Natasha Romanoff ~ Pain

Yelena *panicking*: Natasha's going to kill me for letting you get hurt.

Y/N: It wasn’t your fault though, I’m the one who snuck away!

Yelena: Trust me, that’s going to mean jack shit to her when she sees that bruise. I don’t think you understand just how much of her sanity hinges on your happiness and safety.

no bones

content warnings: no smut but reference to it, also mommy kink, nat comforts you by… being a shitty gf lol

a/n: ive opened 3 word docs to write diff things and its not coming out bc ive been haha sad af so i wrote this mediocre gfs fic, as usual ur both terrible gfs on paper but in practice it… works out actually

Keep reading

OMG HEAR ME OUT.. IMAGINE OLDER!NAT WITH A YOUNGER READER WHO BRUISES EASILY 😏 AND NATTY HAS A MARKING KINK AND LIKES TO ADMIRE ALL OF HER WORK (BRUISES) ON YOUR SKIN FROM SEX 😏😏 PLS NSFW SMUT SEX PLS GENTLE!NATTY BUT ALSO ROUGH!NATTY WITH SOFT!NATTY PLS

warnings: older!nat, younger!reader, hickeys, description of reader’s body (shes small/petite), slight mommy kink. NSFW

Her finger draws a line across your warm skin, thin and pale pointed finger tips, pressed right at the curve of where your ribs protrudes, Natasha hears the hiss of where she applies pressure on the bruising mark.

The older woman grins while her finger leaves the spot and then moves on to another, this time, she’s tracing over the underside of your breast, feigning some sort of innocence to the way she has your breath shaky.

“Tasha...” Though, meek and small, your voice carries a tone of annoyance to the way your girlfriend plays with you like you were some kind of toy.

She had promised she would behaved. You had your exams to study for, and you need to be well focused and read the notes.

“You promised me.”

She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her voice muffled, but you understood her clear as day as her words vibrated against your skin.

“I didn’t promise such thing, dear.” She heard you puff in annoyance. “But if you must insist I stop touching you then—”

You groaned at her words, rolling your eyes in tow as you gave her a look. “Whatever. Just...”

You felt her hands resume their wonderful tasks, cupping your breast through your oversized t-shirt. Biting your lip, you huffed and turned to your girlfriend who looked at you with storming emerald eyes.

She grinned, leaning to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, only to travel her mouth further south to your neck. She paused for a moment, gave your breasts a squeeze before her tongue gave your skin a lick.

“You’re so perfect, darling.” A hand left your chest and she trailed it down your naval, slowing down between your legs. She paused, then reached out to grip your thighs and part your legs apart.

She knew you bruised easily and with the tight grip on the flesh of your inner thigh, there was no doubt you’d be purple and pink by tonight.

“Tasha—”

She shook her head, unable to answer you as she nipped your fragile skin in tow. You’d be marked by the end of the night, littered in growing and healing bruises, Natasha would have a field day by the morning as she watched you slather on makeup to cover them up.

She always did adore the way they painted your skin like a canvas. And as she laid you down onto the bed on your back, letting her slip away so she could now lay between your legs.

“Can you recite your notes for me, dear?”

The older woman looked at you as she fluttered her eyes in innocence. Biting your lip, you couldn’t say no to her, especially with how close she was near your core. As you nodded, the redhead grinned and she disappeared between.

You opened your mouth to speak, but merely nothing came out as you whimpered in tow. Natasha was grinning wide between your legs and as she kissed you through your thin shorts, your breath was shaky.

“Keep going, love.” A kiss to your thigh, another one to your left. “Mommy will reward your little body soon.”

Angsty fic w nat? When we were young by adele is the plot tho 😏

when we were young

a/n: this is the first time i've written angst with no happy ending so enjoy😭

warnings: angst (no happy ending)

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

summary: after a year of be ignored and shut out, the reader decides its time to leave nat, no matter how much it hurts

translations: detka=baby

words: 1.2k | natasha x reader masterlist | navigation post

likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated and welcomed <3

You woke up to an empty bed, again. You weren’t surprised, you had woken up to an empty bed every day for the past year. Nat was too busy working, hoping, searching for a solution, a way to bring everybody back. After the blip occurred, Nat turned cold, towards everyone. The redhead stays at her desk day and night, she barely paid you any attention. You had told her time and time again that she couldn't fix every problem on the face of the Earth. She refused to listen.

It hurt seeing Nat turn into a shell of her former self and you often found yourself reminiscing on old memories. You two used to go on adventures, you wanted to show her all your favorite places. You took her to amusement parks, beaches, and to your favorite parks. You used to have movie nights at least once a week, you showed her all your favorites and she showed you hers.

You missed her. You missed her raspy morning voice saying she loved you, how she would gently rub circles on your back when you were feeling overwhelmed, how she would throw her head back laughing at all your jokes.

But that Natasha was long gone. That Natasha was replaced by one who never said more than three words to you, one who never leaves the compound, one that no longer laughed at anything.

“Natasha,” you said more sternly than usual. The redhead didn’t even acknowledge you, she just kept typing. “Natasha!” You yelled this time. The redhead looked up at you with zero expression in her eyes. “You know it’s not your fault right? The blip. It’s not your fault.” You said for the millionth time this year. The redhead just sighed and went back to typing on her computer.

For the past year, you had been giving her space, reassurance, anything she could possibly need. But she just didn’t seem to care. You loved her so much, more than anything or anyone, but staying here with her was destroying you.

With tears in your eyes, you stormed out of the room and retreated back into your bedroom, you didn’t think you could even call it you and Nat’s bedroom anymore.

You looked around the room, the one filled with pictures. Ones from all your adventures. Ones from when you two were both younger when the world wasn’t in chaos.

You missed the simple days, the ones before aliens invaded New York. The ones before killer robots made a city fly. You missed just being able to hang out with Nat when you two could do what you wanted when you wanted to.

When you were younger things were easier, but now, nothing was easy.

-

Months passed and nothing changed. Nat just sat and stared at her computer, getting more and more distant every day. You were lucky if she spoke to you once a week nowadays. You yearned for her, all you wanted was to feel her touch again or to hear her beautiful voice.

You knew the good days were over. You knew Nat would never move on from this, not unless she miraculously found a way to reverse the blip.

You wished you could live in the photos in your bedroom. The photos of you and Nat laughing so hard that you could barely breathe. The ones where you two-starred lovingly into each others eyes. But you couldn’t, as much as you wished you could, you couldn’t live in photographs.

For months now you had entertained the thought of leaving the compound, of leaving Natasha. Every time you thought about it, the guilt of leaving Nat ate you alive. You couldn’t leave her, not when she was like this.

But you also couldn’t stay, not anymore. Staying was killing you. Loving her when she showed no sign that she loved you was destroying you. So as much as it hurt, you knew you had to leave.

You packed your things from around the compound without Nat even noticing. She was too busy working to notice you were taking all your things. You could have just walked out the front door without her noticing if you wanted to. But you thought you at least owed her a goodbye and you hoped she would give you some closure.

“Natasha,” you said in an attempt to grab her attention. She didn’t even look up, “Natasha I’m leaving.” No response. “Natasha I’m leaving and I’m not coming back this time.” The redhead immediately looked up at you, “What?”

