natromilf

[natromilf]

god i love this so muchhh

Whispered in Russian Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Whispered in Russian. Natasha takes you to meet her family for the first time.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, Russian translations from google

Words: 4990

You fidget with the ribbon on the container nestled in your lap, your fingers adjusting and retightening the bow for what has to be the fifth time since the car ride began. The satin already lies perfectly in place, but your nerves won’t settle unless your hands stay busy.

From the driver’s seat, Natasha casts a quick glance your way, catching the subtle tremble in your fingers.

“Rasslab’sya, detka,” she murmurs, her voice calm and low as her hand reaches over to still yours. Her touch is warm and grounding.

You exhale slowly, relaxing like she tells you to, trying to ease the anxiety fluttering in your chest. You turn your hand beneath hers, intertwining your fingers with hers, but the tension doesn’t quite fade.

After a moment, you groan and let your head fall back dramatically against the seat. You twist to look at her with exasperation, eyes wide.

“Oh, this is bad. Not even your Russian is helping me calm down right now.”

A small, knowing smirk plays on Natasha’s lips. Without taking her eyes off the road, she lifts your joined hands and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles.

“I thought you said my Russian does the opposite,” she says with a teasing lilt. Then, without warning, her voice dips into something darker, silkier—something meant only for you.

“Tebe uzhe stanovitsya zharko?”

Are you getting hot yet?

You gasp, jerking your hand back before she gets any more ideas, warmth blooming fast across your cheeks.

“Natasha!” you hiss. “We’re about to have dinner with your family. This is not the time to rile me up.”

Her grin only widens.

“You know I’m great at multitasking,” she replies breezily, her hand casually returning to rest on your thigh. But then it moves, slowly tracing delicate circles that make your breath hitch.

You clamp your hand over hers before it can travel any higher. 

“Focus,” you warn, your voice a mix of stern and pleading. “I’m already a wreck as it is. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

Natasha eases up, her touch softening but not quite withdrawing, thumb brushing along the hem of your skirt. She knows this matters to you.

It’s your first time meeting her family—the one she didn’t grow up with but still calls hers. Melina. Alexei. Yelena. All ex-assassins and one genetically enhanced super soldier. You’re not exactly bringing cookies to your average suburban dinner.

The nerves creep back in at the thought. You glance down at the container again, doubt flickering in your eyes.

“Maybe I should’ve brought something else,” you murmur. “Cookies feel…underwhelming.”

Natasha chuckles softly. 

“Well, if they don’t want them,” she says, squeezing your thigh gently, “I’ll eat them all myself.”

You gape at her. “So they’re not enough?”

She huffs a laugh through her nose, clearly entertained, as she mutters under her breath.

“Bozhe, kakoy ty milyy…”

God, you’re cute…

Your face warms immediately. You scoff, turning away so she won’t see the rising blush.

“You know I can still understand you even when you whisper,” you grumble. Then, quieter.

“Ty ne tonkiy.”

You’re not subtle.

She laughs under her breath, clearly delighted by your flustered state. You squeeze her hand lightly, a gentle reprimand.

“Your Russian’s gotten better,” she remarks, glancing sideways at you with a smirk.

“Of course it did,” you reply proudly. “I had a great teacher. Very strict. Very sexy.”

That earns a genuine laugh from Natasha. 

“Really now? Should I be worried?”

You grin, fiddling with her fingers as you lean in just slightly.

“Mmm, maybe. Our night sessions are my favorite.”

Natasha raises an amused brow but says nothing, letting you press the advantage while she drives.

“Oh?” she prompts coolly. “And why’s that?”

You lift her hand to your lips, delicately kissing her fingertip. Your voice drops to a whisper.

“Because I never want her to stop.”

The only response is the soft hum in Natasha’s throat—and the way her grip on the steering wheel subtly tightens.

You trail another kiss along her knuckle.

“So I tell her…”

You pause, eyes gleaming as you kiss a second finger, your voice sultry now.

“Yeshchyo…”

More…

Then, a third kiss, slower this time, into the center of her palm.

“Pozhaluysta, day yeshchyo…Natalia.”

Please, give me more…Natalia.

The car suddenly veers with precision into a parking lot, tires crunching against the gravel. The motion is smooth but decisive, too smooth to be spontaneous.

Before you can react, Natasha shifts the gear into park and turns to you. Her free hand reaches for your chin, firm but gentle, tilting your face toward hers.

Her eyes—deep, dark, and undeniably burning—flick to your lips, then back to your gaze.

“You really want to test me before dinner?” she asks, her voice a whisper against your mouth as she leans in just enough to brush her lips over yours.

You shiver at the contact, your heart racing.

“Now, who’s riling up who?” she murmurs before pressing her lips more firmly into yours, the teasing gone now—replaced with something deeper, more indulgent. 

Her hand curls at the back of your neck, anchoring you gently in place as she kisses you like she has all the time in the world.

And for a moment, you melt into it completely, a quiet hum escaping your throat—soft, pleased, and entirely content.

Your hand rests lightly on her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. Her lips are warm and familiar, coaxing you to stay a little longer in this bubble she’s wrapped around the two of you.

But just over her shoulder, a gleam of amber light catches your eye.

You blink, breathless, and squint through the driver-side window at the storefront across the street.

Vinoteka Zvezda

Wine Star 

A small, charming little wine shop, the kind that screams “curated” and “family-owned.” An idea sparks in your brain, chasing away the last haze of Natasha’s kiss.

“That’s it!” you gasp, pulling back with sudden clarity.

Natasha remains frozen in place, her lips still slightly parted in protest, eyes fluttering open as she chases the space you just left. Her hand on your neck lingers, as does the ghost of the kiss on your lips.

She tries to lean back in, muttering against your mouth, “Chto—what’s it?”

You flash her a grin and press a quick, consoling peck to her lips.

“A bottle of wine,” you explain brightly, already reaching for your seatbelt. “It’s the perfect thing to bring.”

Unbuckling yourself, you shift in your seat and pop the door open before Natasha can reel you back in.

“Wait here,” you say, already halfway out. “I’ll be right back!”

The car door shuts behind you, leaving Natasha staring at the empty seat beside her.

She exhales through her nose in exasperation, slumping back into the leather of her seat as she watches you skip across the street, determination lighting up your features. She tracks how you enter the wine shop and immediately start talking animatedly to the shopkeeper, your hands gesturing in passionate, sweeping arcs as you describe the kind of bottle you’re searching for.

Natasha tilts her head, her lips curling into something soft and helpless.

“Kak milo…”

So cute…, she murmurs under her breath, shaking her head slightly at how easily you fluster and focus in the same breath.

She rests her elbow on the window ledge, her chin in her hand now, eyes never leaving you through the windshield. Even with the nerves, planning, and chaos, you still light up any room you walk into. And despite the teasing earlier, this…this is the part that gets her the most.

The part where you care so much.

Where you want to get it right.

And you don’t even realize how much you’ve already impressed her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha watches you out of the corner of her eye as you readjust everything in your arms—a wine bottle in one hand, the container of cookies balanced carefully in the other, and a bouquet of flowers tucked into the crook of your elbow. 

You’d made her stop at a roadside cart twenty minutes ago, determined to make the best possible impression. 

She’d offered—twice—to hold something, but you waved her off with that same stubborn confidence she’s grown increasingly fond of.

You shift your weight, square your shoulders, and glance at the front door with the kind of intensity you’d usually reserve for mission briefings.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling once. “I’m ready.”

Natasha gives you a once-over, lips twitching upward.

“You’re sure?”

You bump her with your shoulder. 

“Just knock already, Romanoff.”

She huffs but obeys, rapping her knuckles against the heavy door.

You barely have a second to mentally run through the Russian greetings you practiced before the door swings open—and any preparation you had dissolves on sight.

A tall, broad-shouldered man fills the doorway, eyes narrowed slightly, arms folded across his chest. His imposing figure, tangled beard, and the sheer weight of his stare make your spine straighten instinctively.

And you forget how to speak.

The man squints at you. Then, his gaze shifts to Natasha.

In an instant, his whole demeanor changes, and his eyes light up. 

“Ahh! My daughter has come home!” he booms, voice reverberating through the hallway before he steps forward and engulfs Natasha in a bear hug.

“Oof,” Natasha grunts as he pulls her in, her arms pinned awkwardly at her sides. “Alexei,” she mutters in protest, clearly used to this. “That’s enough.”

She peels herself out of his grip with practiced effort and steps back, brushing off her jacket. Then she gestures toward you with a small, subtle smile.

“This is my girlfriend.”

The word lands with a deliberate weight, and your heart skips at hearing her say it so directly.

Alexei blinks, then his head tilts slightly toward you. His brow furrows again, but this time in contemplation rather than challenge. His eyes dart to your full hands. 

“Girlfriend, da,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “A strong one, from the looks of it.”

You offer him a nervous smile. 

He opens his arms for a hug, but Natasha swiftly plants a palm on his chest.

“No.”

Alexei pauses, sighs theatrically, and switches tactics by offering his hand instead—before realizing you can’t take it. His gaze drops to the bottle.

You quickly shift and lift the wine toward him. 

“A gift. I thought it might go well with dinner.”

He takes it from you with a hum of approval, turning the label to inspect the vintage. 

“Ahh...1986. Hah! That year, I was invited to drink with high officials for my work as the Red Guardian. They only brought out the good stuff when I was in the room.” He winks at you before waving you both inside. “Come, come. We will drink this after dinner and toast to our victories!”

You follow Natasha in, carefully stepping around a pair of discarded combat boots and a black and red shield by the entryway. The smell of stewing herbs wafts in from the kitchen.

As you near the threshold, Alexei continues regaling you with some half-fantastical tale involving a Siberian embassy, three political defectors, and a wine-fueled arm-wrestling match.

“Alexei,” comes a sharp voice from the kitchen, cutting him off mid-story, “this is not the time. Go watch the pot before it boils over.”

You glance in and spot an older woman, her hair tied back, her sleeves rolled up, and a wooden spoon in hand. She doesn’t even look up at him to see if he’ll follow her words.

“Alright, Melina,” Alexei grumbles under his breath and trudges off.

After handing him the spoon, Melina approaches Natasha before placing her hands on either side of her daughter’s face and tilting it side to side with a critical eye.

“You’re looking healthy,” she remarks thoughtfully, then squints at her lips. “Though your lipstick is smeared. You may want to fix that before dinner.”

You immediately cough, embarrassed, breath catching in your throat at the reason it’s smeared. Natasha throws you a sidelong look and smirks, not even pretending to hide her amusement.

Melina turns to you next, her expression unreadable for a beat—then softens slightly.

“And you must be the one I’ve heard about.”

You offer her a respectful nod and a warm smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Vostokoff. These are for you.” You gently extend the bouquet.

Melina blinks in mild surprise as she accepts the flowers. 

“Oh...these are quite lovely,” she says, turning the stems in her fingers with practiced interest. Then she adds casually, “You know, with the right compound mixture, the petals of these can be distilled into a knockout gas that masks itself with floral pheromones.”

You blink once. Twice.

“I…didn’t know that.”

She hums.

“Thank you for these. I’ll be sure to use them effectively.” 

“Right…,” you swallow your nerves before continuing. “I also made these.” You offer her the container of cookies. “Thought it might be a nice dessert.”

Melina accepts them with a nod. 

“You baked them yourself?”

Before you can answer, a blonde-haired figure sweeps into the room.

“I can take that,” she announces, reaching for the container.

Melina immediately smacks her hand away. 

“Not now, Yelena, dinner first,” she says sharply. “Or else you’ll ruin your appetite.”

Yelena pouts, rubbing the back of her hand as she grumbles under her breath.

Melina takes the flowers and cookies into the kitchen without another glance.

Now left in the entryway with you and Natasha, Yelena crosses her arms and eyes you like she’s trying to gauge your combat level.

“So,” she starts, “you’re the one my sister wants to ma—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Natasha’s foot connects with her shin, and Yelena yelps.

“Ow! That hurt!”

Natasha shrugs unapologetically. 

“My foot slipped.”

Yelena narrows her eyes as if looking for an opening to retaliate against her sister before Melina’s voice calls out from the kitchen again.

“Yelena! Come set the table.”

With a dramatic sigh and a half-glare thrown over her shoulder, Yelena mutters, “This isn’t over,” before disappearing into the kitchen.

The hallway finally settles into a quiet hum.

You glance at Natasha, but she’s already looking at you. Her brow lifts slightly.

“You okay?”

To her surprise, you let out a soft, breathy laugh and shift your weight, taking her hand in yours.

“They’re…different,” you say thoughtfully, “but somehow they’re also…normal. Like a family. A real one.”

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches you, her thumb gently brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters beneath her touch. Then she lifts her other hand, brushing a stray curl away from your face, her gaze warm and steady.

“You’re not scared off?” she asks, quieter now like she almost doesn’t want to break the moment.

You meet her eyes and give a small, sincere smile.

“No. Honestly?” You shrug lightly. “I think I like them.”

A short laugh escapes from her—one part fondness, one part disbelief, because of course you would. Her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners as she leans in, her hand rising to cradle your face.

She’s just about to kiss you.

“Natasha,” Melina’s voice cuts through from around the corner, sharp and efficient.

You instinctively pull back, straightening like you’ve been caught in the act. 

Natasha groans softly in frustration, her lips parted in a half-formed complaint as her hand reluctantly drops back to her side.

You offer her an apologetic smile, squeezing her fingers in consolation just as Melina steps into view.

“Alexei and Yelena can handle the finishing touches on dinner,” Melina says, glancing briefly at you before continuing with a subtle weight in her tone. “The item you requested? It arrived yesterday. If you want to come see it.”

Natasha immediately perks up, something close to anticipation flickering behind her eyes.

“I do,” she says, already moving. Then she pauses when she notices you falling in step beside her.

She turns, steps into your path, and gently touches your arm.

