Natasha Romanoff Hc - Blog Posts

Summary: Facing the threat of deportation to her home country Russia, book editor Natasha Romanoff comes to an agreement with her assistant to get married. With that, comes a visit to the assistants hometown and meeting all of her family. Can they fool everyone that they’re in love? Will they have to pretend for the rest of their lives?

Tags: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff Fic, Natasha Romanoff Fanfic, Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow Fic, Movie Fic, The Proposal (2009), Reader has Daddy Issues, Natasha is Readers Boss, Fake Marriage, Fake Dating, Meeting Family,

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Sex, Marriage?, Daddy Issues, Boss x Assistant,

Word Count: 3.4K

Taglist: @timmyslover (please ask to join through asks or message me!) Let me know if you want to be tagged for this series :)

A/N: this fic is based on the 2009 movie The Proposal with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds. some of the events have been changed to fit Natasha and to make it easier for me lol. please please leave comments or come scream at me about it :)) i’m actually estatic about this fic istg. also i’m seeing spider-man for the first time today wish me luck. just got my booster shot so i’ll exercise my arm while wiping tears

The Proposal Chapter One

Working for Natasha Romanoff is hard on a normal day. On a day like today, it’s absolute hell. You woke up later because the power in the building went out sometime in the night. Which leaves you where you are now, rushing around your apartment, looking for anything you can put on. There’s one clean dress shirt hanging in the closet, and you find the slacks you wore yesterday on the floor. They look clean enough, so you put them on, hopping around on one foot frantically while putting on one shoe.

You practically run to the Starbucks that’s close to where you work. Kate, the barista, already has your drinks made.

“You’re a lifesaver, Kate.”

“Don’t forget it,” she calls back with a smile.

You go as fast as you think you can with hot coffee, yelling apologies behind you at the people you bump into.

The elevator doors shut behind you just as you make it into them.

“Just in time,” you say to yourself, casting glances and awkward smiles at the people next to you. As soon as you hear the ding for your floor, you get again start hauling ass to Natasha’s office. Unfortunately, because that’s how today is going to be apparently, you crash into someone, spilling coffee down the front of your shirt.

A string of curses falls from your lips as you help the man up. Your shirt has dark stains all down the front. You’re pretty sure it’s not something Natasha will accept in her office.

You walk down the row of desk and stop in from of the first person you see that’s wearing something you can match with and not look like you picked a random shirt.

“I’ll give you company seats to the New York Avengers if you give me your shirt. You have five seconds to agree.” You start counting, and they run to the bathroom to change. You follow, thanking them profoundly along the way.

You rush to Natasha’s office, getting there right before she does. When Natasha walks in, you’re waiting by her desk, coffee in hand. She curtly thanks you and sits down at her desk, going through her paperwork.

She’s wearing a dark blue dress with a matching belt. Her hair is pinned back in the illusion of a simple bun, but you know how long she probably spent doing it. You’ve never seen her hair down. You know better than to ask.

“Your immigration lawyer called,” you say quickly, wanting to get this part of the day out of the way and go back to your desk.

“Cancel the appointment. And add open up my schedule on that weekend in September we talked about. Fury has decided to do Oprah.”

“Fury decided or you worked your persuasive magic on him and made the decision for him?”

“They’re the same thing,” she dismisses.

“Right. You have a conference call with Steve Rogers in 37 minutes and a staff meeting at 9:00. Also, someone called about the winter release for-“

“Tell then it is what it is and that if they think I can change time they should pay me more.”

“I’ll tell them politely no.”

“Waste of time,” she mutters. You’re about to leave when you remember that you have one more think to ask about.

“Did you have the chance to read the manuscript I sent you?” you ask, standing on the opposite side of Natasha’s desk.

“I started it, but I lost interest fairly quickly. Nothing really impressive about it.”

You start to exit the room and relax a little bit at your desk, but Natasha calls you back.

“Wait. Who is Kate and why does she want me to call her?”

You turn around slowly, meeting Natasha’s uninterested gaze. “That was mine. Yours spilled.”

“You drink a lavender latte with almond milk and foam?”

“Yes,” you say convincingly. “It tastes like summertime in my mouth,” you end lamely, your statement sounding much more like a question.

“Hm. It’s strange, because that’s my exact drink order. You wouldn’t possibly be ordering my drink for yourself in case you spill one of them because you’re scared shitless of what would happen. No, that would make you very much pathetic.”