“I can’t sit here and be a ghost in my own house anymore Natasha.” The redhead stared at you puzzled, “I don’t-”

“You have been ignoring my existence for over a year now! You don’t talk to me, you don’t come to bed, you don’t ever leave that damn computer!” You yelled, trying to hold back tears, you couldn’t let her see you cry, not now. “Y/N I’m sorry I just-”

“Look I know you have a lot going on right now and I know you have a lot on your plate, but you don’t make time for me anymore and it’s exhausting loving someone who clearly doesn’t care about you,” the tears started flowing down your face, over a year of emotions exploding out.

“I do love you, I love you so much, Y/N you hold me together,” Natasha said as tears formed in her eyes. “See, saying that you love me and showing me you love me are two different things.”

Natasha let out a sob, she didn’t want to be left alone. “Please don’t go, I’ll be better, I promise.”

“I can’t stay anymore, I want to believe you, but I’m tired Nat,” you said through your sobs. You advanced toward the door and for the first time in a long long while Natasha got up from her desk and ran toward you. The redhead hugged you from behind, “I can’t do this without you.”

“Natasha, please,” you cried as you melted into her touch. God, you missed her hugs. “I miss the way things were when we were younger, what happened to the adventures, the laughs, the spontaneous dates,” you spilled out, her hugs always made you open up.

“I miss that too,” Nat sobbed out, almost collapsing to the floor.

The two of you stood in silence, Natasha still gripping onto you tightly. You both stood and appreciated what was what you both knew was the last time you would ever touch one another.

“Nat I need to go,” you said in a barely audible whisper. “I know,” Nat said, equally as quiet. The redhead slowly released her grip on you.

You opened the door and took a deep breath, “Goodbye Natasha.” You closed the door before you could hear her say anything in response. Immediately, you fell to the ground sobbing, Natasha was your soulmate, your other half. Leaving her hurt you more than any wound you have ever had.

You thought one day you two would get married, settle down, get some of the life Steve was always telling you to get. But that wasn’t you and Nat’s story, not in this lifetime at least.

Maybe in another lifetime Nat.

IM SORRY HOW LOBG AGO DID YOU WRITE THIS??? Its so good please- Bubba and peach thats so cute😭😭🥰

bleed all over me

a dark retelling of bleed it out through the perspective of the countess and her vampire daughter and their forbidden rendezvous...

mom vampire!natasha x daughter vampire!reader

warnings: INCEST, blood drinking, vampire au, mommy kink, innocence kink, and slight manipulation.

inspired by @seera-li :3

DO NOT READ if this offends or triggers you in the slightest, your media consumption is your own responsibility.

She had been ever so perfect, her little thing, her whole world. From the start of her life, to the moment she took her last breath, Natalia had always been there right by her side.

And when she cried wolf for her mother’s arms, the gentle call from her dying throat, she looked at the countess with eyes that only sparked the ever lasting joy of life.

Only then Natalia knew what she had to do. With skin pricked within seconds, blood cascaded down between the cracks of her lips and tongue, life forged itself back into her body as every bit of death seeped out of her bones.

When she had woken up hours later, seeking out for her mother’s arms bare in her nightgown, the countess spoke nothing but welcomed her with open arms. With her lips pressed against hers, tiny little whispers of life sparked once again between them.

* * *

She had missed this; the very love her mother had given her even way before her succumbing to death. Every kiss, every reassurance of her love, through the moans and whimpers while Natalia had her daughter between slender fingers.

While for now, she seeks out comfort from her, sat comfortably in her lap as the older woman brushed her silken hair through fibres, a moment passes between the two.

When Natalia finishes and settles the brush beside their table, she finds her daughter’s eyes seeking for her. Those wide doe things, staring at her with so much life and adoration, much more to experience in the many centuries they have to live.

“When was the last you had fed, peach?” Something swells in Natalia when she finds her flushing under the nickname. It had always been the name she had called her before she had fatefully died that night. Ever since, always since, it evoked the very same reaction.

She shrugs in response to her mother’s question, a purse to her lips as she twirls an unruly lock of Natalia’s red hair. Mumbles an answer once she finds the courage to: “Not sure.”

The older woman raises a brow at her, finds her trailing her gaze away from her own green ones before Natalia sighs and draws her chin up.

“It’s been weeks, love bug.” She frowned under her mother’s tone. “You know how I feel about feedings.”

She barely even found the courage to look up, but when Natalia gripped her chin a little harder, she bit her lip and found striking green eyes staring right back at her.

“Not that hungry, I guess.” She gave a poor shrug to mask the hunger that rumbled through her stomach. Natalia didn’t need to be creature of such to figure out the craving present in her daughter’s lips.

“Love bug?”

“Mmh?”

Natalia looked at her lovingly, eyes soft and gentle, yet still there was some firmness behind them that spoke of no room for argument.

She frowned and snaked her arms around the countess’ neck, grinding herself further and harder against her lap to feel the friction present between her legs.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, mama.”

The redhead looked at the smaller woman in her lap, rubbing an comforting hand over her bare arm as she sighed and drew her head up. She trailed her eyes away.

“You could never hurt me, love bug, you know this.” She cooed softly, just as her fingers mocked her own words against her skin. “Come closer, sweetheart.” She helped her scoot over. “I trust you. Always.”

And when the countess swept the long locks of hair away from one side of her shoulder, baring her pulsing neck to her daughter, Natalia waited for her to make the first.

While hesitant and doubtful, she inched closer to her mother’s waiting arms and ducked her head to where her pulse laid. Only then, revealing shimmering sharp teeth, she leaned close until they pricked her fragile pale skin to reveal crimson blood to her tongue.

When blood coated her buds, she moaned and softly whimpered against her mother’s skin. There was a moment of serenity between the silence, a moment of calm, sweet tang and bittersweet on her tongue. And when her quenching thirst was fulfilled, tummy satisfied and eyes fluttered closed, she pulls away from her mother’s beating neck.

Her teeth retract and Natasha thumbs at the blood that corners at her lips and licks it away. The countess grins at her daughter’s skin, what was once pale now blooming with life.

She cupped her cheek and found her eyes dazed in such euphoria, almost orgasmic and Natasha remembers the very first she had made her daughter cum. Such a frail little girl, she had been so innocent and unaware, wonderful and submissive, all her’s.

“You alright, bubba?” She swept the hair that framed her face. “Feel better now?”

She gave her mother a nod and sighed, a smile blooming on her blood stained lips. “Thank you, mama.”

Natasha grinned and melted into her embrace. Always and forever, anything for her little girl.

Say you break your ankle. You could know everything there is to know intellectually about the injury. Even with this vast knowledge, you will still experience physical pain.

Now take this logic and apply it to things like ADHD, autism, clinical depression, and other less visible/divergent disabilities. You cannot think your way out of feeling.

That is to say: you are not a bad, lazy, or selfish person for struggling, even if you know why you are struggling.

Jealousy, Jealousy

Summary: Y/N gets a little bit jealous that Natasha doesn't see the way that she feels about her- so why not see if she can make her a little jealous with her best friend. Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader Theme: Smut Word Count: 3.6k Warning(s): 18+ | Smut | Fingering | Oral | Cursing | Mommy Kink Author's Note: I uh- don't have much to say about this. But who doesn't love a jealous/possessive girlfriend. (Healthy, of course.)

There was never a point in time that you could recall not knowing that Natasha Romanoff was the only woman you wanted to call yours.