“Why don’t you wait in the kitchen?” she suggests lightly, nodding toward the other end of the house. “We won’t be long.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching.

“Abandoning me to the wolves already?”

Natasha leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, the soft brush of her lips barely enough to make up for the one Melina interrupted.

“You’ll survive,” she says, her voice low, amused, and just the tiniest bit smug.

You huff out a playful breath. 

“We’ll see,” you mutter as you turn, giving her one last look before making your way toward the kitchen.

The closer you get, the more you slow your pace as the nerves settle back in. You can hear Alexei’s deep voice rumbling through the space, followed by Yelena’s sharper reply, the familiar cadence of Russian drifting toward you.

“Gde tvoya mat’?”

“Where’s your mother?” Alexei asks, casual, distracted, and likely chopping something from the sound of the knife.

“Navernoye, otdat’ Natasha kol’tso, kotoroye prishlo,”

“Probably giving Natasha the ring that arrived,” Yelena replies without hesitation.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Аh…chtoby sdelat' predlozheniye.”

Ah…so she can propose.

Your stomach flips as your eyes widen slightly. You come to a complete stop at the entryway, hidden from sight as they continue.

Alexei hums in contemplation. 

“Yeyo devushka khoroshaya. Mne ona nravitsya.”

Her girlfriend seems good. I like her, Alexei says with a note of approval.

Yelena makes a faint sound of agreement, then adds, “I pechen’ye vkusnoye.”

And the cookies are delicious.

You blink, trying to process the whiplash of implications in their conversation. Ring? Proposal? Is that why Natasha wanted you to meet her family?

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, you clear your throat softly and step into the kitchen with your best attempt at casual nonchalance.

“Hey,” you say. “Need any help in here?”

Both Alexei and Yelena freeze at your presence. Alexei’s hand hovers awkwardly over a bowl while Yelena stands motionless with a half-eaten cookie in hand.

You raise a brow, hiding your amusement at their synchronized panic.

Yelena is the first to recover. She gestures toward the side counter. 

“Sure,” she says smoothly. “Can you help with setting the plates? We’re almost done with the food.”

You nod and walk over to the stack of dishes she points to, quietly beginning to lay them out on the table in the dining room.

Behind you, you catch the low whisper of Alexei’s voice again.

“Kak vy dumayete, ona chto-nibud’ slyshala?”

Do you think she heard anything?

Yelena responds under her breath, “Steny zdes' ne sovsem zvukonepronitsayemyye, Alexei. No, k schast’yu, ona ne govorit po-russki.”

These walls aren’t exactly soundproof, Alexei. But luckily she doesn’t speak Russian.

You suppress a smile as you gently place down the last plate, all while perfectly understanding every word.

The moment is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Melina’s voice returns with crisp authority as she steps into the kitchen.

“Looks like everything’s ready. Let’s start dinner.”

Natasha enters just behind her, eyes sweeping the room. Her gaze finds you almost immediately, her lips quirking up in something soft and private, like she knows you’ve handled her family better than she ever could’ve predicted.

You meet her eyes and smile back, warmth blooming in your chest at the revelation of what she wants for your future.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Dinner is warm in more ways than one. The scent of roasted herbs and buttery vegetables fills the room, clinking utensils and soft conversation creating a domestic hum around the table.

Natasha rests her chin against her palm, elbow propped lazily on the table as she watches you. Her gaze trails the subtle movement of your lips as you speak, the easy rhythm of your laughter, the way your hand flicks slightly when telling a story. 

She isn’t even pretending to eat. Her fork idles in her other hand, forgotten.

“You’re staring,” Melina remarks coolly, not even looking up from her plate. “As charming as it is to be hopelessly enamored, Natasha, you should eat before the food gets cold.”

You turn toward her just in time to catch the faintest flush of color on Natasha’s cheeks.

“Can’t really blame her,” you tease, casting Natasha a sly smile, your nerves completely vanishing in the warm, lively energy of her family. “I am objectively captivating.”

Natasha huffs through her nose but says nothing to tease you back. Instead, she nudges her chair just a little closer to yours. Barely noticeable to anyone else.

You glance at her curiously, but don’t press, returning your attention to Alexei across the table as he picks up where he’d left off.

“So you stopped the entire team of enemy operatives alone?” you ask, half in disbelief, half wanting to see how far this story goes.

Alexei puffs up with delight, always eager to relive his Red Guardian glory days for someone who hasn’t heard every exaggerated detail before.

“Alone? Pffft. Of course, alone. You think they could hold me with chains? Bah! They tried. I flexed. One shoulder pop and snap—bindings gone! Like thread around a bear.”

As he gestures grandly—mimicking his escape with dramatic flair—you nod along, engaged, even as Natasha slowly moves her food around her plate, her fork barely tapping the surface.

And then…you feel it.

A warm, deliberate hand slides beneath the edge of the table and lands lightly on your thigh—right at the hem of your skirt. Your back straightens in an instant. Your shoulders square. You glance sharply at her from the side, jaw tight in warning.

But Natasha? She’s chewing quietly, face entirely innocent. Her eyes don’t leave her plate.

You try to focus as Alexei mimics the sounds of panicked guards, but then her fingers give a little squeeze.

You twitch slightly, feet shifting under the table. 

Her hand slides upward, just a little, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh.

Your breath hitches.

Just as her fingers begin to dip higher—exploring—you act fast, clamping your thighs together and catching her hand right in place.

Her fingers wriggle playfully, trapped now, but not at all deterred. In fact, from the subtle upturn of her lips, she looks positively smug.

Across the table, Melina suddenly turns to Natasha, shifting the attention just enough.

“Are you keeping yourself safe during missions?” she asks, tone sharp but not unkind. “I saw that latest intel packet. That explosion was too close.”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Define ‘safe,’” she mutters. “People keep shooting at me.”

“That’s why she has me,” you chime in, clearing your throat and adjusting slightly in your seat as you discreetly reach under the table to grab her hand, intertwining them together and firmly placing them between the two of you. “To pull her out of those things. Preferably before the explosions happen.”

Alexei laughs heartily at that, reaching for his glass.

“I like her,” he says to Melina. “Ona ostraya.”

She’s sharp.

Melina tuts. “It’s rude to speak about her like that right in front of her, Alexei.”

Natasha, without missing a beat, smirks.

“She understands Russian.”

Alexei chokes on his drink. Melina blinks once, then tilts her head, intrigued.

“You do?” she asks you. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrug with a slight grin.

“I’m still learning.”

Melina hums, impressed. 

“Well. In that case, come sit with me. Let’s see how much you do know. Bring the wine.”

She rises and gestures for you to follow her into the living space.

You stand, giving Natasha a squeeze of her fingers in playful chastising for her earlier teasing before letting go.

Natasha watches you and Melina disappear from the kitchen, her eyes trailing after you fondly until she notices the quiet shift in the atmosphere.

She glances back at the table.

Yelena and Alexei are both frozen.

Yelena’s hand hovers just over the container of cookies, and Alexei’s head is bent low, scratching at the back of his neck with obvious guilt.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“This is suspicious,” she says flatly, rising from her seat and stalking over to her sister.

Yelena stiffens. 

“Suspicious, how?” she mutters casually, reaching for a cookie.

Natasha closes the lid of the container and snatches it away before Yelena can grab it. 

“What did you two do?”

Alexei mumbles something into his hand, but Natasha’s already locked on to Yelena, who winces.

“Your girlfriend may have…possibly overheard us talking.”

“About what?” Natasha presses.

“Your ring that you got her,” Yelena admits, bracing for impact, before adding. “And Alexei mentioned you wanting to propose.”

Natasha groans and rubs a hand down her face.

“You two,” she mutters. “I swear to god…”

“Hey, how were we supposed to know she understood Russian?” Yelena defends.

“Da, you should’ve told us, Natasha,” Alexei agrees, crossing his arms.

Natasha just rolls her eyes before glancing toward the living room and sees you laughing softly with Melina as you both talk animatedly in Russian. Instantly, her irritation melts into something softer.

Because you heard. And the information didn’t seem to scare you off.

Placing the container back on the table, Natasha moves to join you. When she enters the living room, the soft clink of glass meeting wood draws her gaze immediately to where you’re seated with Melina. 

You’re curled comfortably into the armchair, cheeks tinged with warmth that isn’t entirely from the room’s temperature. Melina sits in the other armchair beside you, calmly refilling your glass with a steady pour and a faint, impressed smile on her lips.

You don’t even hesitate, raising the glass with a small toast and murmuring thanks in Russian. But your pronunciation is just slightly off. The syllables slur at the edges, your usual clarity muddled.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

She mentally counts—two glasses during dinner, one more after you stepped out with Melina… and now a fourth. Her eyes flick to the bottle on the side table, noting the high alcohol content. 

With a quiet sigh, Natasha strides over. You’re just lifting the glass to your lips again when she gently intercepts it, slipping it from your grasp before you can take another sip.

“Hey…” you whine softly, blinking up at her with a pout.

“Detka,” Natasha sighs, “my family has an elevated alcohol tolerance. You have a normal one.”

Melina lets out a quiet chuckle, unbothered. 

“I’m sorry,” she says with an amused twinkle in her eye. “You were such good company, I may have lost track.”

“It was really nice talking with you,” you say, voice lilting sweetly. “Even if your flower stories scare me a little.”

Melina gives you an affectionate pat on the arm before excusing herself. 

“I’ll leave you alone now. I need to check on the other two before they get into some trouble.”

“Too late,” Natasha mutters.

Once she’s gone, Natasha slides onto the armrest beside your chair, perched just above your shoulder. She’s watching you with the kind of expression that’s both exasperated and deeply fond.

“So,” she says, brow arched. “How are we feeling?”

You beam up at her with the kind of drunken smile that melts her on the spot. 

“S’good,” you say cheerfully, tapping her thigh like you’re letting her in on a secret. “I asked your mom to teach me something.”

Natasha’s brow furrows, intrigued.

“Oh yeah? What’d she teach you?”

You straighten slightly, gathering all your focus like it’s a mission. You take her hand in yours, lifting it gently between you.

You blink once, twice, then look her dead in the eye with as much serious gravity as you can summon in your wine-softened state.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanoff,” you say, slow and deliberate.

Natasha huffs in surprise, a low chuckle escaping her throat, at her full name that you probably got from her mother.

You take a breath, your accent slightly clumsy but the intent is crystal clear as you look up at her and say in Russian.

“Ty vyy-desh' za men-ya za…muzh?”

Will you marry me?

The room stills.

Your voice is slightly off, but the meaning—the emotion—lands with devastating clarity.

Natasha’s heart skips. Her fingers twitch slightly in yours.

“What do you think?” you ask, eyes wide. “Was it close?”

Natasha lets out a slow, shaky laugh and leans in closer, brushing a knuckle under your chin. 

“It was close,” she murmurs, then repeats it back to you, softer and steadier, in her perfect Russian accent.

“Ty vyydesh' za menya zamuzh?”

Will you marry me?

Your breath catches, a quiet smile blooming across your face. And you whisper back. 

“S udovol’stviyem.”

I’d love to.

Natasha leans in and kisses you, slow and gentle, her hand cradling your cheek with a tenderness that quiets everything else. When she pulls back, her lips hover close to yours.

“That’s nice to hear,” she says. “But…even if my family did ruin the surprise, you’re still going to have to wait for the proposal I planned before you get the ring.”

You blink up at her, your smile turning into a small pout that Natasha promptly kisses away.

“Preferably,” she adds, “when you don’t have four glasses of wine in you.”

You giggle softly. 

“So that means I’ll need to visit your family more. That way, your mom can help me practice my vows.”

Natasha gasps in mock hurt, shaking her head as she laughs. 

“Are you replacing me with my mom as your Russian tutor?”

You hum, resting your head briefly against her leg, tracing delicate patterns with your finger.

“You’ll always have the night sessions.”

Natasha’s breath catches at that. She lifts your chin gently, and her lips brush against yours in a lingering kiss. When she pulls away, her voice drops to a whisper.

“Obeshchayesh’?” 

Promise?

You smile, gaze soft as you press your forehead up against hers and whisper back, your voice trembling just slightly from the weight of it.

“Segodnya. Etoy noch’yu. I kazhdyy den’ dal’she. YA s toboy, Natasha.”

Today. This night. And every day after that. I’m with you, Natasha.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

[natromilf]

of course, you're welcomee

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

Thank you so much! I'm honored that you thought of me! 🤗

[natromilf]

been sick for days now :<

[natromilf]

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

If you see this, it's meant to be. Bc I appreciate you all! <3

[natromilf]

🫶🏻🫶🏻

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

appreciate you too moot 🫶🫶

[natromilf]

a/n: I'm back guys, exams all done! thanks for being patient with me. feel free to send as many requests as you would like. summary: y/n gets extremely bored while Alex is working from home and she desperately needs attention. pairing: Alex Cabot x female reader warnings: none word count: 2.5K

masterlist

Bored - Alex Cabot

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and Alex was - unsurprisingly - working. Y/N had long since given up trying to convince her girlfriend that weekends were meant for relaxation. If anything, Alex seemed to take weekends as a personal challenge to be even more productive.

Currently, she was perched at the dining table, glasses low on her nose, typing furiously on her laptop. A neat stack of legal briefs sat beside her, color-coded sticky notes peeking out from the pages like tiny flags of impending doom.

Y/N, on the other hand, was bored to death.

At first, she tried to entertain herself. She scrolled through her phone, watched a few episodes of a show she didn’t really care about, played fetch with their dog (who promptly lost interest after five throws), and even considered cleaning—considered. But it had been hours, and she was dying.

Finally, she decided she’d had enough. With a dramatic sigh, she stood up, walked over to where Alex was working, and leaned down until her chin rested on Alex’s shoulder.

“You wanna get your ass beaten in Uno?” Y/N asked, her voice dripping with challenge.

Alex didn’t even look up. “Mmm. No.”

