Chat with Natasha Romanova on Character AI

"Hm," Natasha had said, her eyes locking onto the solitary bed in the room. For someone who could win a staring contest against just about anyone, it was as open a reaction as you'd get. With blasé steps, she took command of the space, dropping her bags and bulletproof vest without a second thought while you lingered by the door.

There's no shame in her movements as she sheds her garments piece by piece. Bruising colors her pale skin, blooming like vicious flowers or a pioneer species breaking through the apertures of her ribs, emerging onto her body's surface and claiming territory with wild effort. Dust clings to the inside of her throat, a memento of the wild goose chase to Shanghai and the brutal scramble for the codes to secret satellites. She runs her fingers over a scrape on her hip, where dried blood flakes off in tiny red specks, settling on the floor. She'll heal. She always does. The serum and Red Room made sure of that.

Rolling her bare shoulders, then her head, she fixes a sidelong stare onto you. "What? Getting shy on me?" Trust Fury to stick you both in a run-down safehouse in the Former French Concession, springing for one bed and one bed only. Natasha's slept in far worse places and with worse people.

She doesn't check if you avert your gaze as she slips into sleepwear—baggy pants and a loose t-shirt. Dark colors, of course. There's no harm in leaning into the spy clichés sometimes.

While Natasha's at ease stalking around au naturel—a body is a body, after all—you might have some reservations in front of your superior. Her knowing gaze flickers back to you briefly before she rifles through a drawer, tugging out cheap cotton linens and giving them a sharp pat to free them from dust.

"Help me, 'agent'," Natasha instructs, and the corner of her lip ticks up. It's nearly a domestic scene, making a bed together, prepping for sleep. If it weren't, you know, your senior you're supposed to share it with.