Her smile was one of the first things you had always noticed about her. Teeth flashing with each eager grin, a faint indentation of dimples and accented cheekbones, as she would slip past a laugh or a shoulder nudge with the expression. She was never generally one to get mad towards you, in fact, you can’t generally recall a time when she ever raised her voice towards you.

Certainly, she never held back from anyone else on the team, especially Rogers or Stark when they chewed at her nerves. You could remember a point in time where Steve had gotten on your case about failing to subdue an enemy quickly enough, and the redhead was quick to act in your stead. You’d never seen the super soldier sulk back further than when Romanoff was in his personal space. She was never afraid to break past his comfort-zone as she snapped back at him in defense for you. Most of the time you couldn’t hide the incredulous smile at watching Rogers tuck his tail while Natasha would gather herself and drag you away from the situation.

Your eyes darted to the familiar pull of her laugh echoing across the room, leaning against the bartop as Bruce Banner chuckled along with her. She stood slightly bent forward, propping herself up against her forearms as you watched her eyes glint with amusement. A swell of jealousy pooled in the pit of your stomach when you noticed Banner’s eyes default to the subtle view of her breasts that were exposed under the low-cut V of her t-shirt. Of course, you couldn’t generally blame him, she was beautiful. It wasn’t just the infatuation of her body to you though, which maybe was far more dangerous.

“You’re practically as green as him,” Wanda’s voice chimed as she slumped beside you on the couch against the opposite arm, throwing her legs up to lay across your lap.

The only response you offered her at first was a dramatic roll of your eyes, scoffing at the words before turning away from the sight of Banner’s hopeless flirting. She wasn’t necessarily wrong, you were green with envy, and the ability of telepathy that Wanda held made it pointless to fire back any denial. Instead, you only casted your glance down, observing your best friend’s legs that were strewn across your lap. “You can be such a brat.”

A laugh bubbled out of Wanda’s chest as she shot you an uneasy grin, leaning up slightly. Her back bent forward as you felt your breath hitch at close proximity she’d soon found beside you. The warmth of her breath ghosted across your ear, swearing for a moment you could nearly feel her lips against the cartilage. There was no doubt about it in your mind that Wanda Maximoff was beautiful, but you were so invested in your feelings for Natasha you didn’t see her as much more than your best friend.

“We could…” a faint pause caused you to match Wanda’s gaze out of the corner of your eye, “make her jealous?”

The sensation of Wanda’s fingertips tracing up your forearm ignited a fire in your stomach you didn’t know could be lit by the touch. An array of goosebumps flourished across your skin as your head involuntarily lolled to the side to listen closer to the brunette’s words, and to faintly admire the way her breath washed across your skin. Even your best friend couldn’t ignore the flutter of butterflies in her abdomen at the way you gave into her. You were so infected by any touch right now, your body was falling into any little skin to skin contact. She continued the motion, and you couldn’t help yourself but to test a glance towards Natasha.

“Don’t,” Wanda scolded harshly, nearly making you wince at the roughness of the witch’s thumb and finger twisting your chin to look back towards her, “we’ve barely even started.” She wasn’t bluffing, her chin dipped to let her lips brush upwards along your neck, drawing a scratchy moan from the back of your throat. The sound took you both by surprise, and you felt her nails slightly press into the faint muscle of your bicep. A faint string brewed in the spot, but it was jaded by the way Wanda took the skin at your pulse between her teeth. You could feel the smirk pulling on her lips against your skin, she was enjoying this. And you felt yourself questioning whether it was because of the reaction you were giving her, or if Natasha had taken notice and begun to brew.

You wanted to look in her direction, to see if the woman you longed for was turning just as green, but Wanda had you amply distracted. She was sucking softly on the tissue, not enough to leave a mark, but enough to draw out a moan beneath your breath once again. A wave of embarrassment rocked through you, hoping no one else heard the slip- except maybe Natasha.

‘She’s watching,’ the brunette’s words drifted through your mind, and you scowled at the fact she was communicating telepathically. You hated it when she did it, but right now, it was probably less obvious than outright saying it to you in the chance the assassin saw or heard it. The impatience in you briefly won out, and as Wanda was busy working her lips along your neck, legs still across your lap, you chanced a glance towards the redhead.

Your best friend was right, Natasha’s jaw was locked in place, paying no heed further to whatever Bruce was spewing as emerald irises were even more darkened in the dim lighting of the event hall. You couldn’t help the wash of enjoyment that grew when you watched her meet your gaze. With an unexpected grin, taunting the older women, you parted your lips to draw out an exaggerated groan of pleasure as you tipped your head back, eyes closing to let Wanda continue with you.

The feeling of her lips against you was undoubtedly making you squirm slightly, after all, who wouldn’t appreciate a beautiful woman having her way with you if even for a taunt? If you weren’t so distracted, you wouldn’t have mistaken the sharp grasp around your other forearm to be Maximoff’s, but the velocity in which you were pulled out from underneath the witch’s legs made you gasp as you stood face to face with Natasha. Her eyes were even more unforgiving up close, flicking back and forth between you and Wanda, who still wore a shit-eatting grin.

“Nat, is there something I-”

“What are you doing, Y/N?” She snapped firmly, keeping her fingers still wound snug around your arm as she stood intoxicatingly close to you. You could smell the faint floral aroma of her perfume that wafted past your nose, trying to keep your focus matched to hers despite the fact her body was nearly flush to you. Wanda had already left you in a state of slight desperation, and now that you were under Natasha Romanoff’s grip you could physically feel the pooling arousal between your thighs. You didn’t even notice the dismissive glance that the redhead sent towards your best friend that had her chuckling and removing herself from the situation.

A toothy smirk sprawled across your lips, trying her patience as you spoke, “You were busy with Bruce.”

The realization dawned on her almost immediately, her brows pulling together as she cocked her head, “You were jealous, weren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nearly felt your demeanor crumble at the way she now had the upper ground over you, throwing in the pet name only solidified that. You could just deny it, shake your head and roll your eyes at the accusation, but you knew she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. Especially given the fact you’d whimpered at the way her grip didn’t relent around your arm when you tried to pull back.

“Don’t worry,” she mused, stepping towards you to a point where you had to bite back another sound of imprudence at the feeling of breasts pressing to your own, “I’ll show you how much of yours I am.” The grin on her lips never faltered as you sent her a bewildered glance, the look enticing a lowly chuckle from her, “I think you’ve been pining after me long enough, Y/N.”

This time it was your turn to pinch your brows together at the words. She’d known this entire time the evolving crush you’d had for her like a young child, and she’d toyed with that knowledge. You wanted to dispute that, or at least criticize her for taunting you this long when she knew damn well how you felt. Instead, you yelped at the way she tugged you along her path, dragging you back towards the elevator. You couldn’t deny yourself the luxury of casting Banner a short glance, looking like a wounded puppy which almost made you feel guilty.

“Where- where are we going?” You tried, struggling to keep up briefly behind her long and quick strides. A breath left your lungs as you finally drew in air once she stopped with you at the entrance to the elevator, impatiently tapping the button before looking over her shoulder at you.

“I told you, I’m going to prove how much of me is yours,” this time her tone was serious, unwavering, and her lips were pressed into a straight line. You might’ve fallen into a trance under her gaze if it hadn’t been for the sound of the elevator chiming to announce it’s arrival. There was no moment of hesitation as the older woman tugged you into the elevator, not even giving you time to glance back to the befuddled expressions on the rest of the team before the doors slid shut.