“Wow. You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did. And I decided no,” Alex replied, typing something that sounded very official and very boring.

Y/N straightened up and narrowed her eyes. “So you’re just gonna work all day while I wither away from lack of attention?”

“You could read a book,” Alex suggested.

“I could also eat glass, but you don’t see me doing that either.”

Alex sighed, finally sparing her a glance. “Give me another hour.”

“Another hour?!” Y/N threw her hands up. “Alexandra, I am a woman on the edge. Either you play Uno with me, or I start acting feral.”

That made Alex smirk. “Feral, huh?”

“Yes. Full chaos mode. No rules. No laws. Do you really want that?”

Alex gave her a look, the kind that said ‘I deal with hardened criminals daily. You do not scare me.’

Y/N huffed. “Fine. You leave me no choice.”

She stalked away, leaving Alex to shake her head and go back to work.

Y/N started small. She “accidentally” dropped things near Alex. A pen here. A book there. At one point, she spilled an entire bag of Skittles onto the floor, each one making an unnecessarily loud plinking noise.

Alex exhaled sharply through her nose. “Are you five?”

“I’m bored,” Y/N groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch.

“You should’ve thought about that before dating a lawyer.”

“Okay, then I have no choice but to escalate.”

Alex shook her head, already resigning herself to whatever nonsense Y/N was about to pull.

She tried snuggling up to Alex, draping herself over her shoulders like a human scarf.

Alex gently pushed her off.

Then tried poking her arm repeatedly.

Alex ignored it.

Y/N started dramatically sighing at random intervals.

Alex turned to her with the patience of a saint. “Is there a reason you’re being extra annoying today?”

“Yes,” Y/N pouted. “You’re not paying attention to me. If I wanted to be neglected, I’d text my landlord about fixing the leak in our sink.”

Alex finally closed her laptop. “Okay. One game. Then I go back to work.”

“One game?” Y/N scoffed. “You’re adorable. It’s never one game.”

Alex rolled her eyes but indulged her anyway, setting her laptop aside as Y/N ran to grab the Uno deck.

They sat across from each other, the cards dealt, the battlefield set. Y/N cracked her knuckles like she was preparing for war.

Alex raised an unimpressed brow. “You’re very dramatic.”

“And you’re about to lose.”

The game started off simple, both of them playing civilly. But then, Y/N played a Draw Four on Alex.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “I see how it is.”

Y/N grinned innocently. “I don’t make the rules.”

Alex drew her four cards, her lawyer brain already calculating revenge.

And then, chaos.

Reverse cards were thrown like daggers. Draw Twos stacked higher than Alex’s legal briefs. Y/N cackled when she skipped Alex for the third time in a row.

“You’re evil,” Alex muttered.

“And you’re losing,” Y/N sing-songed.

But then, Alex played a Draw Four right when Y/N had one card left.

Her smug grin vanished. “No. No, no, no. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do,” Alex said, smirking as she slid the extra cards toward Y/N.

Y/N scowled, snatching them up. “This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Should’ve thought about that before bullying me into playing.”

The game stretched on, both refusing to back down. At one point, Y/N attempted to subtly throw a card under the table, but Alex caught her mid-act.

“Did you just cheat?”

“It’s called creative strategy.”

Alex stared at her, deadpan.

Y/N sighed. “Fine. I may have bent the rules slightly.”

Alex shook her head, laughing. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“That is debatable right now.”

Eventually, after an unfair amount of Draw Twos, Alex won.

Y/N gaped at her. “You cheated.”

“I played legally,” Alex corrected, smirking as she stretched. “And now, I return to work.”

“WHAT?!” Y/N gasped. “You can’t just win and leave!”

“That was the deal.”

“You monster.”

Alex chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Y/N’s forehead before heading back to her laptop. “You’ll survive.”

Y/N crossed her arms, stewing.

And then—

“I challenge you to a rematch.”

Alex didn’t even look up. “Not happening.”

“Best two out of three!”

“Still no.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “I hate dating a lawyer.”

Alex just smirked. “No, you don’t.”

Y/N wasn’t one to accept defeat gracefully. No, she thrived on revenge. And if Alex thought she was going to just sit there quietly while she went back to her boring lawyer things, she had severely underestimated the level of chaos Y/N was willing to unleash.

For a moment, Y/N considered flipping the Uno table. Full, dramatic rebellion. But then she realized it wasn’t a table - it was the dining table. Their dining table. The very expensive, very heavy dining table that Alex would absolutely murder her for damaging.

So, she had to be smarter.

Quietly, Y/N slipped away into the kitchen.

Alex was back to typing, her fingers moving fast over the keyboard. Completely immersed.

Y/N peeked around the corner, watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Then, she snatched a bag of chips from the cabinet, opened it as loudly as humanly possible, and started munching with the crunchiest bites ever.

Alex froze. Slowly, she turned her head.

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

Y/N, mouth full of chips, gave her the most innocent look she could muster. “Huh?” Crunch.

Alex exhaled through her nose, the way she did when opposing counsel said something particularly stupid in court.

Y/N shoved another handful of chips into her mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Alex took a deep breath, visibly practicing restraint. “Y/N...”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Y/N said, plopping down dramatically in a chair. “Just eating my feelings after being brutally betrayed by the love of my life.”

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s Uno. You lose in Uno.”

“You cheated.”

“I played by the rules.”

“Your rules are evil.”

Alex shook her head, turning back to her laptop. “Go find another hobby.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. Alright. Desperate times, desperate measures.

She stood, stretched, and then she flopped onto Alex’s lap. Fully. Bonelessly. Limply.

Alex made a very undignified oof sound. “Jesus, Y/N!”

“You left me no choice,” Y/N said, flopping her arms dramatically over Alex’s shoulders. “You work too much. I am merely redistributing your priorities.”

“By crushing me?”

“It’s called love.”

Alex sighed. “You are the neediest human being alive.”

“And yet, you chose me. So who’s the real fool?”

Alex pursed her lips, trying - and failing - to hide a smirk. “Move.”

“No.”

“I have important things to do.”

“Is it more important than me?” Y/N asked, batting her lashes.

Alex sighed, long-suffering. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

Alex glanced down at her, eyes softening just slightly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Y/N grinned. “Then play another round of Uno with me.”

“No.”

“Best three out of five.”

“Absolutely not.”

Y/N gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. “So you don’t love me?”

Alex rubbed her temples. “That is not what I said.”

“You implied it.”

Alex stared at her, clearly debating whether or not this battle was even worth fighting.

Y/N turned up the puppy eyes—full-force, desperate, devastating.

Alex sighed, defeated. “One. More. Game.”

Y/N beamed, leaping up. “You just sealed your fate.”

Alex chuckled, shaking her head. “If it means I get some peace after, then fine.”

Y/N cackled as she shuffled the deck.

Alex should have known.

She should have expected Y/N to pull some unholy nonsense.

Because five minutes in, Y/N was grinning like a villain.

“Why do you look so smug?” Alex asked warily.

Y/N laid down a Draw Four.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“Pick. Up. Your. Cards.”

Alex begrudgingly picked up four more cards. But as soon as she got rid of a few, Y/N hit her with a stacked Draw Two.

Alex’s jaw clenched.

Y/N smirked. “You mad?”

Alex gave her a flat look. “No.”

“Because it seems like you’re mad.”

Alex took a slow, deep breath. “Play your next card.”

Y/N played another Reverse.

Alex’s nostrils flared. “You just want to see me suffer.”

“Would you not do the same to me?”

Alex didn’t answer. Because she absolutely would have.

And then, the worst betrayal of all—

Alex had one card left.

Y/N played a Draw Four.

Alex stared at her, jaw tightening, fingers tapping against the table.

Y/N grinned. “You were saying?”

Alex inhaled sharply, picked up her four cards, and exhaled. “I’m dating an actual gremlin.”

“And winning,” Y/N added.

Alex shook her head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Extremely,” Y/N agreed.

Alex sighed, dropping her cards. “Fine. You win. Happy?”

Y/N beamed, throwing her arms around Alex. “I knew you’d see reason!”

Alex shook her head, kissing the top of Y/N’s head before pulling away. “Okay, now can I get back to work?”

Alex had gone back to her laptop, once again convinced that she had won the battle and secured her productivity for the rest of the day.

Y/N, however, was nothing if not determined.

She had tried being annoying. She had tried cheating in Uno. She had tried physically attaching herself to Alex like an overgrown koala. But clearly, all of these tactics had only resulted in temporary victories.

So, she had to be smarter.

More strategic.

And thus, the most diabolical plan formed in her mind.

She decided to go for a run.

But not just any run.

A very intentional run.

She changed into the tightest pair of leggings she owned, leggings that had once made Alex walk into a wall when she first saw Y/N wearing them. Paired it with a sports bra that left very little to the imagination. And, because she was committed to the cause, she even pulled her hair into a high ponytail, knowing full well that Alex had a very specific weakness for that.

Then, without saying a word, she grabbed her headphones, shot Alex a quick innocent smile, and left the apartment.

Alex didn’t even look up.

Perfect.

Now, all she had to do was get really sweaty.

About forty minutes later, Y/N returned, successfully looking like she had just finished competing in the Olympics.

Her skin glistened with sweat. Her leggings clung to her like they were painted on. Her sports bra was damp. She was slightly out of breath, strands of hair stuck to her forehead. She looked like one of those insanely attractive people in workout commercials, except this was all very real.

And she knew it.

She strolled inside, tossing her keys onto the counter, stretching her arms up with an exaggerated groan.

Alex still didn’t look up.

Fine.

Time to turn up the heat.

“God,” Y/N sighed dramatically, walking toward the fridge. “That was a good run. I’m so hot.”

Alex hummed absentmindedly, still typing.

Oh, we’re gonna fix that.

Y/N grabbed a water bottle, twisted the cap off, and tipped her head back, drinking in a way that was entirely unnecessary. A few drops dribbled down her throat, over her collarbone, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

Still, Alex. Did. Not. Look.

Fine. She wanted to play it cool? Y/N would break her resolve.

She grabbed a towel, walking right past Alex’s chair as she started patting down her sweaty chest.

And then – finally - Alex’s typing paused.

Y/N had to fight every instinct not to smirk.

“Good run?” Alex asked, voice suspiciously even.

“Mmm,” Y/N hummed, stretching again. “So good. I feel amazing. But, ugh, I got so sweaty.”

Another pause.

Y/N casually leaned against the table, stretching one leg behind her, subtly accentuating things. “Gotta cool down. Maybe take a long shower.”

Alex exhaled through her nose.

Y/N smirked. Gotcha.

She walked around the table, standing directly behind Alex, hands landing on her shoulders.

“Wow,” Y/N murmured, kneading gently. “You’re so tense. All that work stressing you out?”

Alex stiffened slightly but didn’t react.

Y/N leaned in closer, her lips dangerously near Alex’s ear. “You know, exercise is great for stress. You should join me next time. We could work up a sweat together.”

Alex’s hands paused on the keyboard.

Y/N smirked. “Or, you know, I could just shower alone.”

Alex slammed her laptop shut.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, turning in her chair to finally look at Y/N.

And oh, the way her eyes darkened as they swept over her? Y/N felt victorious.

“Something wrong, Counselor?” Y/N asked, all fake innocence.

Alex exhaled sharply. “You planned this.”

“Planned what?”

Alex leaned back, arms crossed, a tiny smirk playing at her lips. “This. The whole running, sweating, stretching, looking like that.” She gestured vaguely at Y/N’s entire existence.

Y/N shrugged. “Can’t a girl just get a workout in without being accused of crimes?”

“You do nothing without an agenda.”

Y/N beamed. “Exactly. So, what’s it gonna be? You back to work? Or are you gonna let me kick your ass in Monopoly?”

Alex sighed, running a hand through her hair, gaze lingering on Y/N’s abs for a fraction too long.

Alex let out a long, long breath.

Then - without a word - she stood up, grabbed Y/N’s wrist, and started pulling her toward the bedroom.

Y/N blinked. “Wait. Where are we going? Monopoly’s in the living room-”

Alex shot her a look.

A very dangerous look.

Y/N gulped. “Oh.”

Alex smirked. “You wanted my attention? You’ve got it now.”

Y/N grinned.

Game. Set. Match.

[natromilf]

🫶🏻

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

😭🥰 i appreciate you so so much too

[natromilf]

hehe

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

love you, love you 🫶🫶

[natromilf]

you're welcome 🫶🏻

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

Thank you very much friend 🥰🥰

[natromilf]

https://www.tumblr.com/natromilf/789165166415773696/thinking-about-nat-x-actress-reader-when-nat-saw?source=share

would you maybe write a fic for this?🥺🙏🙏 or you're not a writer? :((

hi anon <33 i would but unfortunately im not a writer :<

to all of my author moots here please PLEASE could someone write this 🥹🥹

[natromilf]

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

aw thank youuuu 🥹

[natromilf]

Hi. I just came to say that I think the new Jurassic World did a great job at making me miss Nat a little extra.

hii omg sorry i just saw this, ME TOO! but somehow they are different. rip nat she would've love zora

[natromilf]

TURBULENT FLIGHT.

✷ n. romanoff x fem!flight attendant!reader

Warnings: Explicit content, g!p!nat, dom!nat, sub!reader, p in v, creampie, no condoms used, Natasha squeezes your wrists, slight tightness in the neck, use of "little slut", explicit language, degradation, dirty talk, fingering (r receiving), almost established relationship, Natasha soft at the end, aftercare, soft ending. Minors dni.

The Avengers jet rocked violently in the storm, but you were too busy getting ripped apart in the co-pilot's seat to worry about turbulence.

Natasha had you bent over the controls, your flight attendant uniform hiked up to your waist, her hands gripping your wrists.

"You look so beautiful when you try to be professional," she growled in your ear, her cock pumping inside you, making your body shake like an earthquake.

