natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

⑱+ 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬

a/n: some fluff + smut to get you into a festive mood 🎄 milf!reader, g!p nat, nat dressing up as santa (read before you judge LMAO), unprotected sex, oral (n receiving)

vaguely inspired by sabrina carpenter's song (if you couldn't tell already)

this one's kinda trash but i thought the idea was fun so i'm posting it anyway

The expression on Natasha's face is so far from jolly and merry that it's almost comical. Sure, the whole Santa-look is a bit odd (comical, even), but you don't think it's that bad. Red suits her, after all, even now that she's pulling a fake white beard over her face.

"I hate this", she mutters, watching you adjust her belt. "I really do."

"The kids will love it", you reply, biting back a smirk. Your wife rolls her eyes at the smugness lacing your voice. Her gaze flickers down briefly, her frown softening when she catches the way you absently rest a hand on your small bump after you adjust her costume. She says nothing about it, though her hands twitch like she might reach out. Instead, she pulls at the faux fur trim of the jacket again.

Her scowl deepens when she looks back at the outfit. "You know, none of this even makes sense", she grumbles, gesturing to the fur trim. "Why would anyone fly reindeer and slide down chimneys in Siberia? That would get you killed. And don't get me started on cookies left out in the open."

The comment makes you pause, studying her face. Beneath the irritation, there's a flicker of something softer—a quiet discomfort she rarely lets surface. You know where it comes from, that barren stretch of winters in her childhood where Christmas didn't exist. No magic. No gifts. No warmth. Just survival.

"You're thinking too hard", you say gently, reaching up to smooth out the front of her costume. "It doesn't have to make sense. It's just...magic for the kids. That's all."

Natasha exhales sharply, but her demeanor softens. Right, the kids. She can hear their laughter from the living room, Maksim excitedly babbling about Santa and presents and all things whimsical.

"Magic, huh?"

You hum in agreement as you straighten her beard. "Besides, you've got a good reason to start liking Christmas now, don't you?"

"I suppose", she murmurs.

You can't even deny it — you're pretty happy about the fact that Clint refused to play Santa Clause this year, reasoning that he's been the one suffering from this task for about ten years now. He said now that Natasha has kids as well, she can do that this time. You're just there to look pretty and make sure the costume sits right.

"It's tradition", you add, brushing a lock of auburn hair under the wig. She looks at you, deadpan, her arms crossing over the ridiculous costume.

"Making me do Clint's dirty work is not tradition", she says drily. You roll your eyes and peck her lips, her hands briefly moving to your waist.

"Come on", you mumble, deliberately running your hands down her upper arms and squeezing her biceps. "At least you look good in red, Santa. The kids will love it. And so will I."

There it is — that hint of a fleeting smile you've been waiting for. She scoffs to hide it, but you see right through her.

"You're into Santa now?", she mutters.

"If you're Santa, sure", you retort, slightly exasperated by her constant grouchiness. You adjust her beard once more — she's been subconsciously trying to tear it off for the past few minutes —, then you grab the bag of gifts and hand it to her. She slings it over her shoulder, her eyes full of dread as she glances toward the living room.