That’s actually exactly what you do. She knows it. You know it. You should admit it. But what comes out of your mouth instead is: “Of course not. I just really like lavender coffee.”

“Mhm. The phones are ringing. Go do your job and answer it.”

“You got it.”

Again, before you leave she calls out to you. “Oh, one more thing. There’s a book fair this weekend that I need you to go to with me.”

“This weekend?” you ask.

“Yep,” she says, popping the p loudly. “Is that a problem?” Yes.

“No.”

You spend a while at your desk, taking calls and filing through the manuscripts that Natasha thinks are worth her time. You make sure to check the simple things like format and grammar, outlining them in red pen so she doesn’t have to do it.

Being an editor has always been your dream job. Growing up, books had been your form of escape from the overwhelming weight of your family. They led you through good times and bad, and gave you something to look forward to during the worst. Being Natasha’s assistant gives you an amazing opportunity to be just that, if you can make it.

You’re interrupted from a thrilling story when the phone rings.

“Ms. Romanoff’s office, how can I help you?“

“There’s my baby,” a familiar voice says.”

“Hi, Mom. I’m at work, is everything okay?”

“You sound stressed? Is that devil woman working you too hard again?” she frets. You can hear her frown.

“When is she not? Look, mom, I needed to talk to you anyway. I can’t come to Grammy’s birthday this weekend.”

“What?” You have to hold the phone away from your ear, wincing at the sudden volume of her voice. “You already bought tickets. You promised you would be here.”

“Yeah, well plans changed. It was nothing I could control.”

“Put your boss on the phone. I have a few choice words for her.”

“If only I could”- you look up to see Natasha walking over to your desk-“offer you a better deal, but unfortunately our prices are set. Goodbye.” You hang up the phone and turn to Natasha.

“Was that your mom?” she asks, walking down the aisle.

“Yep.”

“Did she want to kill me like usual?”

“Yep. She’s mad you’re making me miss Gammy’s 90th birthday.”

“Good. Consistency is key.” She stops at the door marked for D. Dreykov, knocking and pushing the glass door open.

“Ms. Romanoff, it’s good to see you,” acknowledges Dreykov, putting down his drink. With a vague sense of puzzlement you notice that it’s whiskey.

“It’s fucking eight thirty in the morning,” you murmer, low enough so Dreykov doesn’t hear. You’re pretty sure Natasha does, but she hides her smile by turning away. Even if she wasn’t, you’re going to pretend she does just to annoy her.

“You as well. How are you?” she ventures, looking pointedly at his glass.

“The same. You?“

“I can’t complain,” says Natasha, turning to a huge wooden armoire in the corner of the room.

“Is it new?” she inquires, tracing it with her fingers.

“It’s an eighteenth century piece,” he brags. “But to my office, yes it is new. You can't come here to talk about furniture, Ms. Romanoff. How can I help you?” You brace for what comes next. Knowing Dreykov, this isn’t going to go well.

“You’re fired,” Natasha says bluntly, no look of sympathy on her face. It’s a face you never hope to see looking at you.

“You better be joking,” laughs Dreykov.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You’re overreacting. You got Fury to do the show anyway.”

“Am I? You have two months to find yourself a new job. Everyone will be told that you resigned.” With that, Natasha walks out, you right behind her.

“What’s the update? How’s he looking?” she asks, questioning you about Dreykov’s reaction. You look back and see Dreykov pacing around the room.

“Fuming. Trying to decide if he’s going to come over here.”

“Shit. Don’t do it, Dreykov. It’s the wrong move.”

“He’s doing it.”

“Damn it.” Natasha turns around to see Dreykov coming towards her.

“You bitch,” he seethes. “You fired me because you thought I was better than you! You’re threatened by me, so you took me out. This has nothing to do with the Fury interview.” His voice raises volume, attracting interested stares from the people in the office. The same people who are quick to look away whenever Natasha starts speaking.

Calmly, she explains. “You’re right. I didn’t fire you because of Fury. That would be pointless and putting my own neck on the line. I fired you because, not only are you lazy and an asshole, you treat everyone in this office, including me, your boss, like they owe you something just for being in your presence. You show up late, drink all day, and turn in shitty work. And, frankly, I just don’t like you. So there you go. That’s why you got fired. If I hear another word I’m going to have my assistant over there call security to escort you out. Looks like you won’t be resigning after all.”

He starts to speak, but Natasha cus him off. “Not another word.” Her eyebrows raise, almost challenging him to speak again. He doesn’t. Instead, he storms off to his room like a child.

