avery-romanoff

drabbles

⧖ masterlist

norway!nat

⧖ masterlist

Alcohol's Effects on the Body

⧖ masterlist ⤷ Nerd!Nat x r

Apartment 224

⧖ masterlist ⤷ Nat x neighbor!r

Pay-Per-View (upcoming)

⧖ masterlist ⤷ OnlyFans!Nat x r

oneshots

⧖ Finish What You Started ᥫ᭡ ⤷ You finally manage to convince a rightfully reluctant Natasha to bring you with her to work.

⧖ You Were Are Hers ꩜ ⤷ It’s been eight years since. ⧖ You Were Are Hers pt. 2 ⤷ Four months later.

⧖ Alice, Who? ᥫ᭡ ⤷ You’re always hearing about how the Black Widow is hot, but seeing her in person, getting personally trained by her, is something else entirely. Oh, she’s hot, hot. ⧖ Alice, Who? pt. 2 ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Natasha doesn’t want you, or so she keeps telling herself. But you’re relentless in your attempts to build an amicable relationship with her, and then, when your attention is suddenly pointed at someone else? Well, now she has to do something about that.

⧖ What Made You Think That You're in Charge? ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Even when you think you’re in control, Natasha’s always there to prove you wrong.

⧖ Such a Skeptic ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Enchantedstrap!Nat x r ⤷ Natasha may be excellent in bed on a normal day, but she definitely lacks in the reciprocation department when you enchant her strap for the first time. You can’t blame her though. Nothing could have prepared her for something to feel like that. ⧖ Such a Skeptic pt. 2 ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Once Natasha experiences your pussy for the first time, she becomes determined to do two things: 1) fuck you on every surface in every room in every position possible and 2) actually make you come.

⧖ I'll Hold it for You ꩜ ⤷ Natasha isn’t used to this feeling, but luckily, you’re there to help her realize that not everything has to fall only on her. She deserves to let herself breathe sometimes.

⧖ Don't Call it a Mistake .ᐟ‎ ꩜ ⤷ You run into Natasha, your ex, at a local cafe that you both used to frequent together. It’s been over a year since you two broke up, so you thought that you would be ready to potentially face her again. Apparently, you need a few more months… or years… or forever.

⧖ Unsteady ⤷ Natasha never gave up hope that one day you would be returned to her, but the reunion doesn’t go quite like she had imagined.

⧖ Puppy-Dog Eyes ⤷ Maybe you can teach an old dog (Natasha) something new… or Natasha learns that not all dogs are something to be bothered by.

⧖ Just Once More .ᐟ‎ ꩜ ᥫ᭡ ⤷ “It’s not what Natasha wants. God, it’s not what she wants at all. But she’ll take it, she’ll take you, in any way that you’ll let her.”

⧖ For Fuck's Sake, It's a Werewolf ⤷ Halloween 2025 ⤷ The Avengers were sent to a small town in Romania for a mission, and Natasha brought her girlfriend along for some sightseeing. When they arrive, it seems that so did some unknown being that begins terrorizing the town. What coincidental timing.

⧖ Not Like Them ⤷ (Soft) mob!Nat x stripper!r ⤷ A redheaded stranger walks into your club one night, and despite doing your best to prove to both her and yourself that she’s just like everybody else, she doesn’t allow you to.

⧖ One of Everything ⤷ It can be argued that this is the most Natasha’s ever said to you, usually coming in like a storm, all mouth and teeth, muffling any small talk you might have offered and replacing it with moans of her name.

⧖ Blinding ⤷ Everything is too much, including the sight of your green-eyed, redheaded savior. ⧖ Blinding pt. 2 (upcoming) ⤷ The adjustment to your enhanced senses in the real world isn’t easy, the darkness and muffled noises from the cell you were kept in having always protected you. But Natasha’s there every step of the way, determined to help you regulate everything that overloads your system. ⧖ Blinding pt. 3 ᥫ᭡ (upcoming) ⤷ Everything still overwhelms you sometimes, but now, you don’t mind when it’s because of her.

⧖ “It's Complicated” .ᐟ‎ ⤷ Natasha’s recognized while she’s on the run with Steve. She probably should’ve thought things through when she ghosted you. ⧖ “It's Complicated” pt. 2 ꩜ ⤷ She may be a coward, but Natasha's trying—she’s really trying—the only way she knows how. ⧖ “It's Complicated” pt. 3 ⤷ “Natasha has really left, hasn’t she?” versus “She’ll stay for you.”

