠

Please read the warnings/tags before reading.

Masterlist

Staring ahead at the mirror in the corner of the room, emerald green intently stared at her reflection, observing every inch of her bare body that was on display, wet, red curls clinging to her body as she simply stood in front of the mirror, her usually playful green corrupted into disgust. Hurt, regret and shame crawled down her spine as her gaze flickered from one body feature to another, a lump clawing its way into her throat as pain creeped onto her face as she continued to stare, every second passing only amplifying the whirlwind of emotions flooding through her.

Natasha couldn’t stop the negative and despondent trail her thoughts drifted down as she looked at herself properly, nausea stirring deep within her. She didn’t see herself staring back at her, all she could see was an object, a tool she used to get the mission done, no matter what it took. She didn’t see someone soft or beautiful, someone you’d want to spend hours admiring because they were so pretty and delicate, all she could see was something… to be used. She was sexy and seductive, she wasn’t someone who was tender or gentle. She wasn’t someone lovable, she was something to be utilised for a mission.

Her eyes glossed over as she continued to berate her body, objectifying it herself as everyone else had done to her as she stared and ogled at her own body, trying to persuade herself there was something more to her than her looks. Her teeth anxiously bit down on her lower lip to stop it trembling as she failed to convince herself of anything positive, a stray tear managing to escape her when her gaze settled on one of the many scars that littered her body from her past.

The haunting memories of her past desperately tried to gnaw away at her thoughts but she didn’t pay them any attention as she was too focused on drowning in her other thoughts, drowning in the onslaught of doubts and insecurities eating away at her. She was a weapon and a killer. That’s all she was and all she was ever going to be.

The sound of keys twisting in the door made her aware of your arrival, the redhead not bothering to cover herself up as she assumed you would be happy to see her completely exposed, everyone else would. God, what did you even see in her? Was she just a good fuck? Is that why you hadn’t left her yet?

“Hey, you’re never going to believe what Sam did on the mission-“ You chuckled out as you opened the bedroom door, your eyes widening in surprise at the sight of her body, a smile naturally tugging at your lips before your gaze met her green in the reflection, the sheer amount of emotion swirling in them immediately filling you with concern, your face dropping into worry. “What’s wrong?” You ask softly as you carefully place your bag down on the floor, making your way gradually over to her body, watching her reaction as you approach your girlfriend.

“When you look at me, what do you see?” Her tone was laced with hurt as your brows furrow, your eyes trained on hers in the reflection as you move to stand next to her, being respectful and keeping your gaze locked on those eyes you fell so deeply for.

“I see the most beautiful woman in the world,” you whisper, your voice dripping with care and honesty as you watch her reaction, pain flashing across her face and causing confusion to wash across yours.

“No, no you don’t,” she mutters, lifting her hand to wipe away the tears lingering on her cheeks, brushing it away roughly as she hates crying, she hates showing any sign of weakness. “I’m not beautiful, I’m…I’m disgusting,” she mumbles, your face instantly reacting to her words, disbelief engraved on it as you take another step closer to her body, trying to think of a way to convince her that she wasn’t, she was more than what they made her.

“Nat,” you whisper softly as she stares ahead at the mirror, avoiding your gaze in the reflection as she tries to blink back the tears brimming in her eyes. “Natasha, look at me,” you murmur affectionately, waiting patiently for her to muster the courage to look at your loving and tender gaze, her mesmerising green eventually flickering over to your soft gaze. “Do you trust me?” your voice was barely above a whisper as your mouth moved near the shell of her ear, waiting for her consent before trying to show her how wrong she was.

She was beautiful, not because of her body but because of her heart. Despite everything she thought about herself, she was a kind, loving, and amazing woman, she was someone who managed to steal your heart without even trying. She was everything to you, and you needed her to know that.

When she nods, you show her your hands in the reflection, signalling to her you wanted to touch her before waiting for her to nod again, your hands gently moving to caress her waist when she was ready. Your warm touch felt odd against her skin momentarily, the sheer tenderness and care you managed to put into it made her heart flutter as you kept your gaze on her face, gauging her reactions carefully. It was almost overwhelming to feel so appreciated and seen by you, your hands moving against her soft skin slowly, your fingers moving over every inch of her body in an adoring way, not a hint of lust or desire present in your touch as you explored her body, slowly warming her cold body up.

