natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝

a/n: natasha falling in love with one of the lost boys. fair warning that little to none of this makes sense cuz most of it was written somewhere between midnight and 5am because insomnia ✌️😗 + i had too much fun playing with the story

kinda loser!reader, peter pan!au
feel like it's worth mentioning that they're both adults and it's very much still fem!reader

this is so fucking random LMAO but i thought it's cute so i'm writing it anyway (edit: started as a cute idea but then turned into angst so...have fun? i guess??)

warnings: death, grief, mental health issues (nothing specific)

Natasha can't believe her eyes. You're perched on the ledge of her window, bare feet dangling, the crooked little smile on your face telling her that you don't regret this at all.

She doesn't recognize you. Still, part of you feels familiar. She can point out which part, exactly — the scrapes and bruises all over your shins? the hair, middle length and messy? the woolen fingerless gloves? — but it's as unsettling as it is comforting.

It's the middle of the night. Someone randomly entering her room through the window is not normal. Yet she's not reaching for her gun, or attacking you, or simply telling you to fucking leave. She's just sitting there, short red hair tousled and eyes alert. She didn't get much sleep, but that's fine. She's used to it.

"Not gonna say hi?", you ask, kicking your feet. "Very rude."

"Hi", Natasha replies.

Staring at her, you scratch your cheek. "Uh, okay. We'll work on that, I guess."

"You can't exactly expect me to be talkative."

You hop off the windowsill and float through the air, landing right next to her bed. "No", you agree, picking up a picture frame that's sitting on her nightstand. "Who's that?"

Natasha almost jumps out of her bed, but you've already put it back down. You tuck your hands into the pockets of the loose corduroy pants you're wearing and stroll around her room. She watches you, her eyebrows furrowed and her mind working overtime.

You look at random things. You tip your head back to stare at the ceiling. You crouch down on the floor and inspect her boots. She glances at your feet, bare yet clean, and exhales softly.

Her heart is still hammering against her ribcage when you finally decide you've had enough. You stand next to the window again and give her an expectant look.

Suddenly, you reach out your hand. It's like déjà-vu.

"Come on", you urge. "We don't have all night."

That manages to snap her out of whatever stream of consciousness she'd been lost in. She opens her mouth, her fingers curling into the soft bedsheets beneath her.

"I don't know you."

You stop, blinking, and tilt your head. Natasha clenches her jaw.

"Don't be silly", you say. You gesture out the window. Natasha feels her insides twist. Are you expecting her to jump? "Of course you know me. Now let's go, before the stars fall asleep again."

She doesn't do anything. She stays rooted in her spot, grasping at the bedsheets, trying to figure you out. Trying to figure everything else out, too. If she called Clint or Tony to come and take a look at this, they'd probably laugh at her.

You wiggle your fingers. Whoever you are — you're set on her coming with you, wherever you may be going. You're convinced that none of this is odd. That none of this feels like a...