The panel in front of you flashed red alerts.

"N-Natasha, the autopilot…"

"Quiet," she ordered, increasing her pace as a gloved hand closed around your throat. "You think I can't fly you and this aircraft at the same time?"

Your body writhed between the control panels and her heat, each thrust calculated to drive you insane. You tried to swallow your moans, but Natasha tugged on your hair, forcing your bow back.

"I want to hear how much you're enjoying this, damn you—"

The jet plunged into a rush of air, and you bounced onto her lap, taking every inch with a scream. Natasha laughed against your skin, mastering the turbulence and your body with the same deadly precision.

"That... feels so good to me," she murmured, her teeth scraping your shoulder as her hands marked your waist. "I'm going to make you useless for any more flights."

When you came, it was with a muffled scream against her shoulder, your body convulsing around her. Natasha didn't stop, just gripped your hips and sank all the way in, making you feel every vein in her cock as she unloaded with an animalistic growl.

The silence that followed was broken only by the wet sound as she finally pulled out, leaving you trembling and leaking in the pilot's seat.

"Looks like we have a leak problem," Natasha murmured, sliding her fingers between your trembling legs and bringing them to her mouth with a predatory smile. "Luckily, I'm a maintenance specialist."

Your body was still throbbing as she pulled you back onto her lap, her cock now soft but still impressive against your thigh. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as her fingers found your swollen clit.

"Natasha!"

"Quiet," she ordered, pinching your inner thigh. "Or I'll have to ground you in the cargo hold." Her eyes flashed as she felt you pulse against her fingers at that threat.

"Do you like it when I use you like this?" Natasha growled, increasing the angle to hit you deeper. "When I turn my good flight attendant into a quivering little slut?"

The jet tilted sharply as it began its descent. Natasha didn't stop, her fingers working you with surgical precision, each movement calculated to bring you to the edge again.

"Come on, sweetheart," she teased, feeling your body writhe. "Show me how a good girl begs for more."

When the landing gear hit the runway with a jolt, you exploded into her arm, your fingers leaving marks on the copilot's controls. Natasha held you tightly, kissing your sweaty neck.

With a gentle movement, she helped you to your feet, your legs still trembling like jelly. Natasha pulled a tissue from her coat pocket, kneeling in front of you, and gently cleaned you, leaving a small kiss on the inside of your thigh when she was finished.

"Ready for landing, sweetheart?" Natasha murmured, her tone now surprisingly sweet as she helped you compose yourself. Her fingers, which had been domineering moments before, now arranged your uniform with meticulous care, as if she were assembling a work of art.

"Tony will never let you fly the jet again," you said, looking at the scratched dashboard and seat.

"Ah, Tony..." Natasha smiled, running her hand over the marks on the seat with an almost affectionate caress. "He'll complain for about two minutes, until I remind him about that party in Monte Carlo where he wrecked a rented Porsche."

Her fingers, now surprisingly gentle, straightened the collar of your uniform. "Besides," she added, her voice low and intimate, "some things are worth a little mess."

As they descended the jet's steps, the storm had passed, leaving only the starry night sky. Natasha took off her own coat and draped it over your shoulders, shielding you from the chilly hangar wind.

"I'll take you home," she said, wrapping a firm arm around your waist. "You deserve to rest after such an intense flight."

Her blue-green eyes shone with a silent promise as she opened the car door for you. "But don't get too used to this gentle treatment," she warned, pinching your chin.

"Tomorrow we'll be back to normal," Natasha murmured, adjusting the seatbelt in your lap with surprisingly gentle hands. Her blue-green eyes shone in the dashboard light, revealing a rare tenderness few had the privilege of seeing.

The car engine hummed softly as she drove through the wet city streets. Her fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel in time with a song only she could hear. Every now and then, she'd steal glances at you, as if memorizing every detail of your still-flushed face.

"You know," she broke the silence, her voice softer than you'd ever heard, "there are calmer ways to get through a storm."

You laughed, feeling a strange warmth fill your chest. "But where would be the fun in that?"

Natasha smiled, a genuine, disarming expression that made your heart race. "Exactly."

Natasha parked the car with her usual precision, but left the engine running for an extra moment, her fingers still intertwined with yours. The rain had stopped, leaving only the glow of the city lights reflected in the fogged windows.

"You know I don't need you to walk me to the door," you murmured, a hint of a smile.

She gave you that expression you loved—half-irritated, half-affectionate. "And I don't need you to remind me that I know that." Her thumb traced gentle circles on your wrist. "But I like seeing you get in safely."

When they finally got out of the car, Natasha grabbed her purse from the backseat with a care that contrasted with the intensity of hours ago. The goodnight kiss was different from the others, slow, deep, full of the intimacy that only years of complicity could bring. When they broke apart, Natasha rested her forehead against yours.

"Tomorrow," she promised, her voice husky. "We'll do it right. With dinner first."

"Dinner?" you scoffed. "Who are you, and what have you done with Natasha Romanoff?"

She chuckled softly before pulling away. "The same woman who will fuck you so well afterward that you'll forget your own name. But first, food."

When you stepped into the elevator, she was still there, watching as she always did, your protector, your lover, your personal paradox of fire and gentleness.

And in the pocket of her coat you were wearing, you found the key to her room in the Avengers Tower along with a note:

"For when you get tired of waiting for me. - N."

[natromilf]

oh gawdd 🥺

Perfectly Made

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 5k

.

Perfect, technically means to be without flaws. But, the thing about flaws is that they’re subjective.

When you looked at the bullet wound scar on Natasha’s abdomen, you felt like your chest was being crushed. It hurt because she had been hurt. Every time your lips passed over it, you made a point to kiss the marked skin.

Because, Natasha was still perfect.

.

Everyone at Shield thought that Agent Romanoff was flawless. You’d spent your time with the agency hearing stories of missions. The tales were half legend, but the biggest rumour was that all the stories were true.

You pretended it was professional jealousy that left you breathless when you passed her in the corridors. You were rising fast at Shield, but Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff walked through the base like they owned it. Deep down you liked her confidence, she’d earned it.

Then, there was the accident. A broken wrist, Fury had told you. Someone had known exactly how to remove Agent Barton from action. Files were slid across the desk to you, Avengers Initiative, Temporary Placement.

There’d been briefings after briefings. You didn’t need hours of discussion to understand their point. Agent Romanoff couldn’t lose mission preparedness. You were going to be the knock off Clint, the stand in for training and any standard missions until his return.

Your heart thumped with anticipation and fear as you were led through the Avengers Training Facility. Agent Hill’s hand had pressed lightly between your shoulder blades as she nudged you forwards into the gym.

You’d stumbled slightly before catching your stride. You felt like a kid at the playpark, told to go and make a new friend. You walked over to the treadmill hesitantly. You didn’t announce your presence, you knew she could hear your footsteps. She didn’t stop running, she didn’t even glance over.

‘Agent Romanoff.’ You tried after a moment. Her eyes moved across to you but her pace didn’t lessen.

‘Yes?’ The single word had bite. You only felt the sting of it until you noticed her eyes. Wariness filled them, unadulterated in a way that surprised you.

The silence lingered as you suddenly understood the real mission. Agent Barton wasn’t just the best partner for Agent Romanoff at Shield, he was also the only one she’d ever had.

You were both awkward kids pushed together at the playpark. You’d seen the apprehension in her eyes, and now, you could see right through the rest of the mask.

She wanted you to like her too.

You hopped onto the neighbouring treadmill and got started.

.

There was something about walking back to your new apartment suite with Natasha that settled the pair of you. Maybe it was being exhausted and sweaty in front of your hero and secret crush. Or, it was the smile that had crept onto Natasha’s face as you’d asked her about some of the missions you’d heard so many stories about.

When you turned to enter your apartment, Natasha touched your shoulder briefly. You startled, her fingers feeling pleasantly cool on your skin, still hot from the workout.

‘I’m the next door on the right.’ She informed you and, again, you saw the tentativeness radiating from her. ‘Let’s talk later?’

.

You ended up spending the evening sitting together on her sofa. The conversation flowed well but you were definitely making an effort. You posed each question gently, unsure which one might be too intrusive. Natasha answered everything with a raised eyebrow, as if she couldn’t believe you cared enough to ask. Her hesitations and careful answers were endearing. Sometimes, in the brief pauses, you saw her eyes flicker over you. You knew she was waiting for the interest to die down, trying to assess what part of her you were really interested in.

.

It took most of the evening until you even thought to ask for something to drink. It was the first time that Natasha had looked really flummoxed by a question.

‘Check the fridge.’ She said, like the contents were as much a mystery to her as to you. You got up to check and found an empty appliance, save for two water bottles and a bag of apples. Uncertainty swung like a pendulum inside you.

You took a water bottle and sat back down next to her. Real Housewives of Somewhere played needlessly on the television.

‘Are you not hungry?’ You asked your most tentative question as you unscrewed the bottle cap.

‘I’ll pick something up later.’ Natasha had replied with a perfectly timed yawn and a sudden reason to say goodnight. As you walked back to your room, you knew one more unsaid thing about Natasha.

Agent Barton had been doing the cooking.

.

The next morning when you met Natasha at the gym, you brought reinforcements. You waved at her with a friendliness that was still a little preemptive. Her returning smile was careful.

You held her gaze when you thrust the energy bar into her hand without a word - too busy chewing on one of your own.

You’d bought apple flavoured. You hated apples, but Natasha had given few context clues and the bag of fruit you’d found in her fridge was all you had.

Natasha’s smile widened when she took a bite.

. »

You were part of the Avengers Initiative for exactly three months.

Each day for exactly three months, you accidentally made too much dinner. Each evening, for exactly three months, you had to knock on your neighbour's door and offer her some leftovers.

It took the full 12 weeks for you to become remotely accustomed to the taste of apple oat bars.

You became accustomed to a lot of things.

The quiet focus of Natasha in the morning training sessions. The way that her hair curled slightly when you sparred well enough for her to sweat in the hot gym.

The way her head rested on your shoulder as you watched TV. Placed lightly at first, as if the gesture always needed your permission to continue. Then, heavier and heavier as you both sank together into a comfortable position on the sofa.

You were even used to her texts now. Ones that referenced American pop culture so adeptly that, sometimes, you’d have to use Google to understand them. The way she mentioned your private jokes over the comms at the worst points on missions, reminding you that she knew you and that she had your back.

When you first met Clint, he shook your hand like an old friend.

When he caught sight of Natasha coming along the corridor, you watched his shoulders loosen with the release of tension. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting it go.

If you hadn’t known Natasha like you did, you’d have felt like a cat sitter who’d done a good job.

You turned away for their reunion, leaving to pack up the best 12 weeks of your life and return to a normal life that would always feel disappointing now.

Half an hour later, there was a knock at your door. You opened it, wondering if this was going to be like a moment in a movie.

Your heart leapt automatically, Natasha was standing in the doorway. Then you felt the confusion spread through you as you took in the large cardboard box, balanced against her waist. The branding on the side was familiar.

‘The largest I could find was a box of 200.’ Natasha told you succinctly. Your head tilted in confusion and she continued promptly.

‘For all those breakfasts.’ Natasha thrust the box out towards you. ‘Thanks for always offering me your second energy bar.’

Natasha’s smile was genuine, her eyes were oblivious. You didn’t move to take the box.

‘I don’t even like apples.’ You said stupidly. Natasha’s lips parted in shock, you saw confusion cross her face.

You leaned over the cardboard box. You felt her breath against your face when she huffed out in surprise. You were impossibly close.

Your lips found hers, feeling the same tenderness in your stomach as you did with every touch she’d ever given you.

She was soft, warm and perfect.

‘I just like you.’ You told her, finally.

.

You never moved out of that apartment. Temporary placement became Avenger In Training.

You never stopped cooking for Natasha either. Except, now you didn’t have to pretend it was all accidental leftovers. Now, you planned for dinner every night. You weren’t an expert cook by any means. For the first few months, you worried more than anything that she’d get sick of the repetitiveness of your recipes. You could only make so much spaghetti.

But, there was something about the days when you’d get word of Natasha returning from a mission. When she’d open her own front door with a nervous expectation that maybe this time you wouldn’t be waiting for her.

The way your eyes would lock onto each other and she’d take the few steps across the room, burying her face into the crook of her neck and letting your arms wrap around her.

‘It’s good to be home.’ Natasha would mumble, and you’d feel a swoop at her words because you knew she didn’t mean her apartment.

‘What smells so good?’ She’d ask, and you’d feel her lips moving against your skin more than you could hear the words.

Then, you’d grin and say, like always.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’

Natasha would kiss your collarbone and you’d kiss her hair.

Even when she fell asleep on the sofa before the food was ready, it still felt perfect.

.

It was Clint who must have spilled the secret about your cooking. Soon, the Avengers - who you’d barely even been in a room with before - began dropping by Natasha’s apartment every evening. It felt like adopting a group of appreciative strays.

Sometimes, you remembered how untouchable Natasha and Clint had seemed when you’d first joined Shield. Now you sat alongside superheroes at the dinner table and saw how much they all longed for company and home cooked food.

You didn’t complain about it, but the effort required for cooking also increased significantly. Soon, the dread of making dinner filled you up more than food ever could. You adapted the recipes you knew, adding x10 to most of the ingredients. Every evening, your kitchen felt more like a school cafeteria than it had the night before.

The only part you loved was Natasha’s quiet enjoyment of your company. Each night, Natasha returned from training earlier than the night before. Soon, her reasons for being early became less and less thought out. Soon, she didn’t bother with an excuse at all.

You’d hear the front door shut, and feel her arms snake around your front as she pressed against you, barely hindering your chopping or dicing. Her breath would tickle your neck as she rested her chin on your shoulder peacefully, watching you work.

.

Your comment that night had been offhanded, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it.

