I’m Star-Lord (SW Xover)

C181 Mixed Signals

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Peter stepped out of the control room, the door sliding shut behind him. His eyes immediately landed on Natasha Romanoff, leaning against the wall just outside, arms crossed, her expression icy. She straightened up as soon as she saw him, her sharp gaze locking onto his.

Before he could say a word, Natasha pushed off the wall and motioned for him to follow. "Come with me," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Peter opened his mouth to speak, to maybe try to defuse whatever storm was brewing, but he quickly closed it again. He wasn't naive—he knew why Natasha was upset. He sighed inwardly and followed her through the winding corridors of the Red Room.

They walked in silence until Natasha led him to a nearby training room, one with a matted floor designed for close-quarters combat.

Natasha kicked off her shoes without a word and strode to the center of the mat, rolling her shoulders back as she faced him. "Spar with me," she said, her voice cool but firm. "And don't use your powers."

Peter raised an eyebrow. Of course, she would add that condition, but he didn't argue. Natasha wasn't the type to let things go easily, and if she wanted to spar, then he'd give her a spar. She was taking the initiative to deal with her anger in the only way she knew best—through combat.

He sighed again, slipping off his boots before stepping onto the mat. "Alright, fine," he muttered. "But can we at least talk after this?"

Natasha didn't answer. She just stood there, waiting for him to join her. He knew that once she was like this, it was pointless to push too hard. He needed to face this head-on, and if she was willing to throw punches at him, he'd let her—for now, at least.

Peter stepped up to the mat, loosening his shoulders as he forcibly dulled his connection to the Force as she asked. He wasn't exactly untrained himself, though hand-to-hand combat wasn't his primary focus at the Jedi Temple. But he wasn't going to back down. He was a Jedi Knight, after all, and Jedi don't run from challenges.

But before he could even brace himself, Natasha suddenly lunged.

She moved like a blur, her fist flying straight toward his face. Peter barely managed to dodge, twisting his body to the side just in time to avoid the blow. He felt the wind of her punch rush past his cheek, and then she was on him again, relentless.

A quick jab to his ribs followed, then a sharp kick aimed at his shin. Peter blocked the kick with his forearm, but the force behind it was enough to send him stumbling back a step. Natasha didn't waste any time; she was already following up with a spinning backfist aimed at his temple.

Peter ducked under it, narrowly avoiding getting clocked. "You're really not holding back, huh?" he commented, but she wasn't listening.

She swept a leg under him, trying to take his feet out from under him. Peter jumped to avoid it and retaliated with a punch aimed at her midsection. But Natasha was too fast—she sidestepped the blow and countered with an elbow to his chest.

The impact knocked the wind out of him, and Peter staggered back, his breath coming in short gasps. 

Natasha pressed her advantage, her hands a blur as she launched a series of strikes, each one precise and calculated. Peter blocked most of them, his arms aching from the rapid succession of impacts, but a sharp punch to his jaw sent him reeling.

"Alright, I get it! You're pissed!" Peter grunted, rubbing his jaw where her punch had landed. "But can we at least talk while you're beating the crap out of me?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed, and instead of answering, she spun low and aimed another kick at his legs. 

Peter saw it coming this time and stepped back, barely avoiding the sweep. He retaliated with a quick kick of his own, aiming for her thigh, but Natasha blocked it effortlessly, grabbing his leg and twisting it to throw him off balance.

Peter hit the mat hard, the impact rattling through his bones. He groaned, quickly rolling to his feet before Natasha could capitalize on the knockdown. His movements were slower than hers—he could tell she had the upper hand in speed and precision, especially since he wasn't using any of his powers—but Peter wasn't done yet. He'd been trained by both Jedi Masters and a Sith Lord; he knew how to endure.

As he stood, he met her next attack head-on, blocking her punch and deflecting it to the side before countering with a palm strike aimed at her shoulder. Natasha shifted just enough to avoid the full force, but Peter's hand grazed her, enough to send her stumbling slightly.

"I know you're mad," Peter said between breaths, trying to find a moment to catch his breath, "about what happened with Mikaela. But—"

He was cut off as Natasha lunged again, her fist connecting with his side in a sharp, stinging blow. Peter grunted, staggering back a step, but he managed to stay upright.