“Do you know why I said I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world?” you murmur as you place a delicate kiss to her bare shoulder, the kiss so innocent and affectionate it almost makes Natasha tear up from the loving blooming within her as you close your eyes, almost lost in your admiration for her. “Because there’s not a single part of you I don’t adore, I love all of you Natasha, not just your body,” you whisper, your warm breath tickling her skin as you kiss her shoulder blade, letting your lips ghost over a small scar you knew haunted her.

You kissed over the scar with as much love as possible, trying to sooth her worries about the physical scar as well as trying to comfort the mental scars that littered her, the feeling of their rough, forceful hands still invading her thoughts from time to time.

You can hear her exhale a shaky breath at your words and actions, her body slowly relaxing further into your touch as you move to glide your hands down her toned arms, propping your head on her shoulder as your mouth ghosted her ear again, watching her reaction to your touch as she lets her eyes flutter shut, trying to engrave the memory of your touch into her mind forever.

“Do you know why I love your hands?” You mumble softly, a smile tugging at your lips as she shakes her head, too scared to speak and ruin the tranquil atmosphere that’s wrapped around the two of you, wanting to let the world fade away. “I love the way you run your fingers through my hair when we cuddle,” you whisper, trying to list all the unique things she does that you adore, trying to express to her your undying love, needing her to realise how much you care about her. “I love how gentle they are when I let you braid my hair, the way you twirl your pen between them in debrief meetings, that when you get anxious you trace the lines on your palms,” you mimic the movement with your own fingers, dragging the tips of your fingers across her hand before up and along her forearm until you move them back to her waist to rest there for a moment, letting everything sink in for a moment before you continue.

“Do you know why I love your shoulders and back?” you ask quietly, letting your fingers trace her spine almost intimately as your body ghosts behind hers, her body subconsciously leaning back further against you, seeking your warmth and comfort. “Because despite carrying the world on your shoulders, you make time for others, you care for everyone else,” you whisper, “But most importantly, you let me take care of you, which I know was something difficult for you to start with. I love how now you let me run my fingers up and down your back because you know I love watching you relax,” your let your thumb gently press into a spot on her back, knowing it was her weak spot and watching as her body crumbles apart at your touch, relaxing instantly into your arms as your hands move to snake around her waist, letting her sink into your embrace.

You hold her for as long as you think she needs it, her eyes still closed as she focuses on the feeling of your steady heartbeat behind her, ears listening attentively to your calm breaths as you embrace her, smiling fondly at her reflection as the disgust on her features dissipated into shyness and love, the suffocating spiral she was trapped in easing it’s grip as your words lured her out of her dark thoughts.

Only when she was ready, did you move away from the embrace, moving around her body to face her, your lips pressing delicately against her forehead to make the corner of her lips lift up that little bit more before you slowly kiss down her body in an appreciative way, trying to express your love for her as you kneel before her, almost as if you were worshipping her.

“Do you know why I love this scar?” you whisper ever so gently, her head tilting to look at you as you peer up at her, honesty overflowing from your eyes as she struggles to process how you could love the old wound on her lower abdomen. “It shows how strong you are,” you mumble as you kiss the scars on her skin, “It shows that you are a good person, Natasha. You saved that man’s life, you risked yours just so he could go home to see his children, I think that’s something to admire and love.”

“Y/n,” she murmurs out but you kiss near the scar again, her hands naturally moving to thread through your hair, wanting to feel closer to you as she lets you continue praising her body.

“I’m not finished,” you mumble playfully, not letting her disagree with your words. “I also love how if I let my fingers brush over the spot above it…” you chuckle out, knowing she was some reason ticklish there, a soft laugh escaping her as her body jerks at the funny sensation, your hands settling at her hips to show you weren’t going to tickle her again. “I get to hear that angelic laughter,” you whisper with a cocky smile, her eyes rolling as she looks down at you, unable to stop the smile breaking out on her face, your comforting words a safety boat coming to save her from the sea of doubts and insecurities.

“That was mean,” she grumbles, scratching your scalp softly as you lean against her body, smiling up at her with nothing but love in your eyes.