⧖ Still Handcuffed to That Bedpost ꩜ ⤷ It doesn’t happen often, but every now and again, Natasha finds herself back there, her mind returning to the oppressive former belief that she doesn’t exist for anything but to be used. How is she to show you her in her entirety?

⧖ Worth Every Penny ⤷ Winning a night with the Black Widow—to Natasha, charity auction be damned—turns out to be, despite her initial disgruntlement, the start of something neither of you could have predicted.

⧖ Shouldn't Have ꩜ ⤷ The world may continue on, but her world stopped that day. Hopefully, you get Natasha's voicemail.

⧖ Artificial ⤷ Nat x android!r ⤷ One of Tony’s prototypes becomes activated while Natasha is living—trying to survive—on her own at the Compound during The Snap. Maybe, all this time, she hasn’t been as alone as she thought. ⧖ Artificial pt. 2 ꩜ (upcoming) ⤷ summary redacted

⧖ Notability .ᐟ‎ ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Natasha never looked your way… or at least, not how you wanted her to. But maybe it was silly to think that the world’s greatest spy didn’t notice you.

⧖ Said Through Blue Lips ⤷ You and Natasha have never been all too fond of each other. Leave it to a near death experience, a bout of hypothermia, and a delirious confession to change that.

⧖ Catalyst ⤷ After Tony’s words do nothing to alleviate the uncertainty surrounding your relationship status with Natasha, you find yourself going home alone… or almost home. Getting kidnapped wouldn’t be your first choice of motivator to discussing whether or not she is serious about you, but it certainly gets the job done.

⧖ Home Sweet Home ᥫ᭡ ⤷ You purchased yourself something new to try while your wife was away on a long mission. She comes home earlier than planned, but why let that interrupt your fun?

⧖ Permanently Yours ꩜ ⤷ Even three years of separation can’t erase eight years of love, can it?

⧖ A Likely Story ⤷ Both Natalie Rushman’s quick arrival and even quicker disappearance are suspicious. You wish she didn’t leave so soon.

⧖ Office Hours ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Philosophy professor!Nat x student!r ⤷ Your professor notices that you need some extra assistance understanding the material to pass her final exam. She’s determined to help you out, but you find that her methods are a little more than slightly distracting. ⧖ Office Hours pt. 2 ⤷ It may be a little petty, but in your eyes, she started it.

⧖ Take a Look ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Natasha’s never quite seen herself like this before.

⧖ Not in the Job Description ⤷ You have no idea how to physically, mentally, or emotionally handle when Natasha Romanoff flirts with you—you’re just a records technician. Well, at least she seems to enjoy your fluster.

⧖ Choose Me Too ᥫ᭡ ⤷ The presumed by everyone (including herself) touch-averse Black Widow needs physical contact like anybody else. It only took you to show that to her. Now, she just needs to convince you that touch starvation isn’t the driving force behind her want to kiss you. ⧖ Choose Me Too pt. 2 ᥫ᭡ ⤷ Now that you’ve kissed her and gotten a first taste, you can’t stop… you need to taste all of her.

⧖ Number Seven ⤷ Basketball player!Nat x tutor!r ⤷ When Natasha gets injured, the school tells her that the six weeks of no training will be the perfect break that she needs to improve her concernedly low GPA. It’s either shape up or ship out, and considering basketball is everything to the star player, the latter isn’t an option.

⧖ Table for One (For Now) ⤷ Nat x waitress!r ⤷ Same day, same time, same order.

⧖ Off the Record (upcoming) ⤷ You have to completely rebuild the idea you had of the Black Widow when you see that the woman everyone warned you about doesn't exist… or rather, exists only for people who never gave her a reason to be anything else.

"Emily," you say, your voice a low, amused purr that cuts through the sizzle of the pan. "What, exactly, is happening in here?"

She doesn’t look up immediately, her focus intensely fixed on a bubbling pot of what was supposed to be David Rossi’s legendary, generational Sunday gravy. She wields a wooden spoon like a weapon, stirring with a fierce, stubborn determination.

"It’s Rossi’s authentic Neapolitan ragù," she declares, though there’s a slight, telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Or, at least, it’s a Prentiss-modified, urban-survivalist adaptation of it."

You step closer, the hardwood floor cool beneath your bare feet, and peer over her shoulder. The sauce is a deep, slightly concerning shade of maroon. It smells heavily of oregano—and something distinctly sweet.

