Sore Loser (NatashaxF!Reader)

“Damn it!” you exclaimed through grit teeth, throwing the PS3 controller onto the floor and folding your arms over your chest.  “It’s the stupid controller, it has to be.”  Natasha, seated casually on the sofa next to you chuckled and paused the game.  “Tony isn’t going to be very happy if you make a habit of breaking his electronics, you know.”

“The controller’s already defective.  I’d be doing him a favor.”  You huffed and pulled your legs up to your chest, shooting a venomous glare at the TV.

“Maybe it’s not the controller that’s the problem here,” she teased and you rolled your eyes, then grabbed the controller off the floor.  Staring her down you replied, “Nonsense!  Either the controller is busted or you’re cheating.  There’s no way I could’ve lost four matches in a row.”

“Of course there is.  It’s called ‘I’m better at this game than you’.”

“Impossible.  Another round.”  She shrugged and unpaused the game.  “If you say so _______ (n/n).”

Your _______ (h/c) hair kept falling into your eyes.  There was a glare on the screen obstructing your vision.  Your thumb was starting to cramp.  Each of the six different controller you tried using were broken.  Natasha was cheating.  You were getting hungry for dinner and that was distracting you.  It had nothing to do with your skill level, or as Natasha quaintly put it ‘the lack thereof’. 

It had been a rather boring day for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers allowing everyone to take the day off.  You were a new agent training under Natasha and it wasn’t long before you found yourself wondering just flexible she really was, for lack of better words.  Your little school girl crush began to inhibit your performance and she was under the impression that, as one of the most skilled agents S.H.I.E.L.D. had to offer (and a member of the Avengers at that) pairing a greenhorn with someone of her caliber intimidated you.  You were afraid of judgment and failure, using her as a way of measuring the expectations you were setting for yourself.  There was an ounce of truth to her theory but it had less to do with working than someone who received so much approbation and more so not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of your crush.  Believing the problem to be on a social level she suggested that the two of you spend more time together so you were more comfortable around her; she hypothesized that it could gradually deteriorate any levels of self-perceived inherent weakness and cause you to view her as Natasha Romanova, not as the Black Widow.

Earlier in the day you had made modest mention of your gaming prowess and she had accepted your implicit challenge.  Hours had been siphoned by your competitive streak and how greatly your little temper tantrums amused her.  If anything she was the one beginning to see less of the agent in you and more so the person.

“How does this sound?” she began after winning another match.  “Let’s spice it up.  Give some incentive.”

“What did you have in mind?” you asked raising an eyebrow.

“Loser has to do something for the winner.  But no revealing what that is until the match is over.  You in?”

If I win I could ask her to kiss me.  Because that obviously won’t give away the fact that I’m like a lovesick puppy…Damn.  If I win I…Maybe I’ll just have her do something stupid like take all of Thor’s Poptarts and hide them all over the tower.  Yeah, let’s just go with that.  Or could I?  I don’t…Ugh!  “You bet,” you smiled, trying to hide your internal frustration.

The debate in your mind proved far too distracting and Natasha won again.  You anticipated some sort of embarrassing or cruel punishment like having to use Tony’s toothbrush, since neither of you knew where his mouth had been, but much to your surprise and confusion she made no mention of claiming a prize.  Your suspicion grew into paranoia over dinner as she acted casual around the others while casting you the occasional mischievous grin.

It was your turn to do dishes that night.  You checked to make sure she hadn’t replaced the dish soap with honey or coated the scrub brush with an invisible adhesive so it would stick to your hand.  Though a petty prank like that wasn’t Natasha’s style you didn’t know what to expect anymore and braced yourself for anything, even the potential for a water snake hiding beneath the suds.  You kept casting nervous glances over your shoulder but the kitchen was empty.  After about twenty minutes of hard scrubbing to remove some burnt food from the bottom of a pot your fingers were pruning and you decided to take a break.  As you rummaged through the cabinets for a quick snack you heard footsteps behind you and your heart jumped into your throat, but it quickly occurred to you that if it was Natasha you wouldn’t have heard you.

“Hey ______ (y/n)?” Clint asked and you glanced over your shoulder.  “Got a second?”

“Yeah.”  You turned to face him, leaning against the countertop.  “What’s up?”

“I think you’re beautiful and I was wondering if you’re free Saturday night,” he replied in a tone that was a strange combination of deadpan and awkwardly nervous.  Your jaw dropped and your eyes widened.  After snapping out of the shock you said somewhat apologetically, “Uh, Clint, I’m flattered but I'm not into-”

“Natasha wanted me to tell you that,” he interrupted and walked away as if nothing happened, leaving you stunned and silent.  That is until you angrily exclaimed, “I could have gotten a kiss after all!”

“She also told me to tell you not to be a sore loser!” you heard him call from a distance.

“I’m anything but,” you whispered excitedly to yourself.  After eating you returned to your chore, happily humming to yourself.  You pulled out the rubber gloves to keep your skin dry and prevent more pruning.  Not long after you returned to washing the dishes you felt a sudden itching sensation running along your hands, wrists, and lower arm.  You exhaled deeply, eyes narrowed as you pulled them off and hung them upside down to empty out the itching powder Natasha put in them.

“Nope, definitely not a sore loser,” you grumbled as you looked around for the baking soda.  You poured some into the water and immersed your hands in the homemade remedy.  “Just an itchy one.”