“Upstairs called my office directly. I’ll have to go up there in”-Natasha checks her watch-“five minutes. After ten in the room, I want you to make up an excuse and come get me. We have to much to do.”

“Sure thing.” Natasha heads the opposite direction while you go back to your desk. The office relaxes significantly as she leaves, people starting to talk about what just happened. You almost hear a sigh of relief sweep across the office when she’s gone.

You wait ten minutes, answering one call and sitting there the rest of the time. Then, you take the elevator to the next floor, deemed by everyone “the upstairs.” At the end of the hallway is a large office with huge windows.

You pop your head into the door of the office and are met with an immediate call to get out. Such polite people.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. Natasha, I have Sam Wilson on the phone for you. I told him to call back later, but he insists that it’s important and cannot wait.” You expect her to come with you like she always does when she tells you to do this, but she doesn’t move. She just stares at you, then looks back at her bosses, then back at you.

She mouths something to you that you can’t decipher. She does it again, and motions for you to go stand next to her.

“I understand the situation that I’m currently in, that’s why I think it’s important that you know…”

She puts her arm around your shoulders awkwardly and announces: “We’re getting married.”

“Who is?” you question, a fake smile on your lips.

“Us. Me and you. The lovebirds of the office,”she says through her teeth.

“Uh, right,” you turn to her bosses and smile at them, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“You know, she’s just so…” Natasha trails off, looking at you.

“I feel like it shouldn’t take that long to think of an adjective,” you mutter.

“Honest,” bites Natasha sweetly. “She’s honest to me. It was all those late nights together and early mornings, you really see the worst of each other. But that couldn’t stop us, could it sugarbear?” Sugarbear? Really? You send an unamused look at Natasha, who smiles pointedly back at you.

“Sure, honeycomb,” you grimace at the endearment, hoping it doesn’t sound half as ridiculous as you think it does. “We just couldn’t help ourselves from the attractive pull.”

“Something simply happened between us that I can’t explain,” concludes Natasha.

“Something definitely happened. And there’s definitely no logical explanation,” you agree.

“Is this-this is what you want, right? This is good?” Natasha motions between the two of

you, looking at the two men in front of you. They’re both wearing business smiles.

“Just make it official,” one says, pointing to his ring finger.

“That’s hot,” says the other. You want to punch him. You don’t think your fiancé (?) would appreciate that, though.

“Great. We’ll go to the immigration office right now and get this all sorted out. Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Of course. Ms. Romanoff, Ms…” the man at the desk trails off, giving up on remembering you name. He shrugs and goes back to his work.

“Ouch,” you murmur. You walk the rest of the way in silence, trying to figure out what’s going on. Natasha looks completely calm and in control.

Once you make it to you office, you shut the door, expecting some sort of explanation. Instead, Natasha sits down and starts working.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about? Because last time I checked we aren’t engaged and very much aren’t in love.”

“I was going to be deported to Russia and fired. This makes it where that doesn’t have to happen,” she states simply.

“And why would I comply with this? No offense, but I don’t need you to have a career here,” you inquire.

“Because if you don't, do think you’re going to be fired.” You raise your eyebrows at her, and she continues. “Dreykov, who we just fired, is going to take my place. You think he’s going to keep you around? I can answer that for you. No. He’s not. So if you want to be an editor, you’ll do this.”

“Jesus fucking shit.”

“That’s quite a swear,” notes Natasha mildly. “Don’t stress about it. We’ll get married, wait for me to get my green-card, and then get a quick divorce. Easy.”

“Easy,” you repeat, not convinced. Natasha tells you to clear her schedule for today and get all the papers ready to go to the immigration office. By the time you’re done, she’s waiting at your desk for you. “Let’s get this over with. Did you make an appointment?”

“I don’t think you know how this works.”

You’re proved correct when she skips the line, cutting in front of tons of people.

“You can’t just do that,” you protest.

“I just did.” You sigh and follow her, apologizing to the people you just cut in front of.

“I need this to file for a fiancé visa, please,” she says. She slides the papers across the desk, and a man approaches.

“Ms. Romanoff?” he asks.

“Yes?” Natasha answers, looking up from her phone.

“I need you to follow me.”

She turns to you. “See, I know how to do this.” The man leads you to a small room with a table and three chairs. He sits in one and the two of you sit across from him.

“I’m Mr. Smith. And you just be her fiancé?” he asks, looking at you.

“Yes. That’s me. Natasha’s fiancé,” you say smoothly. Natasha kicks you under the table.

