100 Marvel One Shots✔️

Badass Like That >> Natasha Romanov X Reader

Title: Badass Like That

Paring: Natasha Romanov X Reader

Request: Yes, by SmeagolTheHouseElf who wanted F/F Nat X Reader

Warnings: lesbians, Nat is kickass, art galleries, food, fluff, Reader loves food (and Nat)

Spoilers: set in the Avengers Facility, but no spoilers.

Author's Note: I know I've written F/F stories before, but this has really hit close to home because, well, I have an announcement...in the last month, I've actually realised something about myself that I wasn't able to perceive before. And unknowingly, it's always been a part of my identity. Internet: I'm bi. And I'm proud. 

So, now that's over with, enjoy this fic about Reader who just wants food, and Nat who just wants to fight crime.

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The one thing worse than being alone with your own thoughts, is not being alone with your own thoughts. It had been a long, stressful month, and while you were supposed to be reclining on your favourite chair, lazily watching reruns of Dancing with The Stars, and exfoliating your cares and the last thirty days of undercover work in the Shushan district, you were not. On the last thirty minutes of your extraction plane back to base you had been roped into working alongside the Widow herself, her usual partner in crime having come down with a nasty case of morning sickness.

So, instead of being asleep in front of the television in your day clothes like a heathen, you were silently standing in an art gallery beside the kickass Natasha Romanov. Maybe it was awkward, because since you two got into your undercover outfits and entered the gallery, you'd barely spoken. Or because all you were thinking about were the Pop-Tarts you hoped would greet you once returning to base, and not the mission at hand.

"Darling," Natasha rolled her eyes at something she could only see, and tucking the tickets into her jacket pocket, went on, "I can't see why you're upset about coming here."

You're silent as she looked around, eyes touching softly over the room, as if she owned it. With her history, you would not be surprised if she did own the lot. You follow her gaze to where a statue of a naked woman without arms stands on a rock, isolated, eyes wide, hollow. Mouth agape, aghast.

Your partner looks back to you, and adds, "You like art."

Itching under the wig you're wearing, ("It's a precaution, Agent R." Nick Fury had told you over a grainy video chat as you put the long black head of hair on) you scoff. "I resent that. I like motel art. Cheap posters in tube rolls...weird graffiti in dive bars." You retort, and stifling a yawn into a fist, you gesture to the frame before you. "Not...DiCaprio."

Nat laughs. "Da Vinci, darling."

A guard by the exit milled idly, tiredly. Nat's eyes trained on his sneakers, yours following the camera in the corner of the room as it scanned the near-empty cavern full of priceless pieces of naked people or religious overtones. You itched your elbow. Nat smacked her lips, and with a compact mirror, added a coat of blood-red to her paper-cut straight hair.

Into her mirror, she muttered, "You want to stop being so infantile?"

You shrugged a shrug that showed more than you thought at the time, but did anyway. Maybe it was just because you were going on coffee and adrenaline now, or that you wished that her old partner was here instead of you.