Tony had brought you a cooking apron with the Iron Chef America logo emblazoned on the front. Stark Industries had taken to sponsoring most ‘Iron’ themed things and this had clearly been part of the latest promotional campaign. He smirked as you put it on good naturedly.

‘Perfect.’ He declared. You made an ironic model’s pose with a pair of oven gloves already on your hands. Tony laughed loudly.

‘You’ll never leave the kitchen again.’ He declared.

You rolled your eyes in playful frustration.

‘I never do as it is.’

Tony turned then, spotting Natasha as she leaned against the bedroom door frame. You glanced at the ground, feeling a wave of shyness as you realised Natasha’s attention had been openly on you.

‘You’d better start pulling your weight, Nat.’ He warned with a tease.

Only you saw the flicker of uncertainty in Natasha’s eyes.

.

You didn’t think any more of it until the next evening. Natasha arrived at her apartment with a smug grin on her face and a paper bag in her hand.

‘Takeout.’ She announced, placing the bag unceremoniously on the coffee table, before throwing herself down next to you on the sofa.

‘I gave Clint the rest, the vultures can circle his apartment for once.’

She grinned at you, obviously pleased with her solution. You threw your head back against the sofa dramatically, surprised at the relief you felt. You’d never been a regular cook. But, it’d been six months since you’d started dating Natasha and, apart from a handful of dates when you’d both found time to leave the Avengers facility, you’d cooked dinner every day.

A sigh left your mouth and you closed your eyes for a second, revelling in the moment. Then, you turned your head to the side, catching Natasha’s eyes and reaching out a hand to hold hers.

‘Thank you.’ You told her, voice laced with obvious gratitude.

Natasha’s expression looked suddenly conflicted.

‘Do you like cooking?’ She asked quietly, her face consciously wiped clean of any hints of her own emotion. An awkward tension filled the room at once. You rubbed your thumb in circles on the back of her hand.

‘I don’t mind.’ You answered after a moment, trying for something close to the truth, though the words still tasted like a lie on your tongue.

.

After you’d eaten your fill of the takeout. Natasha put her hand on your thigh.

‘I’ll take care of tomorrow’s dinner.’ She informed you, matter of factly. You grinned, feeling seen and loved all in one heady rush.

‘What time should I come over?’ You asked with excitement.

‘Maybe you should just stop leaving.’ She mumbled, crawling onto your lap and tilting your chin up towards her with a single finger.

You stayed that night at her place and every night after.

.

You thought the repeat of takeout the next night was only because you’d both spent most of the day packing up your stuff. Then, before you knew it, a week had passed and you’d tried cuisine from seven different countries already.

You didn’t know how to tell Natasha that, for you, ‘taking care of dinner’ didn’t equate to ‘ordering in some food’.

The other Avengers took the change of circumstances with limited annoyance, returning without complaint to their past diet of food from the staff cafeteria and their own takeout preferences.

.

It took two more weeks before you brought it up to Natasha. There was a new pride in her demeanour and you knew how entangled her happiness was with your own.

You had moved in. Now, she was keeping you fed.

You loved her for the way she cared about you. It made you feel safe and whole.

Every night, Natasha took you into the bed that was now yours to share. She touched you reverently, her fingers slow and lingering. Each brush of her lips thanking you for staying another night with her.

.

‘I know you’re busy.’ You started nervously, picking the rushed morning as your best moment to bring up the conversation you’d been nervous about.

Natasha’s back was facing you, but she slowed her movements immediately. Her head tilted as she waited for your next words, fingers still dragging her tank top past her midriff.

‘I don’t want to be an inconvenience.’ You tried again, losing your train of thought at the most inopportune time when you caught sight of her fingers trailing slowly down her bare waist.

‘You want to leave.’ Natasha answered for you. Her tone was neutral but her voice cracked. ‘You can just say so. It’s not been working out.’

There was a pause as her words registered.

‘Oh, Natasha.’ You murmured at the realisation of what she’d been expecting from you.

Natasha turned around then, eyes bright with tears that she was too proud to let fall.

‘It’s okay.’ She told you, even though her mouth was twisting with hurt. ‘I know I’m not easy to live with.’

You moved around the bed, the tiny tremble in her lower lip compelling you closer to her.

‘It’s okay.’ She repeated. ‘It’s okay.’ Her voice broke again but she kept repeating the words, mumbling more each time.

Your hand pressed slowly against her abdomen, calling her back to you. Natasha stopped speaking abruptly, avoiding your eye contact determinedly.

‘You are perfect.’ You told her seriously, Natasha’s eyes closed at your words and you could feel how much she wanted to believe you.

You kissed her carefully and lightly, trying to tell her how much you wanted her all the time. Your fingers trailed up the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.

‘How could I not want to live with you?’ You murmured against her lips. Natasha kissed you fervently, her hand on your waist holding on just a little too tight.

.

‘I just had an idea.’ You told her as you headed to the elevator a few minutes later, both feeling late enough to hurry your matching strides.

‘Maybe next week, we could take turns cooking?’ You suggested hesitantly. ‘If you don't have time though, I don't mind -’

You watched many emotions slide across Natasha’s face, reflected on the elevator doors that faced you.

‘Let me start.’ Natasha told you a moment later, voice full of resolve. ‘I’ll make you something special on Monday night.’

You couldn’t help but beam at her offer, interlacing your fingers with hers.

‘I’m planning on going grocery shopping on Sunday.’ You started to say, playing at shy. ‘Want to carpool?’

Natasha’s returning smile was small but genuine.

.

You’d anticipated no more than an hour at the grocery store. You walked separately to Natasha, at her own insistence. Still, before you headed to the checkout, you sought her out. You spotted her, still near the front of the store, head bent as she stood, engrossed in her phone screen.

You stilled when you noticed the tell tale markers that she normally never displayed in public. The piece of hair she was twisting between her thumb and forefinger. The furrowed brow, her jaw clenched with silent frustration.

You watched silently as she turned to another customer, showing them something on her phone. They gestured to the products on the shelf, clearly explaining something. Natasha nodded and, for once, you saw the clear exhaustion that she usually kept so well hidden.

It was the same tiredness you’d occasionally seen in the lines of her more careful smiles; a painful self awareness that she didn’t fit quite right in a situation. You hoped desperately that being with you didn’t feel like another role she had to play.

.

It was rare for you to return to the apartment after Natasha. But, on Monday, when you opened the door, it seemed like she might have been there all day.

The dishes stacked in the sink were almost comical. Natasha’s hair was tied up, strands falling out of the messy bun. The heat of the kitchen seemed to have made her more dishevelled than any workout ever had. Natasha still looked perfect.

‘You’re back.’ She called out softly as she spotted you hovering. Any nervousness you had, slipped away at the ease of Natasha’s smile.

‘I’m back.’ You confirmed brightly, heading around the kitchen island. ‘What smells so good?’ Now, Natasha’s smile really went wide.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’ She told you with mock solemnity, holding her serious expression until you’d thoroughly kissed it from her face.

‘I love you.�� You told her.

Natasha’s expression stumbled in surprise, her hand reached out to your chest as if bracing from the shock. Then, she regained herself. Her fingers slipped under your shirt and she pulled you closer with a tug on the fabric.

‘Yeah?’ Natasha teased, a blinding brightness to her smile. ‘Well, maybe I love you too.’

.

You felt like you were flying. You didn’t come down to Earth until long after you’d finished the meal. The lasagne was delicious. Natasha smiled gently at your praise, quieter than usual. You loved her distractedness, knowing her mind was still focused on your earlier words. Her hand rested on your thigh whilst you ate.

Natasha moved to deal with the stack of dishes as soon as you’d finished eating. You decided to take the plentiful leftovers over to Clint’s. It was still early, and you thought you might catch the others before they called in their takeout orders.

Clint answered his door with his usual smile. You held out the dish, letting it speak for itself. Clint’s eyes lit up immediately.

‘I love your lasagne.’ He told you seriously. You smirked, wondering if you’d ever hear the word ‘love’ again without feeling at least a small jolt of joy.

‘It’s Natasha’s actually.’ You informed him. Clint laughed.

‘No, it’s not.’ He dismissed you with certainty.

‘Yes.’ You insisted, feeling suddenly defensive of your girlfriend.

‘Jarvis.’ Clint called to the ceiling, knowing how to prove his case. ‘Did anyone receive a food delivery today?’

.

You walked back to your apartment, a little shell shocked. You caught sight of Natasha from the doorway, cleaning the last of the dishes. She rolled her eyes playfully at you, glancing down at the large plate in her hands.

Dishes she hadn’t even used.

The meal had been delivered twenty minutes before you’d arrived home. Natasha had barely kept it warm in the oven.

.

You couldn’t tell her you knew. You tried not to dwell on the lie. More than anything, you were confused.

You took her up to the roof, hoping that seeing the stars together would keep the night as special as it had felt before you spoke to Clint.

Natasha wore your sweater. Her eyes seemed so large when they faced the night’s sky.

She was extra quiet, sensing your mood and trying to match it, even if she didn’t understand what was wrong.

Her smile was nervous when she dragged her eyes away from the stars and back to you. She played with the sleeve of the sweater.

Natasha was still perfect. She always would be.

You remembered your faith in her. You realised that you’d accidentally built the role that she’d started to play. You wanted to tell her that she was perfect for who she was, not who she was trying to be.

Instead, you found a piece of the lightness that you knew Natasha was trying so hard to have.

‘I love you to the stars and back.’ You told her, letting your easy smile wash away the doubts in her eyes.

.

The consequences of small lies really begin when they start to spiral. You promised Natasha that you wanted to get back into cooking again. You knew she didn’t believe you, you knew she saw through it. Still, she nodded neutrally at your words.

You both pretended that the meal times felt the same as they had before. You were overcompensating, playing music as you cooked and trying out new recipes.

Natasha was retreating. Her hands barely brushed your shoulders each evening when she returned to find you cooking.

You’d never been inauthentic with her. But now there was a falseness at the dinner table that you couldn’t control. Natasha started coming home later.

Worse were the days when she’d text you, telling you she was going to eat something with Clint instead. She didn’t invite you and you didn’t assume an invitation. Natasha was pulling away, and neither of you addressed the weird elephant in the room.

How can you tell someone they're perfect, when they’ve tried so hard to hide their flaws from you.

.

Natasha’s discomfort was obvious from the way she stood in the bedroom doorway. Not entering or leaving. You were already in bed, she’d stayed late at Clint’s. Things felt lonely.

‘Thursday is Thanksgiving.’ She told you.

‘Yes, it is.’ You said, looking up from your laptop. You wondered if Natasha felt the same awful anticipation in her stomach. The lingering fear that your relationship couldn’t sustain itself much longer, the inability to divert the train from its tracks.

‘Clint wants you to meet his family.’ Her words were unexpected. You wondered if her wording had been intentional or accidental.

‘And, what do you want?’ You clarified, your voice filled with the caution that you’d never had with Natasha until recently.

‘We should go.’ She answered indirectly, leaving to get ready in the bathroom. You lay your head back against your pillow. You saw the writing on the wall, this wasn’t going to last the holidays.

On Wednesday night, you came back to the messiest apartment you’d ever seen. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight of Natasha in the kitchen. The facade of the last meal she’d ‘cooked’ was obvious in comparison to this.

‘Laura asked us to make brownies.’ Natasha told you briefly, meeting your curious expression with a flat one of her own. There was a tray of batter in her hand. The slight burning smell in the room told you it wasn’t her first attempt.

‘I can-’ You started, taking a step forward.

‘No.’ Natasha told you, with a bite that her words rarely had with you. Her expression was miserable and fierce all at once. ‘It’s fine.’

You retreated to the bedroom. You pretended to be asleep when Natasha finally came to bed. You waited until her breathing had evened out before you snuck back through to the kitchen.

You found the brownies still in their tray. Your nose wrinkled automatically at the smell.

2 hours later and you’d made a decent batch. You took Natasha’s attempt out to the trash.

You hated yourself in that moment.

It didn’t matter to you, and yet, you knew it mattered to her. You were helping to cover up the flaws that you didn’t even see.

You left the kitchen exactly as you found it and went back to bed.

.

The next morning, with both of you dressed and ready, you stood with your heart in your mouth as Natasha took out the tray of brownies.

With one cursory glance at the tray, Natasha slammed it down on the counter, making you jump.

‘I’m sorry.’ You started, but your words were lost to Natasha’s.

‘I’m not fucking stupid.’ She told you and you saw her hands clench.

‘I never said you were.’ You retorted, feeling your own frustration bubble up.

‘Well, you obviously think so.’ Natasha's voice rose in volume but the vulnerability in it made her sound small.

‘I’m not stupid.’ She said again, and you saw the tears filling her eyes. ‘I can learn a language in less than a week. I have perfect fucking aim. But no-one taught me how to do this.’

Her arm raised to gesture at the tray of brownies.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ You murmured quietly. ‘How can you think that it matters to me?’

You caught that secret exhaustion of hers in the resigned sigh that came before her words.

‘How can I not?’ Natasha muttered, avoiding your eyes and picking up the tray. ‘It’s just another piece of me that doesn’t fit.’

She moved towards the door and your hand caught her arm. Her eyes met your own and it stung like electricity.

‘We should talk about this.’ You said, voice cracking. Your eyes burned with tears.

‘You should stay.’ Natasha told you, and just like that, you realised she was really saying goodbye. You watched the door close behind her, standing there dumbly.

.

Clint texted you when Natasha left their house.

Foul mood unless the kids were there, was his glowing review of her visit.

You were too nervous to sit down. You shifted from foot to foot, wondering if you should have just packed up your belongings and left. You knew that’s what she was expecting.

You tried to reassure yourself with the memory of Natasha and the box of cereal bars. You glanced at the kitchen counter, wishing you’d cleaned it up properly. You picked up the apron that was strewn across the island in the middle.

Your heart stopped when you heard her unlock the door.

At first, when Natasha saw you standing there, her face held the same expression as it did when she returned from missions. Hopeful and relieved. Something settled automatically in your chest.