“We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice. It all just happened so quickly,” thanks Natasha.

“That it did,” you agree. She kicks you again.

“I just have one question to ask you, and then you can be on your way.” He turns to face you. “Are you marrying Ms. Romanoff to save her from being deported to Russia, therefore committing fraud which has a penalty of five years in prison?” You stare at him with his mouth open like an idiot. Natasha tries to speak up, but he stops her.

“Because that’s what we think you happen to be doing, let me explain the steps that you will have to go through.”

“First, we ask around. Friends and coworkers will be asked if they know anything about you. Then, we ask families. After that, we check phone records and sightings. Lastly, there’s an interview. You will be asked everything about each other. If there’s even a slight difference in your answers, Romanoff will be deported and you will be put into jail for at least five years under the charges of fraud.”

“Unfortunately, your scare tactics won’t work because I’m totally and completely in love with this woman,” says Natasha, startlingly convincingly.

“What she said,” you second, trying not to sound miserable.

“If you’re not going to cooperate, things are going to get worse.”

“Ms. Romanoff, have you told your family about the engagement?” he asks blandly.

“My birth mother is dead and even she didn’t know who my father was. My adoptive father just got out of prison in Russia and my mother is on a farm with no way to contact her,” states Natasha matter-of-factly.

“It says here that you have a sister, Yelena Belova.”

“I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Are you currently in contact with her?“

“Yes, but we don’t talk about our dating lives,” Natasha says.

“What about you, ma’am? Have you told your family?”

You try to stutter out an answer, but nothing of substance comes out. You look at Natasha, hoping for a lifeline.

She rolls her eyes at you. “We were going to tell her family this weekend. It’s Grammy’s birthday.”

“How old is she turning?”

“90. Right, baby?” Natasha asks you. You nod.

“That’s a big one. She can’t come here. Where does Grammy live?”

You’re completely positive that Natasha doesn’t know this. “Why am I answering all the questions? It’s her family,” laughs Natasha effortlessly.

“My family is from Sitka. Everyone but me lives there.”

“Fine. Friends? Do any of them know? Or does anyone at your work know?”

“We couldn’t tell them because…” Natasha looks at you for help.

“Because of my big promotion. I was going to be promoted to editor next year, which was a decision made before we started dating, and we didn’t want people to think-“

“Right,” he cuts you off. Mr. Smith sighs and tells you that you can go. “I’m warning you, though. I’ll make sure that this is real.”

“God forbid the book editors start taking over America,” mutters Natasha. “Thank you for your cooperation,” she calls back at Mr. Smith, flipping him off.

You walk quickly out of the building, Natasha right on your heels.

“We’re going to have to push back all of our meetings for this weekend. Can you call Steve and tell him? And we need to get a first class plane for today to Sitka. And get me the vegan meal, last time I had this terrible chicken salad,” says Natasha.

“I’m sorry, were you not in the same meeting as me? I could go to jail for doing this, and the only reason I am is so I probably don’t get fired,” you exclaim, halting your walking.

“Well, what do you want?” she asks impatiently.

“I want to be an editor.”

“I’m not promoting you to editor,” she laughs.

“Then I’m not doing this. Being your assistant for the next few years isn’t worth the possibility of jail. Have fun in Russia.”

“Fuck,” she groans. “Fine. Welcome to the fucking team.”

“And I want my manuscript published.”

“Ten thousand copies,” she agrees.

“And if I’m going to do this, you’re going to have to ask me nicely.”

“Fine. Marry me,” she says flatly.

“You can do better than that. Come on, get down on a knee and ask me to marry you.”

“I’m not doing that,” she hisses.

“Have fun in Russia, Natasha,” you reply cheerily, starting to walk away.

“Jesus. Okay, okay! I’ll do it.” Muttering insults under her breath, she slowly gets down on her knees. “Dearest love, will you marry me? Nothing would make me happier.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, but I accept,” you say.

“You don’t really have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” you say lightly.

“Is it really a choice when one of the options is absolutely shitty?” she questions, still on the ground.

“Sure it is. I’ll see you at the airport.”

“You’re not going back to work?” she stands up clumsily, her skirt getting caught on her heel. It’s one of the only times you’ve seen her not the epitome of perfection. It’s almost endearing. It would be more so if she wasn’t asking you about work, but you’ll take baby steps.

“Fuck no. I’ve earned the day off. Bye sugarbear.”

“Piss off, homeycomb.”