“It still made you smile,” you say whilst kissing the spot you had just tickled, your hands moving down to her legs, deciding to compliment one more part of her body, having a feeling your plan had already seemed to have worked. “Do you know why I love your legs?” You hum out, looking up at her and noticing the small hint of mirth in her eyes.

“Why?” She murmurs in a tender tone, your lips peppering a few soft kisses against the soft skin and her tone muscles.

“I love how you wrap them around my body to pull me closer when we cuddle,” you whisper, knowing that, especially when she was tired, she’d throw her leg over your body and slide you closer to her, needing to feel you completely pressed up against her to sleep comfortably. “Or when you use them to trap me to the bed playfully, trying to prove that you could beat me in a sparring match,” you tease, knowing full well she’d kick your ass if you spared against her. You chuckle as you watch her brow raise at your words, her smile endearing as she gets lost in your enamoured gaze, her heart unable to cope with the amount of love pumping through it.

Gradually, you push yourself back up to your feet and let your arms snake around her waist, pulling her body closer to yours as she keeps her eyes on you, trying her best to express how grateful she was to have you in her life, to have you push away all those negative thoughts and clear the fog of anxiety that would cloud her mind.

“You’re beautiful, Natasha,” you whisper, not hiding an ounce of your love for her in your tone, the soft look in your eyes turning serious as you need her to know you mean it. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me think otherwise. I love you, I always will.”

“I love you too,” she murmurs back affectionately, kissing your lips innocently, not wanting anything to escalate as she simply wanted to be with you, to feel loved and cared for. You let her face rest at the crook of your neck as you try to slide your jacket off to cover her body, noticing how she shivered slightly at the gentle breeze that filtered through the room from the window. You let her take as long as she needed in your embrace, only parting when she moved first, deciding to warm herself up by slipping under the covers of your bed as she watched you sit on the edge of the bed, taking off your boots tiredly. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles after a moment, realising that you had just gotten back from a long mission, exhaustion evident in your features as she observes you, your head instantly turning at her apology.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” your tone is quiet as you kiss her forehead, letting your hand cup her cheek and thumb brush over the smooth skin. “I’m here for you, no matter what,” your tone conveys your care for her as you kiss her once more, swiftly taking the rest of your clothes off so you could join her in bed, letting your bare bodies press into each other so you could both get lost in a tranquil moment between lovers, gazing into each others eyes.

“Thank you for loving me,” she whispers after a little white, your lips stretching into a soft smile, your head tilting to look at her as she hugs your side, her leg slotted between yours like she always did.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to,” your words are soft as you hold the intimate stare, her cheeks tinting pink before she lets her face press further against your body, trying to hide the sudden shyness consuming her as well as giving into her body’s desire for sleep, the tormenting thoughts from earlier draining her. “Goodnight Nat,” you whisper once you could tell she was drifting off to sleep, your lips pressing one final kiss to her hair before letting your own eyes close, content with being in the arms of your lover. 

☆, — 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟

✧.* 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; cinnamon rolls aren’t the only thing you adore.

✧.* 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠; none, just fluff content!

✧.* 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 643

✧.* 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬; english is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes I might have made.

Her hands were cupping your face, her lips against yours and, for a moment, you wondered if it was really blood that ran through her veins. What if it was something rare, unique and beautiful, just like her? Something unknown to the world, but familiar to you? She smiled against your lips, her fingers finding the hem of your shirt before slipping underneath, and suddenly, there wasn’t anything in your mind but her.

“You taste like cinnamon,” she whispered, green eyes gazing into yours with undivided attention — her thoughts were on you, and every single atom of her body existed just for you.

“I like it.” She leaned in, resting her forehead against yours, her fingers tracing small patterns on your skin. “I like you.”

A soft giggle left your lips, the sound reverberating inside Natasha and she felt the urge to look up at the stars and beg them to let her keep you. In her heart, in her life, in her soul. You, you and you again — endless and forever.

“It’s because of the cinnamon rolls you bought,” you said, catching a glimpse of the sweets on the coffee table.

“You adore them.” She shrugged, looking at the cinnamon rolls as well. You shook your head, and she gave you a confused expression. “What’s wrong?”

Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol finally hitting you, or maybe it was already too late, and sleep was making you more honest. You didn’t know exactly what made those words leave your mouth, but you didn’t mind — they were a truth your heart couldn’t keep bottled up anymore, and it was a relief to let them slip past your lips.

“I adore you,” you murmured, warmth spreading through your cheeks as you blushed softly.

I adore you. The words echoed in Natasha’s head one, two, countless times. Not admiration or appreciation, but adoration. You had turned her into someone worth of worship and a supernova took place inside her chest.

The pink in her cheeks mirrored yours, a bright smile spreading across her lips and you could swear the sight before you was divine, utterly celestial. You tried to picture every single detail, to commit the moment to your memory, hoping it would repeat over and over again in your dreams.

“Say it again,” she asked, shy and reverent, in pure awe.

“I adore you,” you whispered once more, your hands touching her face, feeling the softness beneath your fingertips. “All the small details I know about you, I adore every single one. And the ones that are still unknown to my eyes and heart, I adore them too.”

Her gaze held yours, her eyes shining with a new gleam — one that couldn’t be found anywhere else on Earth but in them. She kissed you, gentle and tender, her arms wrapping around your waist, trying to get even closer to you. Maybe that way, she would be able to pour her gratitude into your soul, to convey how deep her love for you was.

Leaning back, she rested her forehead against yours. You stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s embrace for a few moments, maybe minutes or even hours — time didn’t matter now. Contemplating each other, you and Natasha were one.

“But you adore the cinnamon rolls too, right? I need to know so I can decide whether to keep buying them or not,” she said, chuckling. Lightening the mood with a joke? That was so her.

“Yes, I do,” you answered, giving her nose a small poke, and the way she wrinkled it and rolled her eyes made you laugh. “But don’t mistake me.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, curiosity written all over her face. Adorable, terrifically adorable, you thought.

“I adore you more.”

A Feline Connection Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

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!

Bad Hair Day

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: Day 3: I've merged a lovely request from an anon with the @taylorswiftmicrofic prompt for 3rd of January, which is 'spite'.

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Natasha’s shoulders were back. Her head was high. In spite of the obvious danger. She walked calmly forward into certain death. 

The footage blurred and the screen went black. 

You replayed the tape.

Natasha’s shoulders were back. Her head was high. In spite of the obvious danger. She walked calmly forward into certain death. 

You replayed the tape. 

You stared at the dark screen. 

You could hear the others around you. Lots of talk about what might have gone wrong, what could be done. Plans, strategies and no action. 

The sounds echoed strangely as if the air in the room had turned to water.

‘We need to consider contingency plans for various outcomes.’ You listened to one man advise the group behind you. His tone was smug, you could tell he wanted a promotion. You swallowed rising bile. 

You replayed the tape one more time.

Natasha’s shoulders were back. Her head was high. In spite of the obvious danger. She walked calmly forward into certain death. 

You stood up. The people around you quietened. You cleared your throat and heard a different echo in the room. A quiet theater waiting for a stage performance.

In three sentences you stated your case.

‘We don’t know when she might reappear but we do know her location. We should send a medical team now. We should be ready when she needs us.’

Your voice cracked and you felt shimmering sympathy in the air. Your jaw tightened. Everyone knew the rumours about yourself and Natasha. 

The rumours were true but their sympathy wasn’t helpful.

You waited for someone senior enough to nod in approval. You listened to them instruct your suggestion back at you; to assemble a medical team and prepare the quinjet. 

You watched the right person type a code into the computer, updating your access to include the nearest quinjet. 

You walked out immediately. You were lying to a room full of spies. You didn’t want to wait. 

.

You went straight to the flight deck. You boarded a quinjet and you flew away. 

The rumours were true. But they weren’t even close. 

You turned off the built-in quinjet comms when voices crackled through, filled with sharp concern. 

You only thought about Natasha as you flew. You didn’t need to replay the video. You could fill in more details than any camera. 

You thought about the grainy footage of her glossy shoulder length hair, straightened to perfection. 

.

You were the one who’d straightened it that morning. 

Natasha smiled widely when you offered. It was that smile of sudden, unexpected happiness that always made her look free. You kissed her cheek when you saw her glance away with shyness. You pulled out a dining chair and motioned for her to sit. You left your phone on the table, playing some of her favourite songs.