Then, her gaze dropped to the apron and you saw her mouth twist with the repressed hurt. The memory of the morning.

‘Oh, no.’ You mumbled immediately, feeling hurried by the strange embarrassment you felt. ‘Obviously, this isn’t for you.’

Natasha’s hand stopped you in your tracks. You froze at her expression and realised she’d heard an insult not a clarification.

‘Why?’ Natasha asked, voice rasping. ‘Are you trying to make a fucking point?’

‘No.’ You tried to assure her, crumpling the fabric in your hand, wishing you’d planned this better. ‘I heard what you said earlier.’

Natasha’s head tilted and you knew she didn’t believe you. You stopped trying to say the right thing and, instead, all the words you felt fell from your mouth.

‘I never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.’ You blurted out. Now, Natasha’s expression froze, leaving only the wariness in her eyes as she waited for you to continue.

‘I don’t care if you can cook.’ You started. ‘Do you really think I’m here, measuring you against some secret expectations?’ Natasha looked confused. You dropped the apron and took her hands instead.

‘The more of you that I get to see, the more you stand there waiting for me to leave. But, that’s not what I want.’ You mumbled, looking away for the first time as you tried to fight tears. Everything you cared about hung in the balance. ‘You said that you don’t fit sometimes. But you do. You fit. We fit.’

There was a moment, as Natasha registered your words.

.

Carefully, Natasha moved forwards. She buried her face in the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped around her like so many times before. The sudden relief burned in your chest. This was still familiar. You were still her home.

‘I’ll always think you’re perfect, Natasha.’ You whispered as your lips kissed her hair.

[natromilf]

norway natasha hits different 🥺

Safe

Norway!NR x civilian!r that ran away with her after the Sokovia Accords

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Going on the run changed her. She may appear soft, civilian clothes and windswept hair tempering the untouchable image of the Black Widow, but she’s hardened now, guarded, forced into detachment by the need to protect. You just want your girlfriend back.

Based on this request

It’s a given considering the request, but 18+

Author's note: I hope you meant sex against the trailer, anon, because that's what I wrote. Also, I think there are more feelings in this and less sex than you may have wanted… whoopsie. I can write more Natasha smut later. Norway!Natasha is simply the loml, and I wanted to do her justice

Norway is cold. It’s cold, quiet, and rather uneventful.

If you asked Natasha, she’d describe it as safe. That’s always the answer you receive when you question Norway. Why not Italy? Why not the Netherlands? Peru? Australia? Japan?

Because Norway is safe. Safe, safe, safe.

It’s been months of hiding from the world, of keeping your heads down, of not being found, yet Natasha is still looking over her shoulder. She’s still memorizing every exit route of the building the second you walk in and drawing your body closer to hers every time you pass by a hooded figure. You don’t understand why.

“No one’s here,” you sigh to her, hands full of grocery bags, trying to take a step toward the trailer. Her own bags are on the ground, forgotten, dropped, her arm now in front of your body, preventing you from striding forward. “Literally no one’s going to find us here,” you try to reassure her, but you know it’s pointless.

Natasha ignores you, remaining silent, eyes scanning the landscape, observing, calculating, listening, for any sound, for anything that shouldn’t be. When she deems it’s safe enough, she proceeds closer, leaving you at the car, her body protectively positioned in front of yours. She glances at the door, inspecting the latch, gauging whether or not it’s been tampered with, before opening it smoothly, silently, and making her way into the small space, gun drawn. She points it left and then right, checking the trailer, confirming there’s no other person within before her shoulders slump—only minutely, her guard is never fully down—and she drops her aim.

“It’s clear,” she calls out to you still waiting outside. You huff out a breath, mumbling a “figured”, and pick up Natasha’s abandoned bags, making your way into the trailer with your arms more than full.

As much as you’re tired of her almost obsessive need for safety, you know her. You know her habits, her background, her history. She needs this… this security, this assuredness that you’re not in harm’s way, that you’re safe.

You may be miles up a windy road away from the nearest convenience store, there may be multiple empty plots of land between you and the next cabin over, but Natasha has to be sure. She has to keep you safe.

Days pass monotonously, it’s always the same. You two make a visit into the small town once a week. Not for fun, never to see the sights. You don’t get dinner or catch a show or perhaps even enjoy a small scoop of ice cream. It’s just for groceries, essentials. Nothing excessive, just enough to get you by until the next week.

Natasha cuts some firewood, you read your book by the window, and eventually night falls and Natasha gets the generator up and running so you two can turn on one of the three movies you have access to over dinner.

You’re about to take a bite of your usual dinner of rice and beans, spoon raised toward your mouth, when the power flickers and then goes out, television snapping off, blanketing the two of you in darkness.

“Fuckin-” you start, but you’re quickly shushed by Natasha.

“Keep it down,” she whispers, standing up swiftly, grabbing her gun that’s never out of reach.

“Natasha, it’s just the generator,” you attempt.

She shoots you a warning look before rushing out of the trailer. You deflate, shoulders dropping, and let her do her rounds. Inside the trailer, outside the trailer, then the perimeter. You know the drill.

You two were having a nice night. Natasha seemed almost relaxed for once, hair freshly showered, hanging down in wavy rivulets, a cozy t-shirt on and sweats, her body next to yours on the sofa as you two finished your meal and watched a movie.

You hardly ever see her like that anymore. She’s hardly ever close to you anymore.

She’s too caught up in the need to keep you safe that it’s like she’s forgotten how to be your girlfriend. Her priorities have shifted, have been forced into shifting with the Accords, your physical well-being overruling that of your emotional. The forehead kisses, the hand holding, the cuddling in bed, limbs tangled together as you two slept, all the affection just… gone. She touches you out of need, out of function, not out of want or desire, to hold you back when she has to inspect an area first, to keep you close when she believes there’s a threat nearby, to guide your motions when you two may need to make a speedy getaway.

30 minutes pass before she returns.

“It was the generator,” she informs you, and you have to physically suppress a groan.  

When the third time this week the generator dies and Natasha dutifully makes her way out of the trailer to sweep the perimeter, you follow her outside, arms crossed in an attempt to protect yourself from the cool night air.

“Get back inside!” she says, voice almost frantic. You can hear the fear in her voice, the ‘I can’t keep you safe out here’.

“Natasha, I’m fine. It’s just the generator. It’s always just the generator.”

“We don’t know that,” she hisses, tense, angry, misplaced.

“Natasha,” your say again, voice a low murmur, breathed pleadingly into the dusk, “stop treating me like I’m fragile. I can’t do this anymore. I need you back.”

Your eyes are unflinching as they meet hers, dark and stormy with years of devastation and heartbreak and having everything that she once called her own ripped away from her. She’s scared.

You slowly make your way over to her, movements gentle, wary, as if you’re approaching a cornered animal, and she may as well be one. She hasn’t wanted to talk, to communicate, since the two of you settled down here. You’ve tried, but she’s always pushed you away, scampered off when things got too serious.

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” you tell her.

“Get back inside,” she tries once again, voice shaking this time.

“Touch me,” you tell her, “Feel me. I’m right here.”

You won’t force her if she’s not ready, you won’t push, but you need her. You need her to know that you’re here, that you chose her, that you’re not going anywhere, that no one is going to take you away, and one of your hands grabs her own and slides it along your front until it’s clasped on your chest by your heart.

“I need you to be here with me.”

Natasha shudders, eyes slipping closed as she marvels at the strong thump of your heartbeat that she can feel underneath her hand.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you,” you reassure her, “but I need you back.”

You pause.

“I miss you,” and your voice cracks on the words, you can’t hold it in any longer.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then her lips are on yours, and you gasp, initially unable to reciprocate out of surprise. It’s been so long since she’s kissed you, since she’s connected with you, but then you’re reacting on instinct, your body remembering hers—how could it ever forget—lips brushing against each other in desperate, frenzied touches, needing the contact, the reminder that you two are both here together.

Her hand hovers over your breast, tentative, as if uncertain she still has the right to touch you the same way she used to, but your hand moves over her own and you’re pushing her into you, pushing her until she’s cupping your breast, squeezing it tightly.

Given her hesitancy, you can tell she still feels as though you’re about to be taken away right in front of her, and then, when her gaze drifts over your shoulder to the horizon, to the forest beyond you, you know her attention isn’t fully on you. You reach forward, gripping her chin softly, bringing her back to you.

“No, focus on me. Just on me.”

Her jaw clenches, not from irritation but from fear, agitation, anxiety. She doesn’t know if she’s capable of doing that anymore.

“It’s just us, Natasha,” you murmur, low and even. “It’s just you and me.”

And she lets out a steadying breath through her nose before massaging at your breast once more, trying to focus on the feeling of the soft flesh underneath her palm, the weight of it in her hand, her touch still nervous but gaining confidence, and you let out a groan when her other hand goes to follow the first, grabbing at your other breast, both hands working in tandem.

Hums and sighs of satisfaction are falling from your lips regularly as Natasha begins to let herself relax into the familiar feeling of touching you. Even after all these months, her hands still recognize your form, everything about you is still as natural as breathing, known by heart. She has you memorized, and you can see the moment something shifts in her eyes. She’s no longer going to treat you like you’re fragile. She wants you to fall apart for her again.

Suddenly, she’s spinning the two of you around, and your back is roughly hitting the trailer, her frame pinning yours. You’re immediately arching into her, your body responding readily. You’ve been deprived of her for so long that you’re desperate for anything she’s willing to give to you.

Her lips fasten themselves to your neck, and she’s kissing her way across your jawline, teeth biting at your pulse point. She’s sucking harshly, canines scraping along, and she clearly intends on leaving marks, branding your skin with proof that you’re here with her, proof that you’re still hers. Her tongue darts out to soothe the sharp sting, but you almost don’t want it to, you almost want to preserve the pain, to relish in it, to keep it as evidence that your Natasha is back with you now.

She begins to shove your shirt up, fingers gripping at the hem as they sweep up your abdomen, the cotton garment rising, revealing more and more of you. Your arms raise to help Natasha quickly sling your shirt over your shoulders and roughly discard it somewhere onto the dirt. You shiver at the cool night air, goosebumps forming, your nipples hardening from both the cold and her touch, but you have no time to focus on the chill as her mouth connects with your collarbone, tongue lavishing the sensitive skin there with attention before licking a path from it down between your breasts, leaving sloppy kisses as she goes.

“Natasha,” you sigh out, and she lets out a noise akin to a growl at the sound of her name coming out of your mouth like that, soft, breathy, and desperate. She wastes no time, her hands then clutching at your sweats, tugging at the waistband and pushing them down to your ankles. You’re naked against the trailer in some forest of Norway, Natasha’s clothed form blanketing your own as she presses you up against the biting cold of the metal that is in no way the reason why you’re shaking.

Natasha’s hand drops down to cup at your core, and she moans at the amount of wetness there, your arousal already enough to coat her palm. Your hips roll against her, trying to gain some sort of further stimulation, but she stays where she is, simply reveling in the feel of you.

“Is this all for me?” she asks, her voice sounding like she’s in awe.

You nod your head. There’s no way to deny it, and why would you want to anyway? You want her to know, need her to know. You’re ready, you’ve been ready. You’ve been wanting your girlfriend for months, and now that she’s finally going to touch you, you’re not sure how long you’re going to last.

Two fingers swiftly enter you, your pussy clamping down on them immediately as if determined to never let them go. You want her to memorize the feeling of your walls around her, you want her to never forget how well she fills you, how your body was made just for her.

She begins a slow but firm pace, pumping in and out of you, your pussy’s wet noises audible in the stillness of the night as your juices continue to drip down her wrist.

“God, fuck, Natasha, please,” you beg, your voice choked up.

You need everything she can give you and more.

She increases her pace, sinking into you deeper with every thrust, scissoring her fingers before curling them again.

Your core feels like it’s burning her as she fucks into you, a stark contrast to Norway’s nighttime weather, and Natasha hums into the side of your neck at the hot feeling, continuing to lick and nip at your jawline. She missed this.

Her free hand comes up to pinch at your nipple, and you let out a surprised squeak at the action. Natasha lets out another moan, muffled against you, in response to the sound and desperately needs you to make it again, so she tweaks the hardened bud another time, then another, drawing whimper after whimper, gasp after gasp, out of you, before she resumes her kneading.

You don’t know how much more you can take with the fill, the stretch, the so-many-feelings after so long without them. You whine at a particularly harsh thrust of hers, eyes closing in pleasure, and you can feel her smile against you. There’s the Natasha you know, the one that is well aware that no one knows your body like she does.

“Already?” she asks, and you can only whine again.

She doesn’t need you to answer, she can sense you’re close, she can read your body’s every response, every reaction, and when her thumb comes up to rub against your clit, your knees begin to wobble.

Her body pressed against yours is the only thing truly holding you up. You can barely stand on your own, every part of you trembling with the feeling of her working you open. Her fingers continue their quick pace inside of you, hitting all of the right spots, your velvet walls constricting around her, wordlessly confirming the fact that you’re almost there.

You moan, high-pitched and prolonged, and when your eyes open to look at her…

You expect her expression to be confident, self-assured, knowing. You expect it to reflect the fact that she’s gotten you to your peak in a matter of seconds, but instead, it’s vulnerable, brittle. You can see that she’s nervous. She hasn’t done this in a while, and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to live up to her memory, to make you feel as good as she once did. Has she forgotten your body, the feel of it, what it needs? Will you be disappointed with her touch in a way she never thought possible?

It's that exposed look of hers that sends you careening, head tipped back, guttural moan leaving your throat and echoing throughout the forest. She’s so beautiful when she’s laid out for you, heart on her sleeve, when she’s giving you all of her. Your knees do give out then, and she has to adjust her grip with one hand on your hip to hold you steady while her other hand continues its movements in and out of you. Your eyes have rolled back, eyelids fluttering against your cheek as pleasure washes over you in endless waves.