“But, where are we-”

Natasha’s body stepped around you quickly, cutting you off as her hand immediately pressed the emergency stop on the panel. A look of confusion met her as she stepped back in front of you, again leaving you no chance of a rebuttal before her hands were cupping your jaw and her lips were slamming against yours with velocity. Your balance wavered slightly, but the hold she had on your jaw practically kept you upright as you whined into the kiss. A faint taste of blood drifted over your tongue, but instead of inciting pain, it only made the drive of pleasure in you increase.

With your face firmly in her grasp, she began to step backwards, leading you along with her. Your feet struggled briefly, momentarily forgetting how to walk adequately before you were able to move along with her. You briefly took control, ushering her further back even when she tried to stop in the middle, not stopping until her back crashed against the back wall of the elevator. A gasp leapt from her lungs which you took advantage of eagerly by thrusting your tongue between her lips. The action rewarded you with a moan from the assassin that fell muffled into your mouth as your tongue swiped across hers. You wanted to repeat the sentiment when her taste rolled across your tastebuds, but you restrained yourself.

Your hand snaked down between you both, reaching vicariously for the bottom hem of her t-shirt. A laugh reverberated in Natasha’s chest, falling into your lips as she dropped her hands from your jaw to help you. She pulled the shirt off quickly, discarding the clothing item carelessly into the corner, hungrily cupping your face between her palms once again. The satisfaction of you in her grasp didn’t last though, pulling back to break the kiss as your lips ghosted down the side of her neck. A slow breath receded between Natasha’s lips, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, as you continued to trail your lips lower down and over her collarbones towards her breasts.

“Y/N-” the purr of your name falling across her tongue, and the feeling of her stare dropping down to watch you, only made your stomach churn in impatience. Your fingers worked to pull down the thin lace of her bra, silently appreciating the fact it was so easy to pull to the side. Her fingers forfeited to tangle back in your y/h/c strands as you took her nipple between your lips, earning a low groan of satisfaction from the older woman. You sucked back sporadically, gingerly using your teeth to scrape along the soft tissue and grinning at the involuntary jerk of Natasha pushing her chest closer against your mouth.

“Fuck…” the curse rolled off of her tongue as she pressed her head back against the wall of the elevator. Your tongue wrapped around the hardened bud, dropping your hand to now push under the waistband of her slacks. There was something particularly alluring about Natasha being in business casual wear, and right now, you were ever so appreciative of it. Your fingers dauntingly moved further down, clenching your jaw sharply at the realization that she wasn’t wearing any panties. A wicked grin crept across Natasha’s lips at knowing of the discovery you’d made, but as she moved to speak, your fingers ghosted along her slit, a moan ripping free from her throat at the touch.

Your fingers continued along her, gliding with ease at the thick coating of her slick. Any suspicions you had of Natasha being attracted to you in this moment were gone, feeling her practically dripping without even having touched her in the way she truly desired. Your lips abandoned her breast briefly, brushing your lips against the warmth of tanned skin as you spoke, “God- you’re soaked, mommy.”

The name caught you both abruptly off guard, your cheeks flushing in warmth as a shade of red sprawled across them. Natasha’s focus snapped down to scan over you, and at first you thought she was going to pull back, but when you felt her hips roll down to grind against your palm, any worry was sated. Her teeth hooked over her bottom lip, pupils nearly blown out in lust as a smug grin grew on her face. “Mommy, hm?”

You nodded shallowly, completely enthralled by the older woman who was helplessly grinding along your palm for any helpful friction. A whimper sounded in your chest when her hand clamped around your wrist, removing it from her pants and gently pushing it back in your direction. Your eyes watched her cautiously, thinking maybe she’d had enough, but as her fingers worked at the zipper on her slacks, you only felt the heat between your legs grow.

“You’re going to make mommy come then... okay sweetheart?” Her tone was coarse, deeper than it usually came across as she shimmied out of the slacks, letting them fall around her ankles before kicking them back to where her discarded shirt sat in the corner. Seeing her nearly nude in front of you, minus her bra, was sending you into a spiral. It was one thing to drool over Natasha Romanoff in her Black Widow garb, but seeing her completely exposed in front of you was a whole different ball game.

“Yes...” you quipped, nodding almost too enthusiastically as she returned her grip to sink through your hair with an approving chuckle. A slight pull against your hair brought you to your knees, and back towards her hot centre, feeling the heat practically radiating against your lips. You involuntarily whined as you felt her hook one of her legs over your shoulder, pressing her heel to the small of your back to keep you locked in place.

Whatever hesitancy you had left was void now, leaning in to let your lips traverse upwards along the inside of her thighs. As you continued upwards, you slowed the kisses at the crook of her thigh, just shy of where she wanted you most. Occasionally as you kiss along the spot, your nose would brush along her slit, causing her to pull you closer towards her, growling in a soft warning, “Stop teasing, детка [baby].”

You cast a final glance upwards, meeting Natasha’s glare that’s locked to you, and although there was a dominance in it, there was a softness behind her eyes as well. That was enough an answer for you to continue. Without notice, you rolled the flat of your tongue upwards, pressing deeply through her folds. You couldn’t stifle the groan at the mixture of a salty and sweet taste that filled your mouth from her slick. Natasha’s heel dug faintly into your back as her head fell back again, a moan rising from her chest that bounced off the metallic walls.

The grip she held in your hair tightened, anchoring you deeper against her cunt as she ground down onto your tongue. Her moans continued to decorate the elevator space, trying your best to find your breath against her. One of your arms lifted, looping around the thigh she had lifted over your shoulder, keeping her in place, while the other used the thumb of your freehand to press a circle against her clit.

Natasha’s strength faltered, but thankful to you, the support of her being draped over your shoulder kept her in place. The feeling of her nails scratching against your scalp made you groan against her, sending a vibration through her that made another gasp of pleasure break. Your tongue pressed down further, finding her entrance and slipping in without any resistance. Her walls promptly clamped around you, trying desperately to pull your tongue deeper. She was barely ushering sounds at this point, most falling trapped in her throat between the breaths she was trying to draw in. Your eyes lingered upwards to watch her, her mouth agape to silent sounds of pleasure as her head stayed tipped back against the wall. In all your time with the team, months and months of flirting and sly retorts, you never thought you’d get to this point with Natasha Romanoff. But here she was, riding your tongue, and falling apart under your touch in the confines of a stilled elevator.

“Come on, pretty girl, more,” there was still a slight hostility of a warning behind the plea, but regardless you weren’t going to test your limits. You were far too thankful for the fact that you’d gotten to taste her at this point, that you’d do anything she wanted you to do. The hand that you had previously working at her clit dropped down, simultaneously withdrawing your tongue from her core. An unexpected groan from the emptiness played from Natasha, teasing two of your fingers along her entrance before thrusting fully into the cling of her walls, bottoming out at your knuckles.

A scream of pleasure burst from the older woman, her back faintly arching off the wall to newly adjust around your digits. You withdrew slowly, helping dwindle the sting before thrusting sharply back into her and being rewarded with a gasp as her fingers tangled into your hair.

“Right... there,” she moaned between her lips, barely giving herself a chance to breathe before more followed as you began to pump gradually in and out of her soaked cunt. “Don’t..fucking...stop,” she slurred out between broken pants and sloppy moans. The sound of fucking you with her fingers sent you into a frenzy, wanting more and more as you began to already feel her walls flutter around you.