"Alright," Peter muttered, wiping the blood from his lip. "Come on, hit me with everything you've got. I can take it."

Natasha still didn't respond, her expression remaining focused, cold even, as she kept coming at him with strikes that tested his reflexes and resolve. Peter blocked as many as he could, but some slipped through his defenses—a knee to his ribs, a kick to his thigh, an elbow that barely missed his temple. He could feel the bruises forming, his muscles protesting with each hit, but he wasn't going to stop.

The spar dragged on, each of them pushing the other, neither willing to give in. Natasha's frustration was evident in her every movement, her punches carrying the weight of her anger. 

Peter, on the other hand, was fighting to stay on his feet, his breath heavy but steady as he tried to keep up.

After a particularly brutal exchange, they both stepped back for a moment, breathing heavily. Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead, his eyes never leaving Natasha's.

"You're right to be mad," Peter admitted, his voice low but sincere. "I shouldn't have let things get this messy. I know I hurt you. And Mikaela… I need to fix things with her, too. But I want to make things right. I don't want this… this thing between us to just fester."

Natasha said nothing, but the fire in her eyes flickered slightly as she stood across from him, her fists still raised. For a brief moment, Peter thought he saw something other than anger flash across her face—something more complicated.

But then, without warning, she rushed him again.

Peter barely had time to steady himself before Natasha came at him again. Her fist swung toward his ribs, but this time, Peter managed to deflect it with a quick block. He could feel the shift in the air between them, the raw aggression from earlier cooling, but something else was starting to simmer just beneath the surface.

As Natasha moved in again, her strikes were still precise, still powerful—but now they seemed… different. Her movements, once sharp and aggressive, began to take on a subtle fluidity, a grace that hadn't been there moments ago. Peter noticed it instantly. She twisted around him with finesse, her body brushing against his in ways that left him momentarily stunned.

Peter blinked, confusion flashing across his face. He barely dodged her next strike, his focus slipping as he tried to figure out what was happening. Natasha had been furious, relentless—and now, it was as if her anger had softened into something more… seductive?

As if to confirm his suspicions, Natasha's lips curled into a smirk, her eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and something far more intimate. She circled him slowly, her steps almost teasing, her gaze locked on his with a surprising intensity. He tried to shake off the feeling, refocusing his mind on the fight, but Natasha was making it hard—very hard.

"I thought you were pissed," Peter grunted, narrowly avoiding another quick jab aimed at his shoulder.

Natasha didn't answer immediately. Instead, she moved in closer, too close, her hand grazing his chest as she faked a strike. Peter's muscles tensed, but she didn't follow through with the hit. Instead, her fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary, tracing his skin through the fabric of his shirt as she stepped back.

Then she finally spoke, her voice low and sultry. "It's not your fault," she said, her words taking him by surprise.

Peter blinked. "What?"

"I said," Natasha repeated, pivoting smoothly on her heel, "it's not your fault. I know we're not in a relationship... yet. You have no commitment to me." Her tone had shifted—calmer now, almost gentle—but Peter could still sense the simmering heat of frustration beneath her words.

She struck again, this time slower, more deliberate, like she wasn't really trying to hurt him anymore. Peter blocked the punch, but he couldn't ignore the way she moved—fluid, like water, her body a deliberate temptation as she pressed closer. 

Her next attack came in the form of a sweeping kick, but instead of following it through with force, she used the momentum to lean into him, her breath warm against his neck.

Peter's pulse quickened. "Natasha, not that I don't like this, but what are you doing?" he asked, his voice uneven as he stepped back to create some distance.

But Natasha didn't let him retreat far. She advanced again, her movements a mix of combat and something far more sensual. Her eyes never left his, and Peter felt like he was losing control of the situation. He'd been prepared for her anger, for the physicality of the sparring, but this… this was something else entirely.

'Is she trying to seduce me?' He asked himself.

"Truthfully, I'm more mad at myself than at you," Natasha admitted softly, her lips brushing against his ear as she slipped behind him, her arm briefly sliding across his waist. 

Peter tensed, unsure whether to back off or play along—either way, it was getting harder to keep his mind on the sparring.

"What do you mean?" he managed to ask, his breath uneven as Natasha moved around him with fluid grace, her touch just barely ghosting over him.