And all the while, Natasha is thinking the same thing, is awestruck at the sight of you falling apart before her, because of her, just like you used to. Her thrusts slow, softening to allow you to ride out your climax gently, to wring out every drop of pleasure she can.

You fall forward, limp against her chest, panting for breath as you try to come down from your high, entire form still getting rocked with small tremors and aftershocks, and all she can do is smile, small and grateful that you’re still here, that you haven’t left her, that you came with her in the first place.

“I’m here,” Natasha murmurs, and you hum out a response, unable to speak, but your hands grip her tighter, holding her closer.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” she repeats.

[natromilf]

RED | ft. N. ROMANOFF

summary Hiding out in Norway, a wounded Natasha Romanoff finds unexpected comfort in the gentle hands of the sweet cashier.

wc 5.5k words

warnings hurt/comfort, injury/blood, graphicwound stitching, age gap (mild, adult reader), bit of angst, mutual pining, tension, natasha being older/tired/broken, fluff

parings post civil war!natasha romanoff x younger cashier fem!reader

Maybe she used to be a nun.

No, no... that can't be right.

Maybe she was a concert pianist once – until an injury ruined her career. Or something dramatic like that. You hum under your breath, chin propped on your palm as you watch her stalk down aisle three, her bright hair a slash of sunset against cheap laminate shelves, neat braids woven through the waves.

Today, she’s picking out canned soup.

You squint.

Butternut pumpkin. Figures.

Maybe she’s a hacker. Some rogue codebreaker siphoning money from billionaires and funnelling it to refugees in the dead of night. A digital Robin Hood hiding out in your nowhere town on Norway’s ragged coast.

She moved here a month ago. You remember – you’d been making conversation with Mrs Hansen as she unloaded groceries at a glacial pace. Then she walked in: beat-up Lada Niva rumbling outside, sunglasses perched low on her nose, head down like she didn’t want to be seen.

You watched her openly. The flex of her forearms as she lifted baskets. The weary slouch of her shoulders under her leather jacket. She noticed your staring, of course. But instead of frowning or turning away, she gave you a tight-lipped smile and disappeared into the aisles.

That first day, she bought so much it nearly buried the conveyor belt. Canned beans, rice, tea bags, cheap vodka, bandages. Survival gear, you’d thought. Like she was stocking up for the end of the world.

Your daydream dissolves when her basket lands on your checkout with a careless clatter. You jolt. That smirk is already tugging at her mouth, knowing she’s caught you drifting off again.

“Off with the fairies, huh?” she drawls, her voice low, smooth, tinged with some unplaceable accent.

“Nope,” you hum, scanning her soup, “exactly where I wanna be.”

She goes by Fanny.

Stupid name. You’d told her that first time. She’d just huffed out a dry laugh and nodded like she agreed.

You still think about that: the way she let you name her something else.

“Your hair looks nice,” you say as you begin scanning her cans. “It’s getting long.”

She purses her lips, fingers rising unconsciously to touch a braid. “Thanks. Started using that weird serum you recommended,” She recalls. “Busy today?” she asks.

You raise a brow. She’s one of five regulars. The only other customer is a mother bribing her kid with Kinder Eggs in aisle two.

“Very,” you reply flatly.

She chuckles under her breath, watching your hands move deliberately slow. You’re the fastest cashier here, but with her, you take your time.

“You hear about Dale and Melissa’s breakup?”

Red furrows her brows. “They broke up?”

You nod. “Melissa told me about it. Caught him cheating with some out-of-town girl. Brutal.”

“Shit… you think they’ll close the café? Dale makes a hell of a coffee.”

You smile faintly at her genuine concern. “Doubt it. I asked Dale about it and he said he’d rather die than give up the art of coffee, whatever that means.”

Your eyes flick to the bag in her basket. Crispy M&Ms. You hold them up, tsking. “Have you ever tried the peanut ones?”

She shakes her head. No.

“You have to,” you say, ducking out of the cashier bay before she can protest. “Trust me.”

She calls after you, her voice half a groan. “I’m on a budget.”

You return triumphantly with a bag of Peanut M&Ms, slamming it down beside the rest. “You’ll like them,” you hum, punching your employee discount in before she can stop you. “For me?”

She scoffs softly, lips curling into a reluctant smirk. Your stomach swoops.

“Fine,” she mutters, sliding her card across the reader. She eyes you, suspicious, like she’s trying to calculate the hidden motive. Like kindness is always a trick.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, waving her off.

Red slips the M&Ms into her jacket pocket, right against her chest. For a moment, you think about that pocket as a little shrine – your candy sitting there over her heart.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and your cheeks flame. Her voice is warm, almost teasing, but edged with exhaustion. Her accent shifts between American and Russian seamlessly, like water finding cracks in stone.

As she gathers her bags, she pauses, eyes meeting yours. “See you around, fairy girl.”

Natasha had noticed your little crush the very first time you served her.

You weren’t exactly subtle. Small towns like this usually bred a certain fear of humiliation, a carefulness in the way people spoke. But not you. You were… different. Everything about you was different, she realised. 

She’d seen you before, of course—around the market, at the café, chatting with anyone who’d listen. You talked to everyone, from the grumpy old man who barely muttered a hello, to the stressed-out single mother juggling kids and groceries.

You didn’t just exchange words; you made them count. The way you remembered their names, asked about their day, noticed the little things no one else seemed to care about. 

Natasha watched you approach a scowling butcher one afternoon, smoothing his mood with a joke and a kind smile. She caught you helping a nervous teenager figure out the self-checkout machine without skipping a beat.

You moved through the town like a gentle breeze, warm and constant, drawing people out of their shells without even trying.

The way you slowed down with her. The way you asked questions that sounded casual but carried that gentle curiosity she hadn’t felt in years. 

“I like your jacket. Did you buy it recently?” 

“It’s cold today. How’re you finding the weather?” 

You looked at her like she was some puzzle you were determined to solve—your eyes full of that open admiration, tinged with a quiet pride, like you thought you’d already cracked half her code. Your gaze would drift across her face, down her body—not invasive, never leering. Just… reverent. Warm. 

You were younger.

Not by much on paper, maybe, but enough for her to feel the difference like a cold draft down her spine. Enough for her to think, I’ve lived a whole other life before you were even out of high school, kid. 

She wondered if you knew that. If you could sense the years she carried under her skin, the things she’d done before you ever learned how to flirt with such open sweetness. You worked at the market, and she never heard you mention family.

She never asked. 

Being a fugitive meant never getting close. Never letting yourself want anything. But still. Here you were. Looking at her like she was something worth wanting. Like you couldn’t see the blood under her nails, the ghosts behind her eyes. 

And God help her—she almost wanted to keep letting you look.

“See you, Red,” you called, voice bright in the otherwise silent store. 

She paused just outside the automatic doors, hearing them whirr shut behind her. For a split second, she let herself look back through the glass. You were still there, chin propped on your hand again, staring after her with that same soft-eyed smile. The kind that made something sharp twist behind her ribs. 

Natasha shook her head, blowing out a slow breath as she turned away, boots crunching over fresh frost. She really needed to stop coming here so often. 

Even Mason had raised a brow at her frequent grocery runs. “You don’t even eat that much, Romanoff,” he’d teased last time over the burner phone, voice crackling in and out with the Norwegian winds. “You’re just bored out there, huh?” 

But it wasn’t boredom that pulled her to aisle three every other day.

It was you.

The warmth in your smile. The curiosity in your eyes, untainted by fear or suspicion. Like you wanted to see her. Like you liked that she existed at all. It wasn’t something she was used to. 

She loaded her bags into the back of the Niva with mechanical efficiency, feeling your gaze lingering on her through the smudged windows. She’d had her share of women over the years – flings, missions, blurred lines in dark rooms lit only by city lights. 

Women who clawed at her hair and moaned her name, who stared at her with hunger or jealousy or lust. But no one had ever looked at her the way you did. Like she was… human. 

Like she wasn’t Fanny Longbottom, stupid fake name on a stupid fake passport. 

Like she wasn’t Natasha Romanoff, fugitive Avenger, international criminal, assassin, traitor.

No, to you, she was just Red. She liked that.

It had been a week since you last saw Red.

Normally, she came by every two or three days—sometimes once a week if she was busy. Busy with what? You weren’t sure, and maybe you never would be. A part of you liked the mystery—it gave you room to wonder, to daydream, to craft little stories about who she was beneath that leather jacket and guarded stare.

But a week without a sign was different. Unsettling.

She never missed without warning. Even when quiet, she showed up. You checked the usual spots—the café, the market, the dusty trail where her battered Lada Niva usually rested. Nothing.

Whispers drifted around town—rumors of trouble in nearby villages, strange faces near the docks, men with cold eyes and sharper intentions. You didn’t know if they meant anything, but they tugged at your gut.

Then there were the small, strange details you couldn’t forget: the groceries she always bought—enough for one but stocked like she was preparing for a storm. The way she flinched at sudden noises, like a ghost from her past was waiting in the shadows.

A week of silence was long. You couldn’t shake the growing worry.

On your break, you’d checked the only other mart in town—no sign of her. You asked Dale and Melissa if she’d grabbed a coffee. Nothing. The gnawing unease in your chest only grew.

She didn’t frequent any other places in town. From what locals said, she kept to herself in a trailer a few miles out west. Sometimes you caught sight of her battered Lada Niva winding up the gravel road at dusk, headlights flickering through the pine trees like a ghost story come to life.

That evening, you found yourself driving past her trailer on your way home, the sun dipping low behind the cliffs. Just to… check. Just to be sure. You’d visited once, when she had to do an online order instead, eagerly coming by with the products as she ensured you stayed outside, claiming the inside was a mess. 

Her truck was there, parked crookedly in the dirt, but no lights were on inside. The curtains were drawn tight. You almost drove on. Almost. But something pulled you out of the car, gravel crunching under your boots as you approached her door. 

You raised your hand to knock, hesitated, then knocked anyway. Three soft raps. Nothing. You tried again, louder this time. “Red?” you called gently. “It’s me. Just… checking in.”

No answer. Your heart kicked up a notch. You glanced around—silent forest, empty yard, the smell of salt and pine in the evening air. You knocked again, feeling foolish and scared all at once.

“Red,” you said, firmer now. You try her ‘real name.’ “Fanny. I know you’re in there.” 

Still nothing. You chewed your lip, weighing your options. This was stupid. Just as you go to take a step away, you hear the sound of metal falling to the flaw, clattering. You stop.

“...Red?” You call out again.

Finally, you reached down and twisted the doorknob. Unlocked.

The trailer smelled like stale blood and metal. 

“Jesus…” you whispered, stepping inside. 

The dim light leaking through the curtained windows revealed her slumped on the floor by the narrow kitchenette, back pressed against the cabinet. Her shirt was half-soaked through with dried blood, a bandage dark with fresh red pressed to her side. Blood smeared along the laminate floor, trailing from the tiny bathroom to her current spot, telling a silent story of her stumbling path. 

Her head lolled slightly when she heard you enter, lashes fluttering open. She muttered a curse under her breath. “Leave,” she commanded immediately, voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion. 

“Oh, shit, oh shit, Red, you—” You began, panic already rising in your chest. 

“Leave.” She tried again, stronger this time, but it ended in a choked cough against her bandages, blood seeping between her fingers. 

“What? No, oh— I’ll call an ambulance, wh—” You scrambled for your phone in your pocket, hands shaking. 

Before you could even tap the screen, she snatched a postcard from the counter and flung it with perfect aim into your wrist. The force jarred your reflexes just enough for your phone to slip from your grip and clatter to the floor, the screen cracking against the chipped linoleum. 

Your jaw dropped, the instinct to yell at her about your phone bubbling up—you’d have to drive two hours into the city for a replacement, and— 

Then she coughed again, sharp and wet. “No hospitals. No ambulance. Leave.”

You quickly shut the door behind you, doing the exact opposite as you stripped off your coat and gloves, tossing them onto a rusted hook by the door. “Red, what happened?” You knelt beside her, trying to keep your breathing steady. 

She attempted a glare, but it faltered halfway, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. “Don’t… worry about it.” 

You scoffed, beginning to open every cupboard in search of a med kit. “You remind me of my ex.” 

She blinked at that, her brow furrowing through the pain. Confused, and almost amused despite herself. 

“Stubborn. Secretive. Charismatic, but reserved,” you rattled off, rifling through another drawer filled with old cans and chipped mugs. “It’s hot at first. Charming. Until shit like this happens.” 

She let out a huffed breath that could’ve been a weak laugh, or just a sigh of pain. “That… what you think… this is?” she rasped. 

You ignored her question, following the blood trail into the cramped bathroom. The air was damp and smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. On the sink lay a half-used first aid kit, gauze stained with dried blood, surgical thread half unspooled. Your stomach twisted as you imagined her in here days ago, stitching herself up under flickering yellow light. 

Returning to her, you found her head tipped back against the cabinet, eyes closed. Her breathing was ragged, sweat beading along her hairline. 

“Red,” you said softly, dropping to your knees beside her again. 

You peeled her trembling hand away from the wound, inspecting it as gently as you could. 

The stitches had torn open along the lower edge of the cut, about two inches long. Angry red skin, swollen slightly with infection, leaked blood sluggishly down her ribs. The edges were jagged but shallow—defensive, you realised. Like a blade had scraped across her rather than plunged deep.

“Okay… alright…” she swallowed thickly, trying to keep her eyes open despite the grey pallor overtaking her face. She whispered your name, just loud enough to snap your attention back to her.

“Listen to me,” she rasped, voice rough with pain. “Can you do first aid or not?”

You froze for a second, then did an awkward half-nod, half-shrug. 

“What—what the hell does that mean?” she bit out, a flicker of frustration sparking in her dulled eyes. 