The coil in her stomach had begun to tighten, the thigh rested on your shoulder noticeably trembling as she grew closer to the edge. Your fingers continued to vigorously thrust into her, curling deeply to strike her g-spot with intention each time. The appeal of her chasing her orgasm made you want to keep her like this, but at the same time all you wanted to do was please the redhead. You leaned back in, running the tip of your tongue in quick circles along her bundle of nerves. That was all it took to send Natasha spiraling over the edge of climax.

Her thighs immediately tightened around your head, her leg wrapped around you following suit to keep your mouth in place against her. Your fingers continued to draw in and out of, ignoring the continuous clench of her walls fluttering as she came undone around them. A smile undeniably danced across your lips, your eyes watching her up through your brows. Her orgasm spilled along your knuckles, running partially down your wrist as she writhed against you. You never thought anyone could ever look so beautiful through an orgasm, cliché or not, but Natasha had you swooning entirely as she finally began to come down from the high.

“Sh-shit…” she breathed out in a light laugh, her chin finally dipping back down to match your gaze. Her leg fell off of your shoulder, and you took the time to remove your fingers from her cunt, bringing them to your lips to clean her orgasm off of you. Your own breathing was sporadic, caught by surprise when Natasha pulled you back up by your chin to clash her lips against yours. A gentle whine emitted against her lips, giving her a chance to slip her tongue between your lips and hum at the essence of her own taste in your mouth. You both stayed like that for a few minutes, your hands trailing random shapes on her abdomen as her hands cupped your jaw in their grasp, before you both drew back.

“See, sweetheart, no need to be jealous,” Natasha mocked gently, holding your stare as her thumb swept across the corner of your jaw, “leave the turning green to Bruce.” You couldn’t contain the faint chuckle that escaped at hearing her words, a smile spreading across your lips before you found them pressed back against her own.

Sometimes- jealousy can pay off.

this is for the lgbt

yo dark nat. kind of domestic, not very serious, kind of dumb, but it’s borne of a thought i had. unedited because i’m lazy and thought you all deserved smth lolll

Keep reading

to play the fool pt 3

| natasha x fem!reader | request by @strangegardentaco | part one, two

warnings: blood, injury, IDIOTS

a/n: final (?) part! hope you guys enjoy

You collapse through your window, a tangle of legs and arms, and sprawl across the carpet.

The ceiling is murky in the dim afternoon light. You can still smell smoke, woven into the fabric of your suit, the twists of your hair.

You don't know how long the two of you lie there, unmoving. Natasha is a dead weight across your bruised ribs. You can smell something else, too: blood in your nostrils, on your tongue.

The sun must go down at some point: it's as if you blink, and the darkness closes in. It wakes you up. When you can no longer see the outline of the couch in the dark, the tunnel-panic clamps hard down on your heart. You grip Natasha by the shoulders and push her with trembling arms until she rolls onto the carpet beside you, and you shove yourself upright, your breath hot against the inside of your mask. You pull it desperately off, fingers catching in your hair, and discard it. You tug at the laces on your boots by the light from the window, trying to calm your heart, to catch your breath. You can still feel the rock against your palms, the soil sneaking down your shirt.

The boots come off and you get to your feet, stumble your way to the light switch. Your pulse staggers on doggedly, faster than you can count. You flick the switch and the room floods with light. You sink against the off-white wall and press your face to the cool, lumpy paint. You don’t dare close your eyes.

Beyond the couch, Natasha is draped over the floor like a dead thing, red ponytail splayed across your carpet. You stay by the wall, your eyes on her, until your heart has slowed and your chest has loosened and your head is firmly on your shoulders.

You move across the room on shaking legs, using the furniture as crutches, towards her. You roll her onto her back, yank up her sleeve and search for a pulse: your fingers leave smears of dirt and blood across her pale wrist. You feel the beat, shallow and weak under your thumb. Good. Good.

Your brain won’t work, neurons firing sluggishly. You have to wake up. You have to assess the situation.

All you really want to do is collapse on the floor next to Natasha and sleep.

But you won’t. You tug your gloves off, wincing as they peel away from your ruined fingernails, and check Natasha’s airway. She’s breathing. You try to think.

You’ve done this before, a hundred times. You’ve stitched yourself up. You’ve dug bullets from skin, you’ve cleared grit from wounds, you’ve done CPR and cracked ice packs and set bones. You can do it.

You hesitate only once more, when your hands move to unzip Natasha’s suit. God, if she ever wakes up, she’s going to be so mad at you. But you take a look at her grey, peaceful face, and worry overtakes embarrassment. You pull the zip down: beneath, her undershirt is ripped and bloodied and dirty with sweat and soil. You peel the suit off her shoulders and down, scanning for wounds - a slice down her upper arm, a huge splay of bruises over her stomach, grazes on her elbows and knees and hips. Little nicks on her legs, seeping blood. Another larger knife wound stretches over her ribs when you roll her onto her side.

And that leg, the one that had been trapped under a rock when you’d first found her: it’s bruised and the knee is bent at an odd angle. Dislocated, perhaps.

She’s battered. You hate it, a deep well of anger that rises like a bucket drawing water the more you uncover. You hate that too, that you care so damn much. She doesn’t care about you. She barely tolerates you - she only ever talked to you to keep you out of trouble. What right do you have to care?

You eventually decide to move Natasha to the bathroom: that’s where your first aid kit is, and the light is bright in there and you have a multitude of fluffy bathmats that you can use to carpet the floor. You hook your hands under Natasha’s arms, brace your legs and pull. You drag her across the carpet, through the kitchen and into the bathroom. You lay her down halfway through the door, and drag the first aid kit and a few bathmats out of the cupboard, laying them haphazardly across the floor. Then you grab Natasha again and haul her in the rest of the way.

You collapse down beside her, your spine to the cold bathtub, knees up, and rest your head on the lip of the bath. You catch your breath. Natasha’s blood seeps into one of your bathmats and you groan, but make no move to shift her. Your energy is spent.

With tired fingers, you tug the first aid kit towards your feet. You unzip it, flip it open. Suture packs and bandages and single-use ice packs stare back at you. This is useless. You can barely lift your head.

But you manage it. It takes you hours. You clean Natasha’s wounds, slather her bruises in arnica, stitch her up, all the while keeping an eye on her sleeping face. She doesn’t so much as twitch, not even when your hand cramps in the middle of a loop through the knife wound on her ribs. Deep sleeper, you think, and you want to slap yourself for noticing anything about her. She’s not your friend.

So why is she unconscious on your bathroom floor? Why did you crawl through a hundred metres of rock to rescue her?

“Fuck you,” you say. Her body doesn’t reply. You don’t want to feel like this, panic sitting perpetually in your throat like a stone lodged there. You shouldn’t have gone. You should have let the Avengers fend for their damn selves, like Natasha was so adamant that they would. You rest your head against the lip of the bath again, and your eyes glaze over. You mustn’t sleep, though: sleep means dark.

The pain reaches you late. Something aside from the grazes and bruises and blood still sitting heavy in your nose. At first you think it’s a remnant of the knot in your throat, of the tide of adrenaline receding slowly and sadly and leaving you on the brink of useless, useless tears as you stare at Natasha’s stone-still face. But it’s not.

It becomes a burn, a sting in your side first, then a flare that becomes impossible to ignore. You unzip your jacket, letting gravity pull your heavy hand downwards.