Natasha spun in front of him, her hand grazing his chest again before delivering a half-hearted jab that Peter easily blocked. "I thought I had time," she said, her voice taking on a wistful edge. "Time to take things slow, to wait, to play it safe."

Peter's brows furrowed as he caught her wrist, holding her strike in place as their eyes met. "Natasha…"

She stepped in closer, cutting him off, her free hand sliding up his arm as she leaned into him, her lips dangerously close to his. "I thought," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, "that I could take my time. But I realize now that was a mistake. Because if I want something, I need to reach out and take it."

And before Peter could respond, Natasha surged forward, closing the final distance between them and crashing her lips onto his. The kiss was fierce, filled with the intensity of everything she hadn't said, and Peter's mind went blank for a split second. His hands instinctively moved to her waist, pulling her closer, but the surprise still lingered.

For a moment, everything else faded away—there was no sparring match, no Decepticons, no unresolved tension, just the heat of Natasha's lips against his. She kissed him like she fought—determined, forceful, taking what she wanted without hesitation.

When she finally pulled back, Peter was left breathless, his pulse racing. Her lips were still close, her breath warm against his skin as she whispered, "Now do you understand?"

Peter blinked, still processing what had just happened. "So… all of this…" He gestured vaguely at the training room and the fight they were still technically in. "What the hell was that about?"

Natasha smirked, her lips brushing his once more before she stepped back, her eyes gleaming with that familiar challenge. "Just because it's not your fault doesn't mean I wasn't mad at you," she said, amusement dancing in her gaze.

Peter opened his mouth, trying to find the right words, but Natasha stopped him. She placed a finger on his lips, her eyes softening just slightly. "Don't," she said, shaking her head. "I know what you're going to say."

Peter closed his mouth, his mind racing as Natasha continued.

"I won't stop you from seeing that girl," Natasha admitted, her voice steady but filled with resolve. "I get it. You've got your own thing going on, and I'm not going to play the jealous type who tries to keep you away from her."

Peter's eyes searched hers, confused and a little taken aback. "Then what is this?"

Natasha smirked again, but this time there was no malice in her expression—just pure determination. "This is me telling you that I'm not going to back down. I'm going to win your heart, Peter. And if I have to fight for it, then so be it. I've been fighting my entire life. One more battle won't scare me off."

Peter stared at her, speechless. The intensity in Natasha's gaze, the unwavering confidence—it left no room for doubt. She wasn't backing down, and she was making it crystal clear that she had every intention of winning.

She stepped closer once more, her lips brushing lightly against his ear as she whispered, "And since this is a battle, I'd say I'm winning right now."

Before Peter could process her words, Natasha's lips were on his again, this time slower, more calculated, but still just as passionate. The smugness in her kiss was unmistakable—she had struck first, faster than Mikaela ever could, and she was savoring the victory. Peter could feel the confidence radiating from her as she kissed him, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in it.

But then something shifted inside him. He wasn't the type to be outplayed easily, not in a fight, and not in whatever this had become. With a swift movement, Peter flipped Natasha over, pinning her beneath him as he took control of the kiss, his hands pressing against her waist as he deepened it. He could feel her surprise for a split second, but then she melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair as they lost themselves in each other.

For a while, there were no words—just the heat between them, the battle of wills turning into something far more intimate.

…

..

.

Later, as they both lay on the mat, catching their breath, Natasha was the first to move. She stood up, slipping back into her shoes and smoothing her hair before giving Peter one last look—half challenge, half satisfaction.

Without another word, she walked out of the training room, her usual confident stride carrying her into the corridor.

As Natasha stepped outside, she immediately spotted Mikaela walking down the hallway, clearly on her way to find Peter. Natasha's lips curled into a smug smirk as she passed the other woman, her eyes gleaming with victory.

Mikaela frowned, confused by the look Natasha gave her. Her eyes followed Natasha as she walked away, suspicion prickling at the back of her mind.

The confusion only deepened when, moments later, Peter stepped out of the same room Natasha had just left. He ran a hand through his messy hair, his shirt slightly disheveled, and Mikaela's eyes narrowed when she noticed the faint smudge of red lipstick on his face.

"Peter…" Mikaela's voice trailed off, her gaze flicking between him and the training room.

Peter froze, realizing how it must have looked. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but no words came out. "Uhh…" He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he wiped at the smear on his face. "Hello there."

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