"An adaptation?" You slide your arms around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The familiar, comforting scent of her—expensive cedarwood perfume mingled with garlic and fresh rain—wraps around you, warmer than the blanket. "Did you lose the recipe?"

"I have the recipe right here," she insists, nodding toward the tablet propped up against a flour canister, the screen splattered with red droplets. "What I didn’t have was a gourmet Italian market within a five-mile radius that was open after a twelve-hour shift."

She turns her head to kiss your temple, a lingering, soft press of lips that makes you close your eyes for a second.

"Rossi’s recipe calls for San Marzano tomatoes, Pancetta, and a very specific, aged red wine from a vineyard only he and three Monks in Tuscany know about," Emily explains, her tone shifting into that dry, rhythmic cadence you adore. "But the corner bodega had generic crushed tomatoes, maple bacon, and a bottle of Cabernet that was wearing dust like a coat."

You wince slightly, but keep your smile tucked into the crook of her neck. "Maple bacon? In a ragù?"

"It’s pork!" she defends, though a laugh bubbles up in her throat, vibrating against your chest. "And for the heavy cream, I might have used a splash of the vanilla oat milk we had left. It’s all about chemistry, sweetheart. Fat, acid, heat. We’re adapting."

"You’re a profiler, Prentiss, not an alchemist," you tease, squeezing her waist before stepping back. "Let me taste the experiment."

Emily presentation is flawless. She ladles a small spoonful of the sauce, blowing on it gently before offering it to you like a prize. Her dark eyes gleam with a mixture of hope and impending cinematic disaster.

You take the bite.

For a fraction of a second, your brain tries to process the sensory whiplash. The acidity of the cheap tomatoes hits first, followed immediately by a jarring, aggressively sweet wave of artificial maple and vanilla. It tastes like a pancake fell into a marinara trench. It is, without a doubt, the most spectacular, culinary tragedy you have ever encountered.

Your expression freezes. You try, you truly try, to keep your face neutral, but the sheer chaos of the flavor profile forces a slow, horrified blink from your eyes.

Emily watches you, her eyebrows slowly rising. "That bad?"

"Emily," you squeak, your throat tightening as you swallow the evidence. "I love you. I love your mind, I love your heart, I love your hands." You reach out, taking the wooden spoon from her fingers and setting it safely on the counter. "But David Rossi would have you arrested for war crimes if he tasted this."

She stares at the pot, then back at you, and then she breaks.

The laugh starts deep in her chest—a rich, breathless sound that fills the kitchen and chases away any lingering fatigue from the work week. She leans against the counter, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"It’s that bad?" she asks through her fingers.

"It tastes like a breakfast buffet collided with a pizza parlor at ninety miles an hour," you confess, laughing now too, wrapping your arms back around her to pull her against you.

Emily sighs, a beautiful, defeated sound, and rests her forehead against yours. The warmth of her skin, the crinkle of the lines around her eyes, the sheer ease of being held by her in the quiet sanctuary of your shared home—it washes over you like a wave.

"I just wanted to make you something nice," she murmurs, her voice softening into something tender, the playful armor dropping away. "A real, comforting dinner. We’ve both been running on fumes lately."

"Hey," you say gently, tilting her chin up with a finger so she has to look into your eyes. "This is nice. The burning, maple-scented catastrophe is perfect. Because you’re here, and we’re off the clock."

She smiles, the genuine, soft expression she only saves for the quiet hours with you. "So, no turning this into a pizza night?"

"Absolutely not. We are ordering Thai," you decree, reaching into your pocket for your phone. "And we are never speaking of the vanilla-oat-milk ragù again."

"Agreed," Emily laughs, already reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, letting the dark waves tumble down around her shoulders.

An hour later, the kitchen is dark, the offending pot soaking in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. The living room is a sanctuary of cushions and shadows. You are curled into Emily’s side on the couch, the television playing an old movie on a low murmur, the blue light washing over the room.

The cardboard takeout containers sit empty on the coffee table—pad thai and spring rolls, a far cry from Tuscany, but exactly what was needed.

Emily’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare arm, a slow, soothing rhythm that matches the rain outside. You rest your head against her chest, listening to the steady, comforting thud of her heartbeat.

She shifts slightly, kissing the crown of your head, her breath warm against your hair.

"Next time," Emily whispers into the dim light, her voice laced with sleep and contentment, "I’m just making grilled cheese."

You smile into the soft cotton of her shirt, closing your eyes as you pull the blanket higher up over both of you. "I’d love that. Just leave the maple bacon in the fridge."