You’re bleeding. You register this slowly, the soaked and half-dry patch of your dark top, the wetness uncomfortable on your hip. “Ow,” you say, to the empty room. You poke, and the pain intensifies, fades back to ground state. You hiss in through your teeth as you roll your shirt slowly up.

It’s a long gash down your side, the edges of the wound pink and raw like a burn, steadily seeping blood. The gun. The shot. The burst of energy from your eyes. The bullet must have grazed your side, deep. “Ow,” you say, and it drops from your lip as a whimper. With fresh blood on your fingers, you fumble for the first aid kit and drag it towards you, searching one-handed for gauze to soak up the blood. Your shirt keeps slipping down. Frustrated, you pull the shirt up and grab it with your teeth, then press the gauze hard to your side. It hurts, burns, and you grunt through your teeth, tongue against the roof of your mouth. Your eyes flicker sideways to check that Natasha is still sleeping.

The stitches are torturous, dipping in through your ragged skin and drawing the sides of the wound together as you pinch with one hand, your eyes watering and tears spilling onto your cheeks. Your stomach is a mess of blood and water that you’ve splashed on to clean yourself, your pants soaked with it. You swear into your top, damp with saliva. You feel filthy, your nails black with dirt, snot and blood welling in your nostrils. You finish the last knot and think desperately of a shower.

But you should wake Natasha, before she chokes on her own vomit in her sleep or something. You can’t leave her unconscious on your bathroom floor.

You strip your ruined shirt off and tie it around your face, trying to ignore the stink of blood in your nose. You don’t know why you bother to hide at this point, but something about the covering makes you feel safer, surer of yourself. You don’t bother with your hair.

You take Natasha by the shoulders and shake her, once, twice.

“Natasha,” you say, your voice slightly muffled by the shirt. “Natasha!” Louder. Nothing. You grab your phone from where you’ve discarded it on the edge of your bloodied sink and search for an alarm sound: the most annoying, repetitive ring on there. You press play. It rings. And rings.

Natasha’s eyebrows move, shift into a frown. Her eyes open into slits. You don’t turn the alarm off, not yet. The ringing becomes louder, more insistent, and she blinks twice, lips parting, tongue passing over them. Her eyes slide to you, a little unfocused.

“Asshole,” she says, her mouth barely moving.

“Huh?” you say, playing it up.

“Turn that the fuck off.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply sharply, and you cut the alarm off. Natasha says nothing for a few seconds. She licks her lips again, stares glassily up at the ceiling. You wait, ignoring your pounding, anxious, traitor heart.

“It’s bright,” she observes.

“Your knee is dislocated,” you say. “I would’ve put it back, but I didn’t think that would be a pleasant wake-up.” Her eyes shift back to you. You try to ignore them, how brilliantly green they are, how keen and observant even in their half-focused state. Impossible.

“Why are you still wearing that?” she asks. Her voice is rough. Your fingers touch the shirt over your face.

“Who was the kid?” you counter. Natasha sighs. She digs her elbows into the floor and shoves herself up into what looks like a painful sitting position. She notices the blood and water and stitches and bruises and perhaps the fact that she’s in her underwear.

“Oh,” she says. Her fingers drift across the line of stitches over her ribs. You might be imagining it, but you think you see her shudder.

“I have a paramedic certificate,” you say. “And like - a shit ton of experience. I go to a lot of protests as a medic.”

“You shouldn’t have done that while I was asleep,” she says.

“I don’t have any anaesthesia,” you reply, slightly irritated. A thank you would be nice. But Natasha doesn’t thank you. She rises fast, face clenched in pain, flips up your toilet lid and retches into it. Her spine curves, the vertebrae showing starkly under her pale skin. Muscles roll as she convulses again, but you don’t hear the splatter of vomit. She must be dry-heaving - by the look of the bruises on her stomach, that will hurt.

She stills eventually, panting into your toilet bowl. Her hair snakes down her back, the nape of her neck damp with sweat.

“Do you want some water?” you ask.

“No.”

“Okay.” You wipe your hands on your ruined bathmats. “Do you want a shower?”

“Leave me alone,” Natasha says. Her voice echoes in the toilet, but is somehow still incredibly small. You frown at her curved back, heat rushing to your face. How can she make you feel this stupid in your own home?

“Fine,” you say. The bathroom is far too small for two people. Too cramped, too bright, too hot. You get unsteadily to your feet and leave, shutting the door hard behind you. She slumps to the floor with a rustle, and you walk away before you can hear anymore.

You wash off in the sink, your ruined shirt discarded in the kitchen bin. The water lands cold on your feet and you don’t care, can’t bring yourself to care. The world is bright beyond your window, even this late at night, the glitter of street lamps and windows and billboards. Maybe even the orange glow of fire. This is where your effort to become a meaningful part of that world has landed you. Splashing yourself with cold water in the kitchen sink, banished from your own bathroom and bleeding like an idiot.

You turn the tap off and pat yourself dry with a tea towel that ends up in the bin as well, smeared with blood. You fetch a towel from your room, lay it over the couch and lower yourself gingerly onto it, rest your head back. The room is well lit, warm now. You won’t sleep. You want to, but you know it won’t come. You probably won’t sleep easy for the next week.

Inevitably, as you gaze out of the window from your seat, your thoughts return to the idiot woman hacking up blood and nothing in your bathroom. You can’t hear her, so she’s not showering, not throwing up. You have a sudden awful vision of her lying passed out on the blood-soaked bathmats, frothing red at the mouth, and you have to stop yourself from getting up to check on her.

You sit there as the sun comes up. Natasha doesn’t come out, even as the hours drip past, and eventually you make up your mind to talk to her. You pull your mask back on, grimacing at the dried blood and smell of sweat in it, and you walk to the bathroom door on unsteady legs.

“Natasha?” you say, tentatively. No answer.

Then, just as you’re about to call again; “Yeah,” she says, from within the bathroom. You hesitate, trawling for what to say next.

“You can have a shower if you want.”

“You can come in if you want,” she replies dryly. You take that as an invitation and open the door to find her sitting with her back to the wall, head tipped back. Her face is still ashen. You expect her to say something, an apology maybe, but instead she sits there with her damn wounded pride and stares you down.

“Nice mask,” she says. You seriously consider kicking her out at that moment, but the feeling fades just as quickly as it comes on. Because her eyes drop almost shamefully and her fists curl in her lap. It’s not an apology, not a thank you, nowhere near to anything you’d accept for either of those things, but for some fucking reason you can read those movements like words on a page and it softens your resolve to be harsh with her.

“Shower,” you say shortly. “You stink.”

“You stink,” she fires back at you. You turn and leave again before you can snap at her.

You hear the shower switch on as you’re eating an apple and glaring aimlessly through the kitchen window. Natasha doesn’t shower for very long. You’re only halfway through your apple when you hear the water shut off again. You stay where you are, hear her climb out of the bathtub, feet squeaking on the ceramic.

She calls your name. You take a large bite of the apple and toss it into the trash can. You take your time walking to the bathroom, and when you open the door she’s wrapped herself in the shower curtain and is scowling up at you from her seat on the edge of the bathtub.

“What?” you say, your voice faltering from the anger you’d meant to inject. Her eyes are large and her lashes are wet and her bare, pale shoulders are scattered with freckles and small wounds and you rip your eyes away from her.

“I didn’t want to use your towel,” she says. She shifts, and the curtain rustles around her.

You roll your eyes and turn to leave. You pull a towel from the hall cupboard and throw it through the door at her: she catches it before it hits her face, with a wince.

She clutches it to her chest and you raise your eyebrows at her.

“Anything else, your majesty?”

“Why are you so angry with me?” Natasha asks, and that heat, that hatred with yourself that you’ve lain your thoughts out before her, rises again from your stomach.

“You-” you say, but your throat is thick with emotion now and you know you can’t explain it.

Natasha tilts her head at you. “I didn’t ask you to do any of this,” she says.

“What?” you exclaim. “Are you serious?!”

“I told you to leave,” she fires back. “It’s not my fault you’ve got a hero complex like all the rest of them-”

“Hero complex?” you spit. “You’re the one who ran alone into an explosion to save a baby! Let me have this, you said that! Hero complex my fucking ass.” Natasha opens her mouth again and you step back and slam the door on her, your heart trembling in your chest with rage.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

She doesn’t emerge from the bathroom after that until you swallow as much of your pride as you can and hand her sweats and a t-shirt without looking her in the eye. You feel like she’s trying to catch you off guard, constantly now, and you half expect her to drop her towel or something just to shock you, make fun of you. But she doesn’t. She takes the clothes and waits until you’ve left, and then she wanders out of the bathroom in her borrowed clothes, limping on her bad knee. You look over at her from the couch, where you’re spooning cereal into your mouth under your mask.

You frown. “Your knee,” you say before you can stop yourself. She looks surprised like she expects you to snap at her again.

“I put it back,” she replies, with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. You gape at her for a second, then pull yourself together when you realise she can’t see your expression.

Shower. Dress. You’re still practically half-naked and you’re cold now, and you suddenly don’t want to be the only one undressed. You set your cereal down and move past her to the bathroom.

“Ice in the freezer,” you say, and you shut the door behind you. You pull the mask off and wipe with relief at the condensation on your face.

The shower is glorious, warm, and the pressure harsh on your shoulders. It’s freezing at first, which makes you jump and curse - Natasha must have taken her shower cold. You spend as long as you dare under the spray, ever conscious of running up your water bill for no real reason. When you step out, you see that Natasha has left her towel folded on the window sill. Her ruined suit is nowhere to be seen until you pedal open the bin and you see the suit, the ruined bathmats and a length of bloodied bandage.

“Huh,” you say to yourself, quietly, without meaning to. You pull on a jumper that won’t rub your stitches and loose shorts, and you step out of the bathroom. The steam follows you out like a cloud. Natasha is slumped in your armchair with your frozen bag of peas on her knee, the early morning sunlight glowing across her face. Her eyes are closed.

You pull open your fridge and reach for a beer.

“I feel like it’s a bad idea to drink right now,” she says.

You look over. She still hasn’t opened her eyes. “Shut up,” you say. You flick the cap off on your counter and drink deeply.

Natasha shifts in her seat, to face you. That’s when you realise you forgot to put your mask back on. You freeze. Your stomach lurches.

Natasha stares at you for a second too long, her mouth moving like she’d been about to say something. Then her eyes flick away, almost guiltily. In the silence that follows, you both try hard not to acknowledge it. But your face feels cold and bare, under the stare that lingers even as Natasha sets her eyes firmly on the arm of the couch.

Your heart thunders like a drum.

“Thank you,” Natasha says, almost too quiet to hear.

“What?” you say, shock reflexes taking over even as the words register. Natasha looks at you again, eyes narrowed, like she thinks you’re messing with her. And sure. It would be easier to mess with her, draw it out of her again and again and revel in your victory but-

-you don’t want to. You don’t even know what she’s thanking you for: some idiot, pretentious part of you could imagine she’s thanking you for the honour of seeing your face - as if she ever would. Maybe the stitches, the clothes, the shower, maybe she’s thanking you for dragging her out of that hot, damp hell-hole on trembling legs.

“You’re welcome,” you say, and you take a long sip so you don’t have to see her face change.

More silence, thick as a wall between the two of you. You don’t want to think of her shaking and trembling against you, how determined you’d felt right then in the dark, but the images come anyway.

“What happened to you?” she asks, and she nods at your side, where the deep graze and the stitches are. You look down. You remember all the questions you have for her, that’s she’s so adamant not to answer.

“Bullet,” you say. “Grazed me. Some idiot in a hood.”

“You don’t know who it was?”

“I was a little too preoccupied to ID them,” you reply, a bite in your voice. You’re not angry. You’re just thinking real hard about how heavy Natasha had felt against you. Like a corpse. You tilt your head at her. “They wanted to know where that baby was. You feel like filling me in?”

Her face closes off. “No,” she says.

“Right. So I got shot for nothing.”

“Did you blast them?” Natasha asks, ignoring your comment.

“They’re dead,” you reply, dully. You look at the floor. She’s fallen silent. “I didn’t mean to, I just-”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You can’t look at her. “Hawkeye will have found them by now.” She rustles the bag of peas, rearranges them. “What did they want with the kid, Natasha?” Now that she can hear you, is awake and looking you right in the eye, or attempting to, her name feels naked coming from your mouth. Raw and too personal.

“Doesn’t concern you,” she says.

“It does,” you say. You wait for anger, but your body’s too tired for it. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”

She shifts again, and pain materialises on her face with the movement, for just a second. You rest a hand on the countertop and wait it out.

“Fine,” she says eventually. “Sit down. You’re dead on your feet.” That irks you, for a reason you can’t decode.

“I’m fine.”

“Sit down.”

“Jesus Christ.” You move to the couch and throw yourself down, glaring at her. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” she says dryly. She molds the bag of peas to her knee and begins to explain.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

She falls asleep on the armchair to let you digest what the hell you’ve just heard, and the sun comes up through the window like a torchbeam. You call into work at eight, holding your nose closed, and tell your manager you have a shitty cold. He answers with a grunt and hangs up. Easy enough. You toss the phone onto the cushions beside you.

The silence coating your apartment seems to buffer the noise of the outside world, of car horns and voices. Natasha sleeps fitfully, half-woken every few minutes by the sunlight on her face, but you’re too exhausted to get up and close the curtains. You finish your bottle and set it down on the coffee table, where it sweats condensation.

You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you wake with your heart in your mouth and your hands fisted in the couch cushions. You suck in breaths through trembling jaws. Visions of tight tunnels and blood under your nails and Natasha’s ashen face fade as you blink them away.

The armchair is empty when you come to your senses. Something overcomes you: a wave of disappointment maybe, or regret - and then you hear the toilet flush and you feel monumentally stupid. You’d missed her for a second there. What right did you have to miss her? Why should she make you feel that way?

Natasha emerges from the bathroom, drying her hands. “It’s midday,” she tells you, and your heart lurches in shock. “You don’t sleep very well.” She leans a hip on the kitchen counter and pushes a hand through her hair, observing you through quarter-closed eyes.

“Neither do you,” you say. Her eyes narrow. “Can you get me a drink?”

She turns away, turns on the sink faucet and fills a glass with water. She rounds the edge of the counter and hands it to you.

“You know what I meant,” you say, but you take it anyway.

“You’ll get a beer belly,” she says, her voice flat. She must be tired if she’s too exhausted to tease you properly. You pull your sweatshirt up and poke at the muscle on your stomach.