You handed her a freshly made coffee and it made her laugh. Natasha said something about having a spa day and you laughed too. It was 5am and the smell of her instant coffee was better than the taste. You kissed the top of her head and promised to take her to a better spa someday. She laughed again, sipping her coffee like it was worth drinking.

You straightened each piece of her hair methodically, listening to Natasha hum along to the music from your phone. As you finished, you dragged your fingers slowly through her warm hair. Natasha sighed and leaned her head back against you. 

Natasha kissed you once in the doorway, before she left for her mission. Her lips brushed yours and then she pulled back and hesitated. Her thumb brushed your lower lip. You watched her force herself to walk away. 

It couldn’t be the last time you saw her.

.

You landed the cloaked quinjet silently on the roof of the building. You turned on the built-in comms just long enough to tell them where you’d landed the quinjet, to ask them to tell Natasha where it was if her comms reengaged.

You left the jet, walked to the single door you found on the roof and broke the lock. Your heart hammered in your chest now. You tried not to think about being scared. 

You’d had rudimentary combat training but you’d never used it. You’d armed yourself appropriately but you weren’t as confident as you should have been. Combat training had been a while ago. Medics weren’t meant for this. 

You waited at the open rooftop door until you were sure that you didn’t hear anything below. Carefully, you walked down the rusted stairs to the top level of the building. You found yourself at the end of an empty hallway. You tried to tread lightly as you walked along it, heart in your mouth. 

As you walked, you thought of Natasha’s simple bravery. You lifted your head and you let your shoulders relax. You took a deep breath. Before you’d fully turned the corner at the end of the hallway, you were shot in the shoulder. 

You fell awkwardly to the floor and crawled instinctively back around the corner to safety. 

The wound was just below the shoulder. It was okay. It was probably okay. You weren’t sure if it was okay.

You held still and held pressure. You tried to count and take deep breaths. 

You pressed your back against the wall and waited for the sound of someone coming to finish the job. There was only more silence. 

You weren’t sure if you briefly lost consciousness or if only a few minutes passed. 

You heard someone take a sharp breath in front of you and knew immediately that it was Natasha. 

You opened your eyes and winced at the sudden brightness. Natasha had blood dripping from her chin to her neck. The ends of her hair were coated in it. You could tell it wasn’t her blood. You closed your eyes and smiled with relief. 

Natasha knelt down next to you. Her hands were shaking as they skimmed lightly over your own. She touched the area that you were holding pressure to. Your body tried to recoil. Natasha made a choked sound.

You cleared your throat. The world around you echoed with the slow haziness of trauma and blood loss.

‘Rooftop’s clear. I brought you a getaway car.’ You tried to sound calm but the pain was evident. 

Natasha’s green eyes were an inch away from you. She looked terrified. 

It took ten minutes to get you onto the roof and another few to get you onto the quinjet. 

Natasha didn’t speak until the ramp had closed behind you and the jet was in the air. 

You watched her bury her face in her hands. 

‘You could’ve died.’ She said quietly. Her voice was hoarse and tense. 

You swallowed every response you could think of. 

I wasn’t thinking. I had to help. I couldn’t bear the thought of you hurt and alone.

‘I was so scared.’ You whispered finally, carefully. 

Natasha crumpled in on herself. You watched her curl over the control panel. Her chest heaved.

‘I love you.’ She whispered at last, still not looking at you. ‘You give me spa days.’ 

You called her name softly and Natasha turned around. 

Her eyes were shining with tears. She moved desperately toward you. Her hands ran lightly again over your body. You realised it was her way of checking that you were still here.

‘I love you too.’ You told her softly. Natasha closed her eyes and she nodded hurriedly. You watched a tear roll down her cheek.

‘Okay.’ She mumbled, wiping the tear away with her sleeve and leaving a bloodstain on her cheek. ‘So don’t even think about dying.’

You gave her a long look, breathing still shallow from pain and heart too full for words. 

After a moment, Natasha became self-conscious.

‘What?’ She checked unsurely.

‘Nothing.’ You sighed, fighting not to smile. ‘It’s just, you’ve ruined your nice hair.’

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Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

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Flustered Crushes

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

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.