“We… we had to do a first aid course at the store,” you stammered, voice trembling as your gaze darted to the gaping wound at her side. “It’s mandatory. I—I remember… orange to the sky, blue to the thigh.” 

She blinked, staring at you in blank disbelief. “That’s… that’s epi-pens,” she croaked, a hint of dark amusement curling her lips despite everything. “And it’s the other way around.” 

She let out a shaky sigh, her head rolling back for a moment before she forced her eyes open again. “Okay. Listen to me. You need to do exactly what I say. Exactly. Alright?” 

You gulped, your vision blurring with tears as you stared at the slick red leaking through her ruined bandage. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Red—why can’t we just—why can’t we call—” 

“This is what you signed up for when you walked through that door, okay?” she cut in sharply, her tone biting despite the strain. Her breathing hitched as she started to really feel the pain of the undone stitches. You were her only resource right now. “Focus.” 

You nodded quickly, your pulse roaring in your ears. She seemed almost calm compared to you. 

“You’re gonna redo my stitches,” she said, her voice turning soft but firm, like she was talking down a skittish animal. “It’s easy. Think of it like sewing. You sew?” 

“Not… really,” you admitted in a small voice, helping her brace herself as she shifted. 

“Great,” she rasped out a weak chuckle. “You get to learn.” 

Together, you maneuvered her onto the loveseat couch nearby, her weight heavy against you despite how slight she felt under your grip. She let out a low groan as you eased her down, her knuckles white where they clenched the bloody gauze. 

“What if—what if I got Dr. Hansen?” you blurted out, your voice shaking as you rummaged through the half-empty first aid kit, fingers closing around a sterile suture packet and black thread, remembering the local doctor. 

“Not happening, sweetheart,” she ground out, glaring at you through half-lidded eyes. “Now c’mon.” 

You let out a trembling breath, blinking back tears as you tore open the suture pack with clumsy, shaking fingers. “Okay… okay… tell me what to do.” 

She swallowed hard, her breathing ragged as she tilted her head to look at you. For a moment, her gaze softened, something unbearably fond flickering there despite the pain. 

“First… pass me the Scotch,”

Without hesitation, you grabbed the nearby bottle, dark, and cheap, half empty. You handed it to her, undoing the cap and watched as she gulped down some. She let out an exasperated breath, as if she needed that. She takes a second.

“Okay. Clean it,” she murmured. “Use saline. Wipe away the blood. Don’t go too deep… just clean the edges.” 

Your hands moved on autopilot, tearing open a saline vial and sterile gauze, your chest tight with terror as you dabbed gently at the torn wound. 

She winced but didn’t flinch away, her jaw tightening. “Good… that’s good…” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. 

“Red… stay awake,” you say quickly, panic flooding your voice.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m… I’m here. Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, forcing her eyes open again. “You’re gonna thread the needle now. About… six inches of thread. Tie a knot at the end. Pull it tight.” 

You fumble with the suture kit, your fingers slick with sweat as you threaded the needle with shaking hands, tying a hasty knot at the end like she instructed. 

“Okay, alright… now what?” you breathe out, blinking away tears that blurred your vision. 

“Simple interrupted stitches,” she says hoarsely, her words slurring slightly. “Go… in one side… out the other. Pull through… tie it off. Quarter inch apart… don’t make them too tight. Just… enough to close.” 

You swallow hard, your hands trembling violently as you bring the needle to her torn flesh. “I—I can’t—” 

“You can,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the haze overtaking her eyes. “You can. Breathe.” 

A tear slips down your cheeks as you push the needle through her skin, feeling her tense under your hands but hearing no sound from her lips. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant creak of pine trees outside in the cold wind. 

“Good… that’s it… keep going…” she whispered, her voice growing fainter with each word. 

You worked gently, slowly. Every time she even winced, you would stop briefly, scared you'd hurt her, but she’d insist on continuing, continuing to sip the scotch. She watched you. The only sound being your breathing and her groans, and the squeak of the cheap couch beneath.

“You live here alone?” Natasha wonders.

You glance up at her now, surprised by her attempt at conversation. In your time of knowing her, which has not been long, you instigate the conversations, you ask the questions. You sigh.

“Yeah,” You mumble a response. “Moved here two years ago, after I graduated.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, like she’s savoring the sound of your voice. Maybe this is why you talk to everyone—trying to fill the quiet that lives inside you both.

“What did you study?” she asks, eyes softening.

You don’t answer right away, your hands steady as you work on her stitches. Natasha waits patiently, sensing you’re lost in your own head.

“I… I tried to enroll,” she finally says, voice a little rough. “Signed up for a History class, actually.”

You smile gently. “Really?”

She nods, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips. “I was… angry at work. Thought maybe I’d rebel by learning something for myself.”

“Rebel against work?” you ask, teasing lightly.

She lets out a soft laugh, eyes flickering away for a moment. “More like... the people in charge.” Her voice is low, guarded, but there’s a hint of openness you haven’t seen before.

You continue sewing, then pause. “What part of history did you like?”

Natasha’s gaze drifts to the cracked ceiling as she thinks. “Rome. The time between the Republic and Empire. It’s… dramatic. Full of change. You’d probably like it.”

Her voice softens, almost like she’s sharing a secret. For a moment, she looks more fragile than fierce, and you feel something gentle stir inside you. Natasha smiles at that, eyes watchful as she takes another swig of scotch. Your eyes meet for a moment. You flush under her gaze, clearing your throat.

“I studied economics,” You tell.

She furrows her brows, shocked. “What?”

You chuckle a bit at that. You take a moment before going back to the stitches. It wasn’t too hard at all, you found. You just needed a groove, a bit of motivation. Her.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “I know, right.” You take a moment to steady your hands before continuing with the stitches. It’s not as hard as you thought—just a rhythm, a focus. And motivation. Her.

She’s still half reclined against the arm of the couch, one knee bent, the other foot across the other end on the couch, her head lolling slightly as she watches you with hooded eyes, taking the stitches like a champ. “Economics…” she murmurs, a lazy smirk curling her lips despite the pain. “That’s… unexpected.” 

“What, because I work checkout?” you tease lightly, trying to keep your voice from shaking as you knot off another suture. Your thighs are trembling from crouching so long, but you refuse to let it show. 

Her voice is raspy as she smiles. “No. Just… thought you’d do something softer. Art. Literature. Philosophy. Something that matches… all this.” Her hand lifts weakly, gesturing vaguely at your face, at the soft line of your mouth, at the tear tracks drying on your flushed cheeks. 

Your heart gives a little stutter at that, your chest tightening as you focus on threading the needle again. “I like numbers,” you mumble, embarrassed by how shy you sound. “They’re predictable. People aren’t.” 

Her lips twitch into a faint smile at that. “Smart girl,” She pauses. “You seem like such a people person, though.”

You shrug. “I guess. I realised people are way more interesting than numbers. Everyone’s got a story.”

 A pause hangs between you. 

“What’s yours?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowing just a little, curious. 

You shrug again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

It’s a challenge wrapped in a dare. She smirks, amused, eyes glinting with quiet defiance, knowing full well that’s not going to happen. Not tonight and leans her head back to lie down.

Your breath catches at her tone, your fingers faltering for half a second before you force yourself to keep going. You can feel her gaze on you like heat, burning into your flushed skin. 

“I um, I never asked what you do,” you say softly, needing to fill the silence before it swallows you whole. Before you say something truly stupid, like please don’t die. 

She chuckles weakly, the sound low and rough. “I… used to work in security, I guess,” she hums, voice distant, words slurring slightly. “Private contracts. Travelled a lot.” 

“Dangerous work,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you tug the thread through her skin again, making her hiss softly. 

“Yeah… you could say that.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before she forces them open again, pinning you with that sharp, steel-grey gaze. 

Even now, half broken and bleeding out on her shitty couch, she looks like she could snap your neck with a flick of her wrist. And yet… her eyes soften as they trace over your features. 

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, voice dropping lower, turning rougher, almost intimate. 

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, your stomach swooping. “Don’t say that. I’m literally sewing you back together on your couch. This is… this is insane.” 

“Still good, ‘specially for an econ major,” she insists, lips quirking up into a faint smile. 

Her hand twitches, like she wants to reach out and touch you, but she thinks better of it, her fingers curling into her palm instead. You tie off the last stitch with trembling fingers, cutting the thread as gently as you can. 

Her blood is drying tacky on your hands, smeared down your wrists. You don’t even notice. All you see is her, half-naked and vulnerable in the dim lamplight, her skin gleaming with sweat, her hair mussed and clinging to her temples. 

“There,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair from her flushed forehead. “All done. Did I do okay?” 

She glances down at your work, her tank top bunched just beneath her sports bra, exposing the raw stretch of stitched skin. Adjusting her back against the couch, she exhales a shaky breath, tension draining from her shoulders. 

Her head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as relief washes over her. “Perfect,” she murmurs, voice low and worn, but edged with genuine gratitude.

For a moment, neither of you move. Her breath is ragged, yours shaky. Her eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, before dragging back up to meet your gaze. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, and something about the way she says it makes your chest ache. Like no one’s ever done anything for her without expecting something back.

You smile a bit at her. “No worries, Red,” A beat. “Now, can I ask what happened?”

She sighs, her gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling above. “Um… well, like you said, my job can be dangerous. You… make enemies with some angry people. And I was just… in the wrong place at the right time, I suppose.”

You nod slowly, letting out a short, humourless scoff. “We’re back to vague, huh?”

She says your name quietly, her voice a rasp. 

“It’s fine. You don’t… owe me shit. Honestly,” you insist, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll make you some tea.”

You move around the tiny kitchen, opening mismatched cupboards until you find a chipped ceramic mug and a half-used box of black tea. The smell of blood still fills the trailer, metallic and thick, clinging to your nostrils. You rinse your hands quickly, staring at the rust-stained sink as pink water swirls down the drain.

Behind you, Natasha sighs. You can hear her shifting on the couch, a low groan slipping from her lips as she tries to get comfortable. Her voice comes again, quiet but insistent.

She says your name once more. 

You don’t respond, you just want to make this tea and make sure she’s okay because maybe the secrets are bad, and scary, and maybe you’ve gotten yourself involved in something worse.

Another minute or so of quiet goes by, tense. She says your name again, this time softer.

“Seriously, Red, it’s not—” you begin, not turning around. 

“Natasha,” she interrupts. Her voice cracks a little, and she clears her throat. “My name… it’s Natasha.” 

You freeze. The electric kettle clicks softly behind you, steam curling up into the dim kitchen light. Slowly, you turn to look at her. She’s fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, tracing the gauze near her wound absent-mindedly, eyes cast down like a guilty child.

“My name,” she whispers again, her gaze flicking up to meet yours, weary but steady, “it’s Natasha. It’s not… Fanny.”

You stare at her, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs. You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah… I figured that a while ago,” you murmur, trying to ease the trembling in your voice. “Stupid name.”

“Very stupid name,” she agrees, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. 

You hum softly, stepping closer with the mug of steaming tea. 

You kneel down beside her again, pressing the warm ceramic into her shaking hands. “Natasha, huh?” She exhales shakily, nodding. 

“Yeah.” You sit back on your heels, looking at her. Really looking. Her flushed skin, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the raw vulnerability in her tired eyes.

You both understand that there isn’t a lot of truth she can give you. How this happened, her past, etcetera. But this? This she gives.

“Suits you,” you say quietly, your voice trembling with something you can’t name. She nods again, swallowing hard as she clutches the tea to her chest, letting its warmth seep into her trembling fingers. 

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes dark and damp against her pale skin. When they open again, she looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking around the words. “For… staying.” 

You smile softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of copper hair behind her ear, letting your fingertips linger against the hot curve of her neck. She lets you, surprised by herself as she leans into your touch.

“No problem,” you murmur. 

Her breath catches at your touch, and for a moment the air between you crackles with something thick and electric, something that makes your stomach swoop and your chest ache. 

“Don’t do that,” you whisper, voice trembling with restraint.

She blinks at you, pupils wide and dark. “Do what?”

You swallow, glancing down at her lips before flicking back up to her eyes. “Look at me like that. You’re hurt. It’d be stupid.”

A tired, raspy chuckle escapes her chest. “I’ve already done stupid, sweetheart.”

Your breath falters at the nickname, your heart giving a painful little squeeze in your chest. Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean down and press your lips softly to hers.

She tastes like blood and salt and something heartbreakingly human. She smiles against your mouth, her hand twitching like she wants to reach for you but can’t quite manage it. It’s gentle, fleeting, so impossibly sweet you think you might cry.

Then she suddenly lets out a sharp, pained yelp. You jerk back, eyes wide in horror. “Wh— oh my god, did I hurt you—”

But she’s chuckling weakly, eyes gleaming with mischief despite her exhaustion. “Got you,” she murmurs, voice teasing and low.

Your jaw drops as you realise she’s playing you. “Oh my god— no. No more deathbed kisses for you, alright?”

“Deathbed?” she echoes, smirking.

“I’ll make it one if you pull that shit again,” you threaten lightly, rolling your eyes as relief floods your chest.

She laughs properly this time, a quiet, broken sound, and you grin down at her despite yourself. You brush your hands against your jeans with a sigh.

“I’ll clean up a bit,” you say, softer now. “Try to get some rest, Natasha.”

She hums softly, eyes following you as you move around her small kitchen, her gaze lingering on the soft curve of your hips, the flutter of your lashes as you concentrate. For the first time in a long, long while, she lets herself watch you without guilt gnawing at her ribs. 

And despite the pain biting deep into her side, despite the ghosts howling outside her thin trailer walls, she feels… safe. 

Just for tonight.

note: hello!! how cool! im quite charmed by this, expect some more nat fics in the future. shes interesting to write for, her dialogue can be tricky tho. anyway thanks for reading!!

[natromilf]

thinking about nat x actress reader when nat saw men taking pictures of her gf's standee she got so overprotective, stole it and take it back on their shared home 😭😭😭