“I think I’m okay,” you say. You raise your head to take a sip of water and Natasha’s eyes move from your stomach to your face. She looks awkward standing there: and that’s not a word you’d ever think to use to describe Black Widow. But she doesn’t look like Black Widow right now - she looks like a woman barely scraping five foot six in a t-shirt way too big for her, and the sun is turning her hair copper-gold through the window. She looks normal.

“Stop staring at me,” she says.

“You first.”

She breaks the eye contact.

“What are-” you don’t know what you intended to ask. You stare down at your water and collect your thoughts. “Do they know where you are?” you say eventually.

She raises one eyebrow at you. Your heart does awful, traitorous things in your chest and you hold her gaze for as long as you can. “You mean the Avengers? I don’t let them track me.”

“Okay,” you say. “You know, you can sit down if you want.” Your stomach growls. The corner of her mouth twitches up. “I’m hungry,” you say. “Sue me.”

“So eat.”

“Too tired.”

“God, you are pathetic.”

That should piss you off. It doesn’t. You give her a lazy grin and secretly wonder to yourself how the hell all this happened to you.

Natasha smooths down a loose thread on the seam of her (your) sweatpants. They’re rolled up twice at the waist. “Thank you,” she says. “For coming back for me.”

“Choose a better way to die next time,” you say, instead of something nice or gracious or meaningful.

Natasha sighs. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” she says, sinking onto the arm of the couch, above you.

“I’m irresistible.”

“You’re an idiot.”

You think about calling for pizza, a half-smile on your face. You wipe it off quickly, but not before she sees.

“I wouldn’t have left you there,” you say. Her eyes drift away. Makes you think about who else left her behind before. You don’t think promises mean much to her: they’re only words. Like threats. Blackmail. You don’t think words get under her skin as much as they do yours. “Swear.”

“I know.” She looks down at her hands. “I tried to stay awake. I thought you weren’t coming, in the end.”

You have this stupid, terrible urge to reach out and take her by the hand and tell her - what? What would you tell her that would mean anything?

It doesn’t subside. The moment passes. You slump into the couch.

“You know, you didn’t have to hide your face,” Natasha says. “When we got back.” She’s stumbling over words.

“Yeah, you already knew what I looked like,” you reply. You shrug. “It just felt better, having it on.”

“I didn’t know what you looked like. You know, you’re not too bad at the whole secret identity thing.”

You frown. “Then how did you find me the first time?”

“I followed you,” Natasha says casually. “You were bleeding everywhere. You weren’t moving very fast. I guessed which apartment was yours.”

“You guessed?” you echo. You imagine Natasha turning up in Nadia Henstridge’s apartment next door: the woman is verging on ninety - seeing Natasha in her boots and leather jacket sitting in the dark would probably send her headfirst into a heart attack.

Natasha grins. “I’m a very good guesser.”

“Sure,” you say. More silence: you hate the silence. You don’t want to hear your own heartbeat, or Natasha’s breathing. “The mask made me feel safer,” you say. I didn’t want you to be disappointed, you don’t say.

Natasha looks down at you. She reaches out and touches your cheek, softly with the pads of her fingers. You stare at her, your heart in your ears, drowning out everything. “You look better without it,” she says.

You want to kiss her. You realise that, what that stupid, burning heat in your chest is. Once you’ve found that urge, you can’t stop thinking about it, even as she withdraws her hand and looks away.

Do something, you scream at yourself. All this inward thinking is driving you insane. Say something.

You reach for her hand, and you intend to tug her round to look at you, but you pull too hard and she overbalances, sliding off the arm of the couch and onto the seat beside you with a surprised yelp.

“What the hell?” Natasha exclaims. Her bright green eyes are narrowed, cheeks flushed - God, she looks incredible.

“Um,” you say. You can’t do it. You can’t do it.

“Um,” Natasha says, mocking you, and she slides a hand into your hair and pulls you in to kiss her.

It’s easier than you’d thought it would be. Her face fits right to yours. Her lips are warm. You can feel where it’s split, taste the blood. You kiss her back, one hand wrapped around hers, one settled on her knee. Your chest tightens, loosens, excitement firing like sparks in your brain.

She pulls away from you. You take a second to open your eyes.

“Idiot,” she says. You frown at her. “I’m gonna kiss you again,” she says. You make an agreeable noise and she pulls you in, hand on the back of your neck. She steals your breath. She kisses your bottom lip, the corner of your mouth, and your fist curls in the fabric of your sweatpants.

The two of you surface, still centimetres apart, and you suck in a breath. “Thank you for coming back for me,” she says, against your mouth. Her hand loosens in yours.

“Always,” you say.

“You have really nice abs.”

You laugh, a crazed little giggle. She grins at you. You kiss her again, mouths half-open, smiles half-formed.

The next time you pull apart, she runs her thumb down the column of your throat.

“I’m still hungry,” you say, to distract yourself from the feel of her skin on yours.

“I’ll buy you pizza,” Natasha says.

“To thank me for saving your life.”

“No, this is to thank you for saving my life.” She tilts her head sideways and kisses your neck, and a gasp of surprise falls from your open mouth. She laughs, sending vibrations through your skin, into your bones.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

She orders pepperoni. You accuse her of playing it safe and she swats you with a pillow, and the two of you eat out on the fire escape and watch the day roll past. You rest your head on her shoulder.

“This is fucking good,” Natasha mumbles around a mouthful. She wipes her fingers on the pizza box and reaches for another slice. She crams half of it into her mouth at once.

“You eat a lot for such a small person,” you observe. Natasha throws you a playful look of disgust.

“You’re like, an inch taller than me.”

“An inch can make all the difference,” you joke. She slaps your shoulder halfheartedly. A truck horn goes off in the distance. There are three wisps of cloud in the sky, and the metal of the fire escape is warm beneath you. Natasha’s clean hand winds its way into yours.

“I like you a lot,” she admits, quiet. Your heart swells instantly.

“I like you too,” you say. You squeeze her hand. Silence, once again. You know what you’re both thinking. Natasha words it first.

“They’ll be looking for me,” she says.

“I know. You should go.”

She sighs, and her breath ruffles your hair. “I will. I don’t want them coming after you.”

“I thought you said you don’t let them track you,” you say. A little, helpless worm of fear squirms into your words. You try to squash it.

“Hawkeye can find me,” Natasha says. “If he tries really hard.” She snorts to herself.

“Where will you go?” you ask. “I’ll give you some shoes.”

“Manhattan,” Natasha says, almost dismally. “I’ll come back, though.” She looks at you. She presses her face to your hair. “Promise.” You smile at the sun, eyes half-shut. You hope she catches it.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

You lend her sneakers and help her into a coat and you swallow jealousy when you open the door for her. They have her all the time, see her smile and hear her talk: why don’t you get a little more time?

You kiss her hard, so she’ll remember, so she will come back, even though you know she will. Her hands curl into your shirt, and she grins against your mouth. When you separate, she licks her lips.

“I wanted a good one,” you say. She tugs on a lock of your hair.

“I’ll come back for you,” she says, in earnest.

“I believe you.”

And you watch her walk away, until she’s all the way out of sight down the corridor.

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notes: PLEASE REBLOG IM REALLY PROUD OF THIS ONE. pt 4? idk what I would write though

I don’t want your pity, I just want somebody near me

Natasha Romanoff x Reader 

Words: 1k 

Warnings: talks of depression/general sadness. Some swearing. Self-indulgence to the max.

A/N: This is my first fic ever so please go easy on me. Also I wrote this at 2am while listening to Mitski which is